Ben didn’t even glance in the guard’s direction, but he could hear the smirk on the guy’s face. Angola made hell look like a vacation resort.
They’d almost reached the end of the hallway, and with each step Ben’s heart was beating harder. This was so well planned it had to work. He couldn’t know the layout of the building better if there was a floor plan etched in his brain—he knew exactly where to go, exactly what to do.
Then they were at the corner…making the turn to the right…
“What the—”
A fresh wave of adrenaline surged through him as his men went into action. Two of them were taking care of the guards—slapping duct tape across their mouths. Tying their hands behind their backs. The third one unlocked Ben’s handcuffs, then shoved a gym bag at him and silently pointed toward the far end of the hall.
He didn’t need directions. He took off running, unzipping the bag as he went.
Wheeling into the washroom, he dug through the bag, pulling out everything he needed right away. Then he ripped off his suit jacket and tugged the gray sweater on over his shirt.
His hands trembling, he peeled the backing off the fake mustache. Peering into the mirror, he firmly pressed it on.
After pulling the baseball cap down low enough to hide the front of his hair, he shoved the wallet into his pocket and put on the dark sunglasses. Finally, he clipped the Walther .38 to his belt and pulled the sweater loosely over it.
He was out of the washroom again before he’d even finished stuffing his jacket and tie into the bag.
A quick glance to his left assured him his men were gone, their job was done. The guards had been safely locked in the storage room.
“Ciao, fellows,” he said under his breath. Then he headed for the rarely used exit he knew had been unlocked for him.
Once outside, he forced himself to walk along the alley next to the courthouse at a normal pace, even though he wanted to run flat out.
So far, everything had gone like clockwork. And that was because they’d thought through every detail carefully. Which meant he couldn’t deviate from the plan. He had to walk, not run and attract attention.
But it would be only a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds, before someone realized he’d escaped. And he sure didn’t want to be hanging around when all hell broke loose.
Reaching the street, he looked quickly in either direction—and realized she wasn’t there.
Trying to ignore the fingers of panic that wrapped themselves around his throat, he checked again, gazing along the block more slowly this time. She had to be somewhere.
No car, they’d decided. No license plate that someone might remember. A taxi would be better. But a taxi for him and Felicia, the woman they’d paid to be here.
He looked one more time, but the only woman standing alone on the sidewalk wasn’t Felicia. This one was wearing a pale yellow suit, not the dark slacks and a green sweater he’d been expecting. Plus, she had a coat draped over her arm, was holding a small suitcase and wasn’t standing in their designated spot.
He stared at her, willing her to metamorphose into Felicia. It didn’t happen. Her straight black hair and glasses didn’t vanish. And no matter how hard he stared, she looked nothing like the picture they’d shown him.
He took a final, futile look up and down the street, then glanced back at the woman in the yellow suit— those fingers of panic growing tighter and tighter around his throat.
He had to have a woman. That was critical to their plan.
THE DAY WAS WARM for February, almost seventy, and after spending her morning in the stuffy courthouse Monique paused for a few breaths of fresh air, hoping they’d drive at least some of the thoughts of Ben DeCarlo from her mind.
When they didn’t, she tried concentrating on the hustle and bustle around her.
The street was filled with people, many of them obviously tourists—the cameras around their necks a dead giveaway. The cabbie who’d driven her in from the airport had been a nonstop talker, so she knew Mardi Gras was early this year, a week from today, to be exact And the Carnival celebrations already had people pouring into the city.
Across the street, a hot dog vendor was doing brisk business at his Lucky Dog cart, which made her wonder if she should grab something from him. She’d rarely had a good experience with airport food.
On the other hand, there was a flight leaving for Hartford in a couple of hours, and if she wanted to get booked onto it she should probably just hail a cab and worry about food later.
She glanced along the street, looking for an empty one—and saw something that turned her blood to ice water. Ben DeCarlo was standing not twenty feet away.
For a few panicked seconds, she was so frightened her brain stopped working. Then she realized it couldn’t possibly be him. Only minutes ago, he’d been led out of the courtroom wearing a charcoal Armani suit. The man down the street had on a blue sweatshirt, jeans and cowboy boots.
Staring at him, she searched for telltale differences. But he was so much like Ben DeCarlo that—
“Don’t move a muscle,” a man whispered, placing a hand firmly on her arm.
Startled, she turned and looked at him. For a moment, she didn’t realize who he was. Then her eyes were drawn to the cleft in his chin, and the sunglasses and mustache might as well have vanished from his face.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, her startled feeling escalating into pure terror. The man down the street wasn’t Ben DeCarlo, but the man with his hand on her arm was.
She tried telling herself her eyes were playing tricks on her, but they weren’t.
