by Greta Boris
"No. Thanks. And, I'm afraid that'll have to be a takeaway cup."
"Are we going somewhere?"
"The station."
Carlos took a gulp. It was too hot. It burned all the way down his throat, and his eyes filled with tears. "I've told my story three times now. I don't know what else I can say."
"Things have changed." Sylla leaned on the doorframe and crossed one ankle over the other.
"What things?"
"Leena Basara's story, for one." Carlos raised his eyebrows over the rim of his mug as he took a more careful sip. "She now says Skandalis was her lover."
Carlos almost spewed coffee from his mouth, but he choked it down. Between coughs, he managed to say, "What?"
"Yes, she says Basara was abusive and Skandalis shot him to defend her. Which means, you weren't defending her when you coshed Skandalis over the head."
"He hit her. Abby and I both saw him hit her across the face."
Sylla shrugged. "That's not her version of the story. Sadly, in her version, you committed assault with a deadly weapon against her hero."
Her words took time to filter through his low blood sugar brain. When they did, something cold landed in his gut despite the heat of the coffee sloshing around in it. "Am I being arrested?"
"No. But you do need to come with me."
"Abby," he said. "She saw everything I saw. Talk to her."
"She's not answering her phone, I'm afraid."
"She left me a message a couple of hours ago. I haven't had time to listen to it."
"Tell you what, you can listen on your way in."
Carlos set his mug on the counter next to his phone. He picked up the cell, and as he did a premonition trickled like ice water down his spine. He'd only talked to Abby once since Saturday. She was depressed, moody, wanted to be alone. But the voice on the message had sounded upbeat. Why would she be happy?
She hadn't gotten good news from Sylla, that was for sure. It didn't smell right. Something was wrong. "We should listen to that message," he said as much to himself as to Sylla.
"In the car." She pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward him.
Carlos held up the phone. One of the uniformed cops moved in his direction. He pushed play and speaker at the same time. Abby's voice filled the room.
Carlos, you don't have to call me back.
The cold premonition turned to frozen dread as he listened to her words. Nobody moved for a minute. Carlos now had proof Leena had been lying. She did know about the Mission girl's death. She’d admitted it to Abby. Sylla heard it with her own ears. She also heard Abby had gone with Leena. Gone with a woman whose husband had tried to kill Paul. "I'll go to the station with you, I swear, but we need to find Abby first."
Sylla gave him a short nod and turned on her heel. "You stay here."
"Hell with that." Carlos went after her.
Sylla walked fast, but he kept up with her. The two cops trailed behind. Sylla pushed open the heavy glass door. He caught it before it closed.
"Where are you going?" Gab called out. Carlos didn't answer.
A black sedan and an SUV with the Sheriff's department logo were parked next to his red truck. Sylla got into the sedan. "I said stay here." She slammed the door and pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. Carlos got into his red truck and followed her. The SUV followed them both.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 2:42 PM
The Wife
THE DRIVER WAS going much too fast. I was focused on my phone—texting Michael—but I thought I saw someone jump out of our way in my peripheral vision. Normally, I'd reprimand the driver. This was a family neighborhood. Children played and pets strayed here. But I was in a hurry. I wanted to get home before the associates arrived. I was having second thoughts.
I knew it sounded hard-hearted, but I now believed the best plan was to kill Abby. Drop her off the end of the pier at night. Or, throw her off a boat. Surely, Skandalis knew someone with a boat. He seemed to know everyone. If she washed up on a beach, the police would think she committed suicide.
The point was, leaving her alive made me nervous. What if she escaped? What if she found her way to safety? I believe the American government would extradite someone for kidnapping and selling another human being. I didn't want to be linked to an international trafficking ring.
No, it was best to silence her for good. I still had the passports, Hannah's passport and the other one. They were powerful inducements for him to cooperate. Besides, it was the most humane thing to do. I would rather die than be made the sex slave of violent men. We would be doing Abby a favor.
