by Brenda Novak
“Because he didn’t expect to see you. But since he did, he’ll realize the danger of running into you again—that this is a much smaller town than it appears—and be more cautious in the future.”
“Well, damn,” Dax grumbled. “You act as though it was my fault he got away. I’m the one who called you.”
Amarok rubbed his face with both hands. He didn’t have the emotional reserves he usually did. He didn’t have any reserves at all. “If you ever see him again, let us know where he is and then get out before he can spot you, okay?”
“How was I supposed to know he’d recognize me?” he cried, stung by the criticism.
Amarok gave him a level look. “He stole your car, which meant he might’ve seen you park it. If he was smart, he’d be keeping an eye on the parking lot, looking for someone who was just going in, because that would mean they wouldn’t be coming out right away.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Dax grumbled.
“Why take the chance, you idiot?”
McGowen put a hand on Amarok’s shoulder. “Take it easy. We’ll keep looking for him, let you know if we find anything.”
Amarok nodded. The lump swelling in his throat kept him from saying more. The fatigue that had been held at bay by the brief but powerful belief that this nightmare might soon be over was crashing down on him like a fifty-foot wave.
He had to get home and go through Evelyn’s files. That was all he was left with; there was no time to stick around here and rail at anyone or lick his wounds.
But when he swayed while trying to walk back to his truck and nearly lost his footing, McGowen came jogging up behind him.
“Hey, you’re not getting behind the wheel right now, are you?” he asked tentatively.
“What do you think?” he asked. Wasn’t it obvious? He had his keys out.…
The cop’s eyebrows jerked together. “Looks that way to me. But it also looks as though you’ve been drinking, so—”
“Drinking?” Amarok echoed in shock.
“I bet it’s lack of sleep,” Dax spoke up, also hurrying over. “Like I told you before he got here, he’s kinda ragged around the edges. And did you see his hand? Look how it’s swelling! My brother told me he went berserk in his truck earlier, punching everything. That hand’s probably broken.”
“I suggest you keep your mouth shut before I show you that I can still use it,” Amarok bit out. He knew better than to behave like an asshole, but the retort was triggered by his frustration and exhaustion. He’d lost all restraint.
Hearing that, McGowen scowled. “Why don’t you get in the back of my cruiser? I’ll drive you over to the hospital.”
Amarok started walking again. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m not going anywhere until I find Evelyn.”
McGowen hurried to catch up. “Your hand should be X-rayed.”
“So? It’s my hand. I’ll deal with it.”
“That wasn’t a request, Sergeant.” McGowen caught him by the arm and tried to stop him. His blue eyes were steely, as though he meant business. But Amarok didn’t care. He was too far gone to care about anything anyone could do to him. And Makita didn’t like anyone interfering with him. Unwilling to allow Amarok to be threatened, he growled, showing his teeth, and McGowen immediately let go.
“Tell your dog to stand down,” he said, but Amarok simply flipped him off, called Mikita so they could climb into his truck and spewed gravel as he took off.
Fortunately, no one came after him. Maybe they knew it would only make matters worse.
10
Anchorage, AK—Thursday, 9:00 a.m. AKDT
Evelyn shivered with fear and revulsion. She’d staged the bloody water. Had it all over her legs and dress. When she turned over, she could see the small puddle she’d made on the floor as well as the drops that led to her cot. She’d smeared some of those drops with her bare feet as she pretended to limp to the bed.
The scene looked convincing. Almost too convincing. That was part of the reason she was having such a severe reaction to what she planned to do. She believed it might actually work—at least well enough to draw her captor into the room, which meant, for better or for worse, one of them probably wouldn’t be leaving this cell.
With time, she calmed down a little, but her hand began to sweat on the shiv she was hiding. Several hours must’ve passed since he’d brought her dinner—maybe as many as … twelve? She felt weak and a little dizzy. And after being on edge for so long, she was getting sleepy in spite of her fear.
But she had to remain focused, determined.
He’ll be coming soon, she told herself.
Once again, she prayed that Amarok would appear and rescue her. She knew he’d move heaven and earth to find her, but he didn’t come. The only thing she heard was the heat as it kicked on with a soft rush of forced air.
Rocking back and forth, she stared at the white wall in front of her. Hang in there. You have to hang in there. She was doing this to save her child. But she was almost as afraid of her captor’s arrival as she was of what would happen if she continued to wait.
If he hit her or kicked her in the stomach—
The sound of the bolt acted like an electric shock and sent her heart rate skyrocketing. Oh God! This is it! There was no turning back now, no changing her mind.
Clenching her jaw, she began to moan as she rocked. That part wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t hard to conjure the tears that streamed down her face, either. She was shaking all over.
At first, she heard nothing besides her own moans. She imagined him bending down and peering through the slot. He had the same limitations she did when trying to look out, but she was fairly certain he could see her from his vantage point. She was far enough from the door.
“What the fuck?” he cried, immediately enraged.
She heard some rattling, as though the cooler had been locked on the outside with a chain and padlock, before the door came open.
