Dropping his hand back into place, the man slapped it against his thigh, a leering smile crossing his face. “Well, I’m here.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
The interior of the SUV was clean and spacious, the only personal touches that even hinted to the man who owned it or what it was used for being the faint scents of high-end tobacco and gun oil in the air. Had he not lived the life he had, Jackson Ridge might have missed both, recognizing each in an instant, knowing what both most likely represented.
Tucked into the passenger seat, Ridge sat with his right shoulder pressed against the door, his hands secured with zip ties in front of him.
In the backseat, Beckwith was stretched from one side to the other, her wrists and ankles bound, her gaze vacant as she stared up at the ceiling.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Ridge asked, glancing over to the driver before aiming his focus back out the front windshield, the first words from anybody in the twenty minutes since they’d left his office.
Coming with the man was not something Ridge had wanted to do, knowing that whatever slim chance they had at survival diminished greatly the moment they left the confines of Dirksen. As such, he had tried in vain to avoid the obvious, saying anything he could think of, making promises he had no way of fulfilling, before the conversation was stopped short by the man doing the one thing Ridge would never have imagined.
Pulling his cell phone from his pocket and showing him a picture of a terrified Marian Ellerbe, her hands bound, a rag wrapped around her head, stuffed between her parted lips.
How the man had managed that, or where he had taken the young girl, Ridge had no idea, both questions going unanswered no matter how many times he asked, the same cocksure smile crossing the man’s face as he rose from the desk and pointed to the door.
Unable to object in any way, Ridge had stepped aside, waiting for Beckwith to go first, putting himself between her and their captor.
After that, there was no choice but to be compliant, neither even having the chance to grab their coat before being led down to the parking garage and into the SUV they were now seated in.
A faint smile crossed the man’s face, the reflection of it just barely visible in the front windshield, as he rolled his attention over to look at Ridge.
“Half an hour to put it together,” he said. “Not the best I’ve seen, but certainly not the worst. Especially for a man your age.”
The last bit was an add-on meant to be nothing more than a barb, Ridge seeing it instantly for what it was, shoving it to the side to instead focus on the less obvious part of the statement.
This was far from the first time the man had done something like this.
“Davenport,” Ridge said, trying to recall the brief glimpse of the man standing in his lobby earlier in the day, the event nothing more than a flash, feeling like a different lifetime. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
In his periphery, he could see the man glance his direction, the look of amusement still in place.
“I’ll be damned.”
Matching the glance, Ridge said, “But that’s not your real name, is it?”
Switching his attention back to face forward, the man continued maneuvering them due west, pushing hard on Highway 66, the dense urban of the city and close suburbs falling away behind them.
In their stead, things began to unpack, bits of grass and open lots starting to appear between buildings. Skyscrapers and office complexes gave way to fast food restaurants and gas stations, most standing dark and empty for the night, a few intrepid places braving the wee hours of the morning in preparation for the morning slog that would soon begin moving in the opposite direction.
“Does it really matter?” the man asked.
A handful of answers sprung to mind as Ridge watched a mini mall slide past, the overhead lights dark, the lot empty. “Just wondering what I should call you.”
“Well, that depends on you,” the man said. “As terribly corny as it sounds, I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, the choice is entirely up to you.”
The man was right, it did sound terribly corny, Ridge fighting hard to keep from rolling his eyes.
“So I play ball, and this all goes away, we all make it home in time for breakfast?”
A small grunt was the man’s first reply, his head tilting slightly to the side.
“Breakfast might be a push. Given your terrible habit of calling and looking into things you shouldn’t, I would put it closer to lunch.”
Rolling his gaze over to Ridge, he added, “You know, something closer to the noon hour.”
Ridge had known from the moment he’d seen the man sitting in the bullpen why he was there, but it was the first time he had confirmed as much.
Doing so now could only mean he likely didn’t care what was disclosed from this point forward, not believing that either one of them would be around to share a word they heard anyway.
“Black Water?” he asked.
There was no response from the man save his foot pressing down a little harder on the accelerator, the engine bucking slightly, spurring them onward. Overhead, signs began announcing exits for places like Manassas and Fairfax, outposts that Ridge hadn’t been to in many years, despite living in such close proximity.
Places that were considered rural.
Where very little good occurred.
Shooting past them, the man continued onward, more than a full minute of silence sliding by, his jaw set as he stared out.
“See now,” he eventually said, his voice low, “questions like that are what make me think you’re pushing much harder to soon be calling me your worst enemy.”
Chapter Fifty
The drive out from D.C. took more than forty-five minutes in total, an effort made easier by the total lack of traffic in the late night hours. Pushing fast, they had left behind the sprawl of the city in about half that, moving on into the Virginia countryside and eventually into West Virginia, where the landscape changed dramatically.
Right at the moment a sign alongside the road welcomed them into Wild and Wonderful West Virginia, the topography changed, the flats and rolling hills of Virginia ceding to steep inclines, the eastern front of the Appalachians rising quickly.