The driver pulled up in front of my house. I paid him in cash and stepped from the vehicle. He drove off and my heart skipped a beat. On the asphalt, where the taxi had been, was a splatter of brownish red dots. Blood?
I followed the trail with my eyes. It grew less and less as it crossed the street. I pivoted and followed it in the other direction. I tracked a shine of moisture across the lawn. The blood splashes became thicker and more pronounced on the concrete path on the other side of the garage.
What had happened here? Had Seb's associates already taken Abby? Had they beaten her? Brutalized her? Here? On my property? I strode into the garage, indignation growing with each step. This wasn't part of our agreement. The droplets ended in a pool outside the laundry room door.
I stepped over it, careful not to get any on my shoes, and entered the small room. Abby was gone. Detergent covered the floor like snow. My throat constricted with anxiety. The passports. I yanked up the cardboard box. It was empty but for a half cup or so of soap. Seb had found them then.
This destroyed any leverage I had over him. My plan had been to hand them over at the airport, right before boarding my flight to Egypt. Give them to him in a public place, swarming with security. Then walk away into the sunset.
I dropped the box to the floor and wiped my hand on my pants. What now? What did this mean? I thought fast. I would have to convince him to help me kill Abby. But how?
I planned my argument as I retraced my steps to the front walk and entered the house. Dead air greeted me. The house, once filled with the hum of family life, was now an empty shell. I had started taking down pictures, packing knickknacks, and covering furniture. The children were staying at my cousin's. I wanted them far away when Seb and his associates were here.
I walked into the living room. My footsteps echoed across the wood floor. "Leena?" It was Skandalis's voice.
He lay on my couch, one foot on the floor, hands on his chest, a maroon-stained bandage wrapped around his head. "Leena?" he said again.
"Yes." I choked out the word.
"Did you get rid of her car?" I couldn't believe he asked me that, so calmly, as if he wasn't as white as the sheet covering my sofa. As if his face wasn't painted with dried blood. "I put them off as long as I could, but my associates will be here soon. We have work to do."
"What do you mean?"
"Abby is gone. They're not going to be happy."
"How?"
"She got loose. There must have been a knife, a scissor, something in the laundry room." His words were an accusation. Like somehow I was responsible for her escape.
"And she attacked you?"
"Obviously. The bitch stabbed me in the eye with something. She'll pay."
"How do you plan to make that happen?" I heard a tremor of rage in my voice. "She's gone."
"She can't be far. She's on foot." Did he expect me to go after her? In answer to my unspoken question, he said, "You'd better hurry. We need her here when my associates arrive. They're not. . . pleasant when they're disappointed."
His audacity rendered me speechless. Here he lay, on my couch, in my living room, barking orders to me as if I were one of his slave girls.
"Take my gun, as an inducement for her cooperation." He gestured to the weapon on the floor, then draped his hand across his forehead like a maiden about to swoon.
I
picked up the gun and looked at it. I had no idea how to use it. I'd go after her. No one else was going to do it. But I'd take care of things my own way. It seemed I was always cleaning up after inept men.
I left him and walked to the kitchen. I dropped the gun on the counter, opened a drawer and withdrew my favorite butcher knife. I returned to the living room.
Seb still lay in a pathetic heap, arm across his eyes. "I told you, you need to hurry," he said, his voice weak. I stepped closer to him. "My car keys are on the kitchen counter if you need my vehicle."
I held my knife with both hands, raised it high above my head. "What are you waiting for?" He removed his arm and opened his one good eye. A look of horror crossed his face.
I brought down the blade and plunged it into his chest in one swift movement—a dagger into the heart of a vampire. He gasped. I pulled it free, and blood arced from the wound. I'd hit an artery. Good. I wiped the blade on the sheet he lay on.
I walked to the hall, took my purse from the floor where I'd dropped it when I entered, and put the knife inside. Then I lengthened the strap so I could wear it across my chest. It seemed best to have my hands free.