Her shaking grew worse as he walked in. Striking upwards was always harder than striking down; she didn’t have the benefit of leverage.
Could she do this?
She was no longer confident she’d have the strength to lift her arm, let alone plunge the shiv into his neck.
All the muscles to be found there flashed through her mind at once—the sternocleidomastoid, the omohyoid, the sternohyoid and so many others. It was almost as if she were back in anatomy class staring down at a cadaver. She could cut through any of the muscles. She believed she could even cut through the hyoid bone. If she hit his trachea, his jugular or one of his carotid arteries, she might have a shot at disabling him enough for her to get away. She just couldn’t hit his mandible. If she did, he’d simply grab her hand, get hold of the shiv and … what? Kill her with it?
Although he hadn’t seemed particularly violent, he was an ex-con. Who knew what he was capable of?
“No way!” he shouted. “This can’t be happening!”
He stood over her; she could see his giant shadow on the wall.
Holding the shiv that much tighter, she continued to cry and shake. She didn’t think she could speak. But nothing she could say would convince him if what he saw didn’t.
“Hey, damn it! What’s going on? Can’t you hear me?” He bent down to grab her shoulder, trying to turn her so that she’d have to look at him.
In that moment, she was tempted to simply grovel and beg for him to let her go. But she couldn’t be sure he’d have any sympathy. And she couldn’t gamble with the only chance she had to escape. Lyman Bishop could be on his way right now, and she wasn’t going to allow herself or her daughter to become a victim of his.
“Is the baby coming now?” he asked.
That last word, “now,” galvanized her into action. Rolling toward him as fast as she could, she caught only a brief glimpse of his face—a stranger’s face with a scar—before bringing her hand up and shoving her shiv into his neck, right in the hollow under his ear.
She’d missed h
is jaw. Thank God!
His eyes flew so wide open they almost bugged out of his head. His mouth moved, but only a rasping gasp came out.
He reached for the weapon she’d created, but she didn’t leave it in his neck. She pulled it out and shoved it in again and again.
She couldn’t stop.
Why wasn’t he crumbling to the floor?
She cried out with each thrust, a desperate, animalistic cry, and the strength she’d been lacking came flooding back.
Finally, he managed to overcome the shock and pain and catch hold of the shiv, so she let it go and dashed around him. The door stood open, beckoning her to freedom, and all she could think about was Amarok in Hilltop, searching for her to no avail, worried sick about her and their unborn child.
I’m coming.
She’d reached the open doorway.
She was going to survive.
She was so close.
Although she tried to slam the door behind her, something was in the way. It bounced back, but she didn’t dare stay long enough to figure out why.
The building outside the cooler smelled of rotten eggs and nearly turned her stomach. She could barely keep the bile down. It wasn’t only the smell—she’d just stabbed a man!
She’d never forget the feel of that sharpened wire sinking into his flesh or the feel of the warm blood that spurted out onto her face.
But none of that mattered, she told herself as she looked frantically for a way out. This guy, whoever he was, shouldn’t have taken her captive in the first place. What she’d had to do was his fault.
Until she reached the makeshift living room, which was down a short hallway, she believed she was going to escape. But the first door she rushed to was boarded up on the outside.
What kind of place was this? A factory?
The musty smell in the air wasn’t industrial.
An out-of-business store?
Hard to tell, and the dim light didn’t help.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” She had to get out.
A sudden sound made her whirl around. He was staggering toward her with blood running down his neck and her shiv in one hand. The purposeful gleam in his bloodshot eyes made it clear he meant to use it.
She tried to run, to dodge him, but it was no use. Her legs were so unsteady, she ran into the sharp edge of a table. She caught herself so she didn’t fall, but before she could get around the couch she felt his hand fist in her hair and drag her down.
* * *
Emmett could barely breathe, and his T-shirt was soaked with blood by the time he had Evelyn Talbot locked in the cooler again. The shiv he’d dropped in the break room when he grabbed her was only a thick wire. That couldn’t have done too much damage, he thought.
But only seconds later, he changed his mind. He couldn’t recover, had no idea how much blood he’d lost. He had to get to an ER.
Intending to get help, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. But then he realized, somewhat belatedly since he wasn’t thinking clearly, that he couldn’t call for an ambulance, couldn’t bring anyone here, not unless he wanted to get patched up at the hospital only to be taken to jail.
He’d have to drive himself to the closest med clinic and lie to the staff that someone had jumped him for his wallet. They’d probably still call the police. The type of injuries he’d sustained had to be reported. But as far as the police would know, he hadn’t done anything wrong. They’d get the same story plus a made-up description of his attacker. Without evidence to contradict his story, they’d be off to hunt down an imaginary perp and leave him there.
That was the way it should play out—as long as they didn’t run the license plate on the van he’d stolen.
“Let me go!” Evelyn was raving, going completely all-out crazy. He could hear her desperation in the reedy thinness of her voice.
But he didn’t feel any pity. Not after what she’d done to him. He’d been so worried that she’d go into labor, so afraid that the baby would die, and she’d used his fear against him.