Dense forests pushed in hard from either direction, pine trees rising straight up alongside the roadways, tall enough that they seemed to converge in the sky above, blotting any residual moonlight from view. In its absence, the front lamps of the SUV were the only light source, the white halogen glow seeming especially out of place, illuminating things in an unnatural hue.
Staring out, Jackson Ridge couldn’t help but feel his core tighten with each passing moment. He had been concerned since the moment this man first arrived, his cocksure demeanor and cavalier brandishing of the weapon making it clear that he was in control, quite comfortable with whatever might occur.
Had the man been content to simply sit on that spare desk and make sure that the inquiry went no further, that still would have been grounds for worry, Ridge counting seconds down, wanting everything – from the meeting with the man to his investigation to his term in the Senate – to all be over.
The fact that they were now driving along a rural stretch of West Virginia single lane pushed that into an entirely different territory.
As they drove, Ridge couldn’t help but try and run through things in his mind, attempting to determine what small bits he might be able to negotiate with, any hope he might have at getting his captor to succumb to reason.
His primary concern was with Beckwith in the backseat, Ellerbe presumably already waiting where they were headed. From the old guard that still believed in things such as chivalry, Ridge couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to them, whether it be as basic as catching a few errant punches or as depraved as things he would prefer not to think about.
Whatever happened to them would certainly be on him, their only sin being to have gotten too close, his blind wanting to help Clar
a Tarby putting others in danger.
“I think I saw a house back there,” Ridge said, his voice low, the first comment in more than twenty minutes. “We could drop Susie off there, you and I go on alone.”
The same sneer as before crossed the man’s face for an instant, wavering for just a moment as a flicker of something resembling respect came into view, before returning to the fore.
“Susie? That’s what you call her?” he asked. Pausing a moment, as if considering the name, he shrugged his eyebrows and said, “That’s cute, almost quaint.”
Checking the rearview mirror, the man said, “Yeah, she looks like a Susie. You ever get with that?”
His mouth sagging slightly, it took a moment for the question to register, for Ridge to compute what he’d been asked.
Once he did, white hot rage bubbled to the service, his hands curling into tight fists, the black plastic ties biting into his skin.
“You son of a bitch,” he snarled, his voice still low, but the tone markedly different, “what kind of man are you? Grabbing innocent women and dragging them out into the night?”
Flicking his gaze down to the tie Ridge wore, the man let him see his smile, his eyes meeting the senator’s before looking back out through the windshield.
“What kind of man am I?” he asked. “Right now, I’m the man in charge.”
Scads of angry replies came to Ridge’s mind, vitriol roiling to the surface, threatening to spill from every orifice, though he remained silent, his hands still squeezed tight.
“How’s it feel to not be sitting up high behind your committee table telling everybody else what to do for a change?”
Ignoring the comment, Ridge kept his head turned, his gaze aimed outward. With as much concentration as he could muster, he tried to record every detail of the road they were passing on, though there were scant few to be seen.
In their stead was nothing but dense forest, a heavy tree line pushing up tight on either side, the road so desolate there weren’t even reflector strips to denote where the center lines or edges were.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Nearly thirty seconds in silence before the man said, “Now, finally, you ask a worthwhile question.”
Easing his foot back off the gas, Ridge felt the SUV slow, coasting forward under its own momentum.
“Though I can’t actually answer it,” the man said, slowing further and hooking a sharp turn to the right, forcing his way into a gap in the trees so narrow that Ridge would have never even noticed it was there.
“Because we’re already here.”
Gunning the gas twice, the big engine in the machine responded with a gnashing of gears, the front end bucking as they pushed into the woods. Before them, twin tracks were carved out on the forest floor, muddy ruts offset by grasses standing tall.
As they drove, Ridge could hear them slapping at the undercarriage, the driver paying them no heed as they pushed deeper into the forest.
Above them, any trace of the sky was blotted from view, the headlights the only glow of any kind.
Running straight away from the road at a perpendicular angle, the path continued for what felt like nearly a mile, the forest tight on either side before suddenly falling away. Keeping the pace steady, they emerged into a clearing more than eighty feet in a diameter, only a few stray trees breaking it up, a small cabin standing in the exact center of it.
Parked out front was a matching SUV – this one silver in color – with Washington, D.C. plates and sprays of mud rising from the back tires.
Sidling up beside it, the man jerked the SUV to a stop with a hard press of the brakes, the machine sliding a few inches before stopping all movement. Shoving the gearshift into park, the man snatched the keys from the ignition and turning to stare at Ridge.
“Well now, here we are. Be a pal and help Susie inside?”
Chapter Fifty-One
The cabin was a simple affair, the kind of thing Jackson Ridge used to have on the outskirts of the family ranch, meant to be suitable for a night or two while out hunting, but not to stay in long term.
