The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  She frowned up at him.

  In response, he leaned one elbow on the roof of the car and bent down to her. “You’re taking a little trip. Unfortunately, unlike the Terminator, you won’t be back.” He took a cable tie from his pants pocket, threaded it through the one around her wrists, then looped it around the steering wheel, securing it with a tug. “This way I get rid of you, and the car. A two-for-one deal. It doesn’t get better than that,” he told her with a wink.

  She jerked at the wheel, yanking left and right but the cable tie held fast.

  Through the open door she watched him scan the area, then select a rock the size of a melon. He lifted it and returned to the car, grunting with the effort as he dropped it next to her feet. Elizabeth moved in her seat, twisting around so she wouldn’t have to touch him while he positioned the rock over the accelerator. That’s when she realized the car was angled straight at the bridge. Her heart skipped a beat and she struggled again, terror flaring in her chest and burning her cheeks, but the bindings held fast and bit into her skin.

  For a moment he disappeared from sight. She watched in the rearview mirror as he opened the trunk, then closed it. Returning, he gave her a brief look, one that might have said I’m sorry, but knelt to wind duct tape around the rock, fastening it to the accelerator. After three complete circles of tape, he severed it from the roll with the knife.

  One knee on the stony ground next to the car, he caught Elizabeth’s eye, held it. “I guess this is goodbye. Shame I didn’t get to know you better. You could have been useful to my election campaign.” He twisted the key in the ignition and the car burst into life with a roar, the engine screaming under the acceleration.

  “Excuse me, will you?”

  He leaned across, and the car jerked as he slipped the gearstick into drive. Over the roar of the engine and the wheels spinning, a voice behind him yelled, “Hey, asshole.”

  His head whipped around and Elizabeth looked up just in time to see Stacy smash a rock down square on the crown of his head. He fell back, hand going to his scalp. Scrambling to his feet, he checked the blood on his fingers and stepped wide of her.

  “You little bitch.” He met her defiant gaze. “How did you get here?”

  “I ran. Took a shortcut. Millcreek’s just over that hill,” she said and thumbed over her shoulder. “Now get away from her.”

  Clay straightened, then lunged at Stacy with frightening speed. They wrestled for a moment, then both disappeared from Elizabeth’s sight.

  No time to follow them. Elizabeth had both feet stamped on the brake pedal, but the car strained against the braking system and slewed left, the front now facing a gap between the skeleton of a dead tree, the stony dip into the sinkhole just to her right. The engine roared as the wheels spun in the gravel, digging deep, carving out two ruts, until little by little, Elizabeth felt movement, felt the tires bite into the stony ground. When it inched forward, she squealed.

  To her left, she spotted Nancy on the ground. Blood soaked her shirt, the ashen cast of her face emphasizing the red of her hair. Just beyond, Stacy was backing away from Clay, taunting him, searching for a better position, but he moved up and leaped at her, swinging wide, and again, Elizabeth lost sight of them.

  The car inched forward and slid right as the wheels bit in, then sped up as the wheels found traction. It bumped over a ledge of rock and hit the stony ground below, creeping closer and closer to the edge of the sinkhole. She shrieked against the tape, leaned back hard just as the front of the car dipped and stopped with the underside caught on the ledge, and the engine died.

  A gasp of relief. A few breaths. Elizabeth tried to turn, desperate to see where Stacy was.

  That relief came too soon.

  Beneath her, the body of the car teetered on the rock ledge, gently seesawing for a moment before the nose dipped, and the front wheels touched down. All she could see was a funnel of gravel in front of her—the vortex. Without thinking, she stamped on the brake again, but the grind of stone on metal told her the car was edging forward, slipping into oblivion. She howled into the tape and writhed in her seat, yanking at the bindings holding her to the steering wheel. Tears welled, but just as the first broke and trickled down her cheek, the car door opened and Stacy leaned in, the blade of a paper knife going straight to the cable tie.