He had on a gray sweater, now, instead of his suit jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low over his face, hiding his sun-streaked hair. But he was still wearing the charcoal Armani suit pants and the expensive Italian shoes.
“I have a gun,” he said, the gentleness of his Southern accent not right for the words he was saying. “And if you scream or try to get away, I’ll use it”
She stood rooted to the spot, gripping the handle of her suitcase so tightly her fingernails began to dig into her palms. Her heart was beating triple time, her mouth felt cotton dry, and her throat was so tight she couldn’t swallow.
Her deepest darkest fear had just become reality. Ben DeCarlo had escaped. And whether she screamed or tried to escape or stood stock-still, he’d kill her. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, setting the sports bag he’d been holding onto the sidewalk. “I’m going to hail a cab and we’ll get into it And you just keep quiet. If there’s anything you have to say to me, pretend I’m your husband. Understand?”
Wordlessly, Monique nodded, a fresh wave of terror sweeping her. Being taken hostage by a psychopathic murderer might prove even worse than being killed on the spot.
She knew the sorts of things psychopaths were capable of. She’d read a lot about them, trying to understand how Ben DeCarlo could possibly have done what he had.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get this show on the road.” He barely raised his arm before a cabbie cut across a lane toward them.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, picking up the sports bag as the taxi pulled to a halt “Not as long as you do what I say. But don’t forget for a second that I’ve got a gun.”
And he has nothing to lose, added a voice inside Monique’s head.
Ben followed the woman into the back of the taxi, his heart pounding harder than a jackhammer. It wasn’t like him to panic, but that was certainly what he’d done when he’d realized Felicia hadn’t shown.
He’d practically been able to see his freedom being snatched from him once again. So even though he didn’t know if he was doing the smart thing by hijacking this stranger, he wasn’t in any position to stand around debating the pros and cons with himself.
Any moment now, there’d be an APB out and all the heat in New Orleans would be looking for him. But they’d be looking for a man
alone, which meant he had a far better chance of getting completely away if he was with a woman.
Besides that, if he didn’t have one when he got to the airport, the plan could well run into a snag. So he wasn’t going to worry, right now, about the problems he’d created by grabbing her.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked, pulling away from the curb.
“New Orleans International,” Ben told him, thinking it was a lucky break the woman had a suitcase. They’d worried he’d get the sort of cabbie who’d remember a fare to the airport with only a gym bag for luggage.
But they’d decided that even if the guy did remember picking up someone outside the courthouse, even if he did eventually realize it might have been a disguised Ben DeCarlo, what better destination for the cops to learn about than New Orleans International?
If they figured that had been his first stop, they’d assume his second was South America or some other far-flung place.
Leaning back against the seat, he tried to relax a little. He was far too wired, though, and would be until he got where he was going. But at least he was starting to think straight again. Which meant he’d better give some thought to the woman. Decide what the hell he was going to do with her.
He glanced at her sitting stiffly next to him, staring straight ahead. She was clearly terrified.
Of course, that was hardly surprising. And if she knew he was Ben DeCarlo, she’d be even more frightened.
Eying her, he had the feeling he’d seen her someplace before. But that would be just too much of a coincidence.
Looking out as they turned onto Tulane, he tried to decide whether it would be safe to let her go once he was finished at the airport
The last thing he wanted was to take her with him. That wasn’t part of the plan any more than grabbing her had been. But if he let her go she’d call the heat. Even though she didn’t know who he was, he’d shanghaied her right in front of the courthouse. So the cops would put two and two together. Fast And it would be far, far better if they had nothing at all.
Glancing at her again, he weighed in another factor. No matter how briefly he held her hostage, he was already guilty of kidnapping. Which, under the law, was almost as serious as murder.
Chapter Two
Tuesday, February 4
12:27 p.m.
“Where ya’ll wanna be dropped?” the cabbie asked as they neared the terminal.
“International departures,” Ben DeCarlo said.
The knot in Monique’s stomach began to ache. The only possible reason he’d forced her to come with him was that he’d seen right through her disguise and intended to kill her as revenge for testifying against him.
And if he was leaving the country, she didn’t have long to live. He’d have a passport for himself, but he’d hardly have one for her, so she’d be dead before he got on his plane.
While the taxi was pulling to a stop, she told herself there had to be at least a chance she could escape from this alive. No matter how badly he wanted to kill her, he might not have a good opportunity. Not in an airport full of people.
That logic did little to calm her fears. After all, he’d murdered his parents in a crowded restaurant.
He handed some bills to the cabbie, then grabbed her right hand firmly in his left. Clutching her suitcase, she slid across the seat after him.