Knowing they were currently in West Virginia, he imagined that the place served a very similar purpose, deer and a host of other woodland creature calling the land they were on home.
No more than fifteen feet square, one side of the room was fashioned with a wash basin and small fridge, the freestanding unit humming loudly. Only the back wall was a stone fireplace, a small teepee of wood aglow in the bottom, crackling loudly.
On the opposite side of the room was a futon that would double as a sleeping surface, the back of it pulled upright into a sofa. In the center of the room was a rough-hewn table with three matching chairs.
The walls were barren, the surfaces formed by the rounded edges of the logs that formed the structure, any gaps between them filled with faded white daubing, a single window on either side reflecting the scene back onto itself.
Marian Ellerbe was already seated on one side of the futon as they entered, her eyes wide, her visage void of any color. The gag had been removed from her mouth since the photo Ridge had seen was taken, though her hands and feet were both tied to match Beckwith, her mouth sagging as she saw them all pass over the threshold.
Standing beside her, back toward the fireplace, was a woman Ridge would peg around forty, straight brown hair pulled back tight, wearing matching attire as the man that had grabbed them. With an impassive gaze, she watched as they entered, not seeming the least bit surprised by their appearance.
Grunting softly under the weight of Beckwith across his shoulders, Ridge wrestled her across the small expanse of the cabin, his quads burning, his lower back aching. Struggling to move her slight frame, his lungs clawed for air, sweat lining his forehead, streaming down into his eyes, causing them to burn.
“Atta boy,” the man mocked, watching as Ridge placed Beckwith’s feet to the floor in front of the futon, allowing her to lower herself into position on the seat, just a few inches separating her from Ellerbe. “And here I almost thought the walk would give you a heart attack.”
His clothes sweaty and disheveled, his hair a mess, Ridge turned to glare at his captor, the man that had been tormenting him for more than an hour.
“Well, hoped it might anyway,” the man said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at the woman in the room, smiling her way.
In response, the woman remained stolid, her thoughts on the man seeming to match Ridge’s.
“Take a seat old man,” the man said. “Get comfortable. A trek like that can take a lot out of someone.”
Not appreciating the continued quips or the flippant attitude the man employed, Ridge remained standing, open hostility on his features.
“Who the hell are you people?”
The man looked to the woman beside him, this time a bit of questioning passing over his features, before he again shrugged with his eyebrows.
“Well, since you’ve already figured out as much already,” he said, “just call us Black Water. I’ll be Black, she can be Water.”
As he made the introduction, he flipped a finger between he and his partner, delineating which was which, before again gesturing to the futon.
“Sit down, old-timer, no need to get worked up.”
“Go to Hell,” Ridge snapped back, his concern for the ladies only superseded by the animosity he felt for the man before him. “I am not some damn old fogey you can boss around. I am a United States Senator, and this is my staff. You really think you can just take us into the woods and shoot us because we asked some questions you didn’t like?”
With each word that spilled out, Ridge could feel his hatred growing higher, emotions taking over, filling in any gaps his mind might have missed.
Despite whatever the man might have said earlier, it was clear that there was no intention of ever letting them walk free again. Not after everything he had uncovered, not after their captors letting them see their faces and their license plates.
“We are imp
ortant people, people that will be missed,” Ridge continued. “Investigations will be launched-“
“Yeah, yeah,” the man said, twirling a hand before him, his voice rising to cut off Ridge. “Investigations, inquiries, law enforcement agencies. We’ve heard it all and we’ve seen it all.
“You really think this is our first time? How the hell do you think we got to all of you so easily?”
Not expecting to be interrupted, to have questions posed back in his direction, Ridge paused, unsure what to say, his mouth dry and his bottom jaw sagged open.
Giving the man just the opening he needed to again reveal the silenced 9mm that had been tucked into the rear waistband of his pants. Extending it to arm’s length, he held it at shoulder height, the barrel no more than a few feet from Ridge’s brow.
“And as I said before, sit your ass down.”
No part of Ridge wanted to do that, as much to prove to the man that he didn’t have to do a damn thing he said as knowing that once he sat down, it was likely none of the three would ever rise again.
Moving right down the line, the man would pick them off in a row, either leaving them to be found later or dragging them out into the woods to be buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.
A far cry from the hero’s internment that was usually bestowed on a man of his position.
Just as much though, Ridge knew that there was no need to rile the man further than necessary, his only hope that time, that discussion, might eventually reveal some tiny crack he would be able to leverage.
He also knew that if he did something rash to instigate the shooting, there would be absolutely nothing left to save Beckwith and Ellerbe, their fates all but sealed.
The floorboards beneath his feet creaked slightly as Ridge took a few steps over and settled down onto the futon beside Beckwith. He thought about trying to offer some words of comfort to the ladies beside him, the situation not allowing it, forcing his attention to his captors as he settled onto the stiff padding, the wooden supports underlying it biting into his tailbone.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 47