  “Hold still, Mrs. McClaine. I’ll get you out of here.” The stones beneath Stacy’s feet began sliding under her, sucking her down like a child on a sandy bank. She pedaled against them as she sawed back and forth with the knife. The tie around the steering wheel sprang apart but the car was sliding now, carried along by the cascading wall of shale, and Stacy along with it.

  Once again, Clay rose up behind her, grabbing Stacy by the back of the collar and jerking her out of Elizabeth’s view. Again Elizabeth stamped on the brake. It made no difference. Down next to the brake, she spotted Stacy’s knife, Beta Farrant logo on the handle. Elizabeth folded over, shoulder pressed against the steering wheel, hands bound but reaching, stretching, until her fingertips connected with the knife. With one last lunge, she gathered it between her fingers, held it fast as she sawed back and forth until the ties around her ankles sprang apart, and she sat up. The car skewed around in the gravel, sliding sideways now and threatening to tip. She leaned her weight against the door, twisted the knife in her fingers, and placed it between her teeth.

  With not another second to spare, Elizabeth grabbed the door handle, shouldered it open and fell out, leaving the car to slide. In looser gravel now, it twisted around, gliding faster towards the center. Ignoring it, she scrambled against the loose stones beneath her, found them slipping and sliding under her, and her along with them. Scrambling against them, her hand reached out, found a tree root. She grabbed it, held fast, offered up a little prayer. With the knife still caught between her teeth, she hauled herself up until she felt the knife against the tie around her wrist and slid it jerkily back and forth, but the edge was blunt and the cable tie held.

  Walking one hand over the other, Elizabeth inched farther up the tree root, pulling herself up. No sound from above. It wasn’t a good sign. She kept hauling until she found the rock ledge the car had caught on. Still clinging to the tree root, she drew one knee up and clambered onto the ledge. An overwhelming sense of exhaustion washed over her, but she could not give up. Just above her, the tree that had sent the root out stood stark and solemn against the background. She’d never get to it.

  To her left, a shadow loomed.

  “Mrs. M! Grab my hand.”

  Stacy gripped the tiny tree with one hand, crouching as she reached with the other. Elizabeth felt Stacy’s fingers brush hers.

  “Just a little more,” Stacy urged.

  Elizabeth stretched, felt Stacy’s fingers curl around her wrist and lock, felt herself being drawn upwards, shoulders aching, muscles taut until she crested the top and fell to her knees.

  Stacy stood over her, hands on her knees, panting. Elizabeth tore the tape from her mouth, but when she looked up, Clay Farrant was to her right, maybe fifty feet away, face bloodied and set with fury, striding toward them.

  “Stacy, look out!”

  Clay ran at her, grabbed her by the back of the jacket and swung her around. Stacy crashed to the stony ground and rolled. She went to get up, but not quick enough. Clay was on her again, straddling her with his hands around her throat.

  “No, no, no.” Elizabeth dragged herself to her feet, limbs aching. She scooped up a rock and half ran, half shambled toward him. His head swung around, but too late. She brought the rock down on him again and again, her movements automatic and so frantic that the sound of two cars and the wail of sirens hardly penetrated her consciousness.

  All she could think of was stopping Clay. All she could think of was saving Stacy.

  Clay folded beneath her and fell to one side just as two hands grabbed her and pulled her off. She spun around, the rock ready, her jaws clamped in anger. Delaney gripped her by the shoulders, holding he
r at arm’s length while another officer dropped beside Stacy. Over Delaney’s shoulder she could see two officers with Nancy, one with a shoulder radio, calling for an ambulance, the other checking her vitals.

  The rock dropped from Elizabeth’s hand. “Nancy! Stacy!”

  Delaney drew her gaze, saying, “They’re both okay, Elizabeth. It’s all okay. You’re safe now.”

  She faltered a moment, then relaxed against him, felt his arms hesitate, then encircle her. A sob welled up so fast she couldn’t stop it. It burst from her lips and she howled like a child while he tightened his hold on her.