Once they were inside the terminal, he said, “Give me your coat.”
When she handed it to him, he draped it over his arm, glanced around, then reached beneath his sweater. Nonchalantly, he slid the trench coat over his hand as he brought it back out—but not nonchalantly enough that she didn’t realize he was holding his gun now.
That made her throat go so dry that when he said, “What’s your name?” she couldn’t answer immediately.
She simply stared at him, her thoughts racing as rapidly as her pulse. She’d been wrong. He hadn’t seen through her disguise.
“Anne,” she finally said, a tiny spark of hope flickering in her heart. If he didn’t know who she was, things might not be quite as bad as she’d thought
“Okay, Anne, for the next little while, you’re Mary Carson of Silver Bay, Minnesota. I’ve got a driver’s license for you, and a credit card. I want you to sign both of them as Mary Carson. Then we’ll walk along to that rental counter. There’s a car reserved in Mary’s name.”
Oh, Lord. He wasn’t leaving the country at all. Which meant he could keep her with him for as long as he liked.
He dug the cards and a pen from his sports bag and handed them to her. She shakily signed them, her mind racing again. If he’d only made her come with him to rent a car, maybe when she’d done that…
“Good,” he said once she’d finished signing. “Now, I’ll be right beside you while you’re talking to the clerk. So don’t get any funny ideas.”
After taking a deep breath, she said, “If I do this for you, you’ll let me go?”
“Yes, but not here where you can run to a phone.”
“What if I promise I won’t?”
“That’s not good enough. You’ll have to stick with me for the time being.”
Despite her fear, she stood her ground when he motioned her to start off. The time being would undoubtedly prove long enough for him to realize who she really was. And once he knew, he’d kill her for sure. So if she was going to end up dead, anyway, why should she cooperate?
It took him mere seconds to convince her she’d better. He moved menacingly close and gave her a glimpse of the gun.
That was more effective than words would have been. Effective enough that she walked directly along to the car rental counter with him.
She made it through dealing with the clerk, even managing a smile when he informed her the Chevy Caprice he was giving her was “brand, spanking new.”
Then, once she’d signed Mary Carson’s name in three different places, he handed her a set of car keys and gave her directions to the parking lot
“Let’s go,” Ben said.
Walking away from the counter, she told herself not to give up hope. All she needed was one opportunity to get away. Silently, she repeated the words like a mantra—over and over again until they reached the blue Caprice.
Keeping one eye on her, Ben unlocked the trunk, tossed his sports bag and her coat into it and motioned her to do the same with her suitcase. Then he opened the driver’s side door, clipped the gun to his belt and said, “Okay, get in.”
She slid under the wheel and across to the passenger’s side, all the while watching him from the comer of her eye.
He climbed in after her, then turned his head toward the door as he reached to close it
Seizing the moment, she dove for her door. She had her fingers on the handle when he caught her— one hand digging into her shoulder, the other grabbing at her head. As he jerked her backward, her glasses went flying and her wig came off in his hand.
“What the…” he muttered.
A second later, he had her by both shoulders and was twisting her around to face him.
“Take that thing off,” he snapped, staring at her head.
Numb with fear, she pulled off the nylon cap that had been securing her hair. As it fell free around her shoulders, Ben DeCarlo’s eyes turned to icy blue steel.
He tossed her wig into the back seat, muttering, “Damn! I don’t believe it Of all the women in the world, I grabbed Monique LaRoquette. Witness for the prosecution.”
BEN HEADED SOUTHWEST from New Orleans, along Highway 90 into the heart of bayou country, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other holding his Walther pointed at Monique LaRoquette. He still didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with her, but he sure couldn’t set her free.
What if I promise I won’t run for a phone? she’d asked him back at the airport. Would you let me go?
Mentally shaking his head, he recalled that at the time he’d thought he might. Not right there at New Orleans International, of course. But he’d considered heading east from the
airport and dropping her off in the middle of nowhere—then doubling back toward his destination.
It wouldn’t have been the ideal solution, but there was no ideal solution. And at least it would have gotten her off his hands.
Now that he knew who she was, though, letting her go was out of the question.
She’d barely said a word since they’d gotten into the car, but she had admitted the only reason she’d come to New Orleans was to hear the verdict firsthand. Which told him just how much she despised him.
Of course, being convinced she’d seen him murder his parents gave her good reason to loathe him. But regardless of that, the fact she was convinced meant he’d be out of his mind to set her free. If he let her go, she’d do whatever she could to help the cops catch up with him. That What if I promise I won’t run for a phone? line hadn’t been worth the breath she’d used to say it.
Checking the odometer, he saw he’d driven almost fifty miles, which meant Houma wasn’t much further. Once they’d