The bitch was smart. He’d been careful, thought of everything, and yet he’d fallen right into her trap.
He should’ve told her to shut up. She had him so angry he could kill her. But he didn’t have the voice to yell—or the air. His breathing was so ragged he was getting dizzy.
Using the walls for support, he tried to make his way to the empty store in front, but his legs didn’t want to work, didn’t want to bear his weight. And as he moved, the dizziness grew much worse—until he was afraid he’d black out.
“What … the hell’s … happening?” he gasped.
Barely clinging to consciousness, he tried to take another step. Lyman Bishop was on his way. All Emmett had to do was hold on until he got paid. Then he could blow this joint, be done with the whole sordid mess. Let Lyman Bishop do what he would with the pregnant bitch. She was as vicious as the psychopaths she studied.
Holding one hand to his throat in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, he managed to turn around long enough to double-check that he’d locked the cooler.
Yes, he had. Thank goodness. He could see the closed lock hanging there. He didn’t want to worry about Evelyn Talbot escaping while he was in such a mess.
That she wasn’t going anywhere should’ve brought him some relief, except he was feeling so shitty he wasn’t sure anything would help.
Concentrate! He had to focus if he was ever going to reach the van. And he would reach it. He’d get paid despite what had almost happened. His sister needed Terry’s half of the money in order to move out on her own. That was part of the reason Emmett had decided to see this through. Terry didn’t know she was planning to leave him, of course, but that was what she’d told Emmett in her last text. So what else could he do? She was miserable, and his loyalties would always remain with her. Blood was thicker than water, as they say—and that included cellmates.
He bumped into the walls on either side of him until the short hallway ended and he reached the salesroom. He was tempted to sit down until the room quit spinning and he could catch his breath, but he had a feeling he should keep moving, get to a doctor while he could still drive.
He stepped over the discarded egg crates and other debris he’d been navigating all week to reach the front door.
The wind hit his face as he wrenched it open. He could see a hint of the blue van, sitting in the carport beneath overgrown vines where it was hidden from the road.
But when he tried to step toward it, his knees gave out and he fell with a sickening thud.
Startled by his inability to control his body, he stared up at the building overhang above.
He wasn’t going to make it, he realized. After everything he’d been through—doing hard time in state prison, surviving fights with his worst enemies—he was going to die because of a pregnant woman?
No. He couldn’t believe it. But his ears began to ring and his vision dimmed until the darkness on all sides of him gathered into one tiny pinprick of light.
Which suddenly winked out.
* * *
The disappointment was so acute Evelyn couldn’t quit sobbing. Her chest heaved as she beat on the door. She was acting like a child, but she didn’t care. She’d come so close to escaping with her life and her baby’s life!
Now all the courage she’d screwed up, the hope that had driven her, the painful effort of creating the lethal shiv, the hours and hours of terrified waiting …
It was all for nothing.
At least he hadn’t killed her. That thought eventually lessened her despair. He could’ve done much worse than toss her back inside the cooler and lock the door, but she could hardly count that as a kindness when Lyman Bishop was on his way. She’d rather be murdered outright than become Bishop’s next zombielike slave.
“Let me out!” she called again, but she’d been yelling for so long her voice was too tired and hoarse to be heard.
Drained of the energy she needed to maintain the onslaught, she sank to th
e floor.
What was she going to do now?
She wiped the blood from her face as she gazed at the blood spatter on the wall. The oatmeal her captor had brought was spilled all over the floor. The banana had been kicked under her cot. And the tray was bent. Apparently, that was what had been in the way when she’d tried to close the door.
It had all come down to a food tray.…
And now she didn’t have anything to drink. She’d used the last of her water to deceive him and, if he’d tried to bring her more, it had ended up on the outside of the cooler and not here, where she needed it.
“Heaven help me,” she muttered. Too weak and discouraged to even get to her feet, she crawled over to the bed and climbed into it. Despite the blood and the water all over everything, this thin mattress was the softest place to be, and she needed what small comfort it and the blanket could provide.
The pictures she’d reviewed from Bishop’s file when he first arrived at Hanover House paraded before her mind’s eye. They made her sick. So did what he’d done to his own sister.
Evelyn closed her eyes in an attempt to block out those images.
She couldn’t face her own future, couldn’t contemplate what she was looking at next.
11
Minneapolis, MN—Thursday, 2:30 p.m. CST
“What are you doing calling me?” Terry asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
Adjusting to the muggy heat of the Midwest summer, Lyman Bishop removed the sweatshirt he’d worn earlier and leaned back on the park bench. It was so nice to feel the sun on his face and to know he’d never have to encounter another nurse or doctor from Beacon Point Mental Hospital. “I made it to the bank and withdrew the money, but I couldn’t get a flight out until Saturday morning. Even then, the ticket was outrageously expensive.”
“Last-minute plane fares usually are.”
“I should’ve had you make the reservation for me. I bet it would’ve saved three hundred dollars.”
“Hey, I fronted you too much dough already trying to get your damaged ass out of that place. What do you think, I’m made of money?”