I was about to check on Seb one last time, but paused. Maybe it would be best to take the gun. It couldn't hurt. I stopped in the kitchen to retrieve it on my way to the living room.
Seb was still alive, but barely. His face had turned a pale gray. His mouth gaped like a strangling fish's; his lips were tinged with blue. But I couldn't wait for him to die. He'd been right about one thing today anyway; I did need to hurry.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:10 PM
CARLOS PULLED UP to the curb in front of the Basara house. Leena wasn't there. At least her car wasn't there. Sylla was already trotting toward the front door by the time he got out of his truck. He hung back.
"I thought I told you to stay put," she said without looking at him.
"You did. No liability. You're in the clear no matter what happens."
The front door was locked. Sylla rang the doorbell, then knocked.
"There's no car in the driveway," Carlos said.
She grunted and knocked again, louder this time. The officers joined her on the front porch.
Carlos moved to the bank of windows to the right of the door. He pushed past a crepe myrtle tree and sidled up to the glass. Someone was going somewhere, that was for sure. Framed pictures leaned against the walls, faded blanks where they'd hung. The couch was covered with a sheet.
He was about to turn away, when he saw something strange. There was a dark stain on the floor to the left of the sofa. At first, he'd thought it was a shadow, but the sun was shining in the wrong direction.
"Hey," he called to Sylla. "Check this out."
She gave him a stern look, but moved to his side and peered in. "Getting ready to move, eh?"
"Yeah, but look at the floor. To the left of the couch."
"That doesn't look good."
A terrible thought grabbed him. Was that Abby's blood? "We need to get in there."
She looked thoughtful.
"Abby, someone, could be bleeding to death."
Sylla nodded. "Find a stone," she said to the female officer.
Carlos was ready to punch a hole in the window with his fist, but didn't. He might need both hands to help rescue Abby. Sylla pulled a cell phone from her pocket and barked cop-speak into it. Calling for backup, he guessed.
"Got a handkerchief?" she said when the officer returned with a baseball-sized rock.
Carlos pulled his t-shirt over his head and handed it to her. Sylla wrapped the rock in the shirt, swung it around a couple of times and whacked the glass. It shattered on the third strike. She reached her hand inside, unlocked the window and slid it open.
Carlos put his hands on the sill, ready to jump inside, but she grabbed his arm. "Jen," she said to the female officer, "take him to the driveway, will you?" She vaulted through the window like a gymnast, the blond cop behind her.
Carlos didn't argue. As much as he wanted to be Abby's hero, he was afraid of what he'd see inside the house. He hated blood. Especially if it belonged to someone he loved. He followed officer Jen to the driveway. What seemed like hours later, Sylla came outside through the front door of the house. "It's not her," she said.
He was so relieved he had to sit on the curb. "Who is it?"
"Skandalis, and he's past help."
His happiness didn't last long. If it wasn't Abby, where was she?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:20
ABBY SLOWED. AFTER the taxi almost mowed her down, she moved off the main street onto a horse path that ran in the same general direction. It felt safe, secluded. But she was walking in circles, she realized as she came on the same maintenance shed for a second time. The overdose of adrenaline that had been keeping her going was gone. It left exhaustion in its wake.
She looked at the shed. It didn't appear to be locked. The door was open a crack, and its cool, dim interior beckoned to her. She longed to enter, curl into a corner, and sleep. When threatened, some animals fought, some ran, a few hid. Abby was one of the latter. But she knew she needed to find help, and she needed it soon.
She could hear the occasional car hum by somewhere through the trees. Overcoming her ostrich instincts, she dragged herself in the direction of the sound. Eucalyptus trees, tall and close, surrounded the equestrian path. They'd been planted to create an illusion of riding in the countryside she supposed. The deception was a bit too good. She listened for more cars but heard only the cawing of crows and crunch of dried leaves under her feet. She felt like a child lost in dark, deep wood.