  “It’s all okay. It’s all going to be fine,” he whispered into her hair.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  MONDAY MORNING: 10:30 AM—STACY

  The courtroom was smaller than Stacy had expected. More like the judge’s office. Or his chambers, or whatever. Judge Henley was an older man, gray frizzy hair clipped neatly around the sides, gray moustache, a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. He sat at a wide, pale wood table, papers spread before him. Didn’t look up as they entered. He obviously knew who they were.

  Stacy entered between Jay Templeton, the lawyer Mrs. McClaine had called in, and the bailiff. A thin man in uniform, the bailiff escorted her to the front row of seats, then left them to take up his position to the right of the judge’s table, staring at the rear wall, hands behind his back. Behind them, on a single row of seats, Warden Glassy perched anxiously next to Penny Rickman.

  No sign of Mrs. McClaine. A jolt of panic tightened Stacy’s chest.

  Where was she? Was she okay?

  When the door opened, everyone looked up in expectation. Curta Brixton entered wearing a wide, blue flowered dress and matching hat. Clearly discomfited by her surroundings, she tugged at the scarf around her neck, then crossed to sit with the maximum number of seats between her and the only two other women there.

  Stacy gave her a smile and Curta returned the smile with a little finger wave and a nod of encouragement.

  Judge Henley lifted his head, peering over the glasses as he ran his eyes across the sparse gathering. “If we’re all here, we may as well get underway.”

  Next to her, Jay Templeton let out a slow breath. He sounded nervous.

  She leaned towards him, whispering, “Where’s Mrs. McClaine?”

  He whispered back. “She’s getting discharged from the hospital today.”

  “Oh.”

  The judge looked up, met Stacy’s gaze. “Are you well enough to continue?”

  “Yes, sir … Your Honor. I’m fine.”

  “You’ve taken quite a beating. If you feel you need to take a break at any time, you tell me.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  He smacked his lips and lifted a file in front of him. “Then we’ll begin. Stacy May Charms, I’ve been going over the files here. My recommendation for anyone who violates their parole is an immediate additional two years to be added to their sentence, running consecutively.” He held her eye, waiting. “You know what that means?”

  She dropped her head, then looked up. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  He swiped off his glasses and leaned back in the black leather chair, one arm along the armrest, the other holding the stem of his eyeglasses to the corner of his mouth while he studied her.

  Jay Templeton made a small movement forward. “Sir, if I may—”

  “No, you may not, Mr. Templeton. I have your notes here. I can read them any time I like. I want to hear what Stacy has to say.”

  Feeling herself in an unwelcome spotlight, she said, “Sir, I’ve done some stupid things in my time.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with that.”

  “Three years ago, I hit out at someone who was just trying to help me. That was stupid. I see that now. But for a long time when I was inside, I was angry. I thought it was everybody else’s fault. Then when I started on the sewing program…” She paused while her mind went back to that day, that brief moment that made everything she’d done so far worthwhile, and made her heart glow. “I can’t tell you how I felt, you know? It was like, ‘Man, I can make stuff. I can really do something. Something good.’”

  His eyes narrowed on her, but he nodded. “I get that. That’s why Warden Glassy over there is so supportive of these programs.” He crossed his arms over his chest, resting one elbow on his wrist, stem of the glasses to his mouth again, but still listening.

  “And believe me, sir, I appreciate that. The prison programs gave me an education—gave me chances I might never have got.” She blinked at a point just in front of her as she tried to arrange her thoughts, then looked up. “But I missed my son something terrible. Every day I wondered where he was, what he was doing.

  “So when this program came up, I jumped at it. All I could think about was being a good mother, the mom I always wanted to be. Tyler—my son—he has learning difficulties. He’s about two years behind the other kids now, but that’s only going to get worse unless he has constant support. He’ll get further and further behind the older he gets. That’s not gonna get better if he’s in and out of foster homes. But I could take care of him, help him. ’Cause I love him. And that’s what you do for someone you love, right? I know it’s gonna be tough sometimes, but I’m the one should be taking care of him. Me. No one else.”

  The judge nodded. “And what would you do for money? You can’t live on fresh air.”

  “I could work while Tyler’s at school. While I was inside, I started doing a little of the design work. Some of my designs ended up getting used in the Rue Xeeba range. They said they were good. So y’know,” she shrugged. “I kinda thought I could do some night school classes, maybe get a job doing design work. Or whatever.”

  “And that sounds very commendable. But you ran out on that one opportunity that could have gotten you all of that.”

  She dropped her head. “Yes, sir.” She tightened her grip on the note in her hand, the one she’d received from Bear that simply said, “Good Luck.” Right now she needed all the luck she could get.

  Judge Henley leaned forward on his elbows, waiting. “So are you going to tell me why we’re all sitting here now?”

  Stacy chewed her lower lip, then began. “It started when Amy came to me. She said she found something. It was a blouse that got sent back from Millcreek Fashions. That’s the company we supplied finished garments to. We could tell right away the blouse that came back was one of ours, because it was one of the ones Amy had sewn. She could just about sew a straight line, but buttonholes? No way. Even though the machine does it all, she screwed them up every time. That’s why she got put on sending and receiving, packing up boxes of garments, signing for the fabric and stuff that came in.”

  “This was…” He pushed a paper aside on his desk and put on his glasses while he checked the details. “…Amy Dixon?”

  The pain knifed her in the chest. Just as it did the day Amy died. When she spoke this time, her voice was strained. “Amy was a good friend. She’d worked so hard to get clean. You know, she just needed someone to watch out for her sometimes. She always trusted the wrong people.”

  “So you looked after Amy?”

  “Kind of. I did what I could. But I know she wouldn’t have killed herself. Someone murdered her. Someone inside the prison.”

  “And at the time, you had no idea who.”

  A quick shake of the head. “They said she died of a drug overdose, but she wouldn’t have. I know it. Then Lois Hankerman got arrested and charged with bringing drugs into the prison. Everybody knew she didn’t do it. She wouldn’t have. She was straight up. But no one had any idea who did, and once Lois was gone and everyone blamed her for Amy’s death, it was like nobody cared anymore.”

  Again, he nodded. “So when you signed up for this program, you decided what? That you’d just run?”

  “No. I wanted everything to be just right. It was a great opportunity. So I studied hard, I worked
hard. But a couple of months after I applied for it, Amy found the blouse, and next thing, she was dead. Then, just after I found out I’d been selected for the program, someone left a photograph of Tyler in my cot. It shows him crossing the street outside his school with some lady, and it had, like, crosshairs over it. Like someone was threatening to shoot him. On the back, it said, He’s first, you’re next.”

  “Is this the one?” Judge Henley slipped the photograph out of a file and pushed it across the table.

  “That’s it.”

  “What did you think this photograph was telling you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think it. I knew it meant that if I got out of prison, they’d kill Tyler, then me. I’d seen what they did to Amy. And Lois. I had no doubt in my mind that they’d do what they said.”

  “So why didn’t you tell the warden about this?”

  She turned around to find Warden Glassy watching her.

  “Because she would have started an investigation, like she did when Lois got arrested. But it wouldn’t have done any good. Whoever got Lois Hankerman put away also murdered Amy, and got away with it. I’d promised Amy I’d look after her. And I didn’t. And by the time any investigation got started, it would have been too late. They already knew where Tyler was. They’d have murdered him. And my whole life, everything I’ve worked for, it would have all been worth nothing. I might as well spend the rest of my life in prison ’cause it wouldn’t be worth a thing without my son in it.”

  Judge Henley waited a beat, then gathered the papers on his desk. “Okay, I think I’ve heard enough.”

  Jay Templeton shuffled nervously. “Ah, Your Honor, may I have a moment? I’d like a chance to offer—”

  “No, I have everything I need, Mr. Templeton. You may sit over there while I think about this.”

  Jay turned, scanned the room, hesitated a second as if he wasn’t sure what to do, then scooted across next to Penny. She leaned while he whispered something, then he shook his head, obviously dismayed.