A small shape darted past her. She started and stumbled over a tree root. An excruciating jolt shot through her leg and injured hip into her low back. Abby cried out and fell against the tree the squirrel now clung to. Black spots formed behind her eyes, and she doubled over. When she could see again, she tried to straighten and gasped.
The pain was intense. Usually, when she felt the familiar tightening around her coccyx, she'd lie on an ice pack, take an anti-inflammatory, and rest. But everything had been so upside-down since the fire, she hadn't taken care of herself. She'd put up with the low-grade pain. And now, none of those things were possible.
She shuffled forward through the leaves stooped like an old woman, forcing herself to keep moving. In a short while, she was rewarded by the sound of an engine. She couldn't see the car through the stand of trees, but she could tell it was close.
She followed the sound. A carpet of black appeared between tree trunks. Asphalt. She moved as fast as her back would allow. When she reached the road, she propped herself against a street lamp to get her bearings. Directly across from her were unfamiliar homes. She'd never been in this section of the neighborhood before.
Fighting the creeping feeling of vulnerability that rippled across her skin, she searched left, then right for a vehicle to flag down. The chance that she'd collapse here, where it could take people hours to find her, was greater than the chance Skandalis would drive by. He didn't know where she was. She didn't even know where she was. But there were no cars on the street.
Most of Nellie Gail Ranch was built on hilltops. The exit, therefore, was generally down. Abby decided to follow the descending slope of the street and turned left. She had to stop every ten or twelve steps to rest her back against the fence that separated the eucalyptus grove from the residential area. She continued this way for several minutes before she saw a car. It motored past on a perpendicular street only a half block or so in front of her. She wanted to run forward, yell, wave her hands, but she couldn't. Not in her condition. A sob of frustration rose in her chest.
By the time she reached the cross street, the car was long gone. She paused. Should she continue next to the split rail fence, or turn in the direction the car had gone? She chose to go straight. Not for any logical reason, she was past logic, only because she could rest against the fence,
and the trees comforted her.
After another block, the downhill slope became more pronounced. Her muscles spasmed with every jarring footfall, and she was forced to slow her steps. She was starting to hate Nellie Gail Ranch.
The car behind her was close before the rumble of its engine broke into her consciousness. She spun toward it, hope soaring. It hadn't been much more than an hour since she'd escaped from Leena Basara's laundry room, but she felt like someone who'd been castaway on a deserted island for months.
A white Lexus SUV was coming down the hill toward her. Abby dropped off the curb onto the blacktop and raised both hands over her head. The car didn't slow. The driver must not have seen her. She stepped farther into the street, and waved both arms. Still, it barreled on.
Anger flickered in her chest. What was wrong with these people? Did living in a gated community make you immune to need? Were their consciences barricaded up too? She took another big stride, raised her arms higher, and commanded the SUV to stop in a loud voice.
It didn't.
It accelerated.
Several things happened in the span of two heartbeats. Abby saw the face of the driver. Fear pumped like speed through her veins. She leaped away. The car skimmed by so close, she felt its wind on her face and smelled the tar the tires left behind.
Leena Basara's eyes, calm and determined, had been focused on her. Leena had seen her. Leena had tried to run her down.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:21 PM
CARLOS PACED THE street in front of the house. Sylla had thrown him off the property. It was a crime scene now. He'd gone to his truck, put on an old flannel shirt he kept in the cab, grabbed his cell phone and tried to call Abby. She didn't answer.
He hit redial again and again. It went straight to Abby's voice mail every time. After the fourteenth try, he dropped the phone into his pocket. Abby had followed Leena to this house. That's what she'd said. So where the hell was she?
The police had searched the property. She wasn't here, and neither was her car. Her car. A glimmer of hope flickered inside him. Maybe she'd left on her own, before Skandalis arrived, before he was killed? Her message had said she was following Leena to her house. Abby had driven her car here. Someone had to have driven it away. Maybe she'd run errands and was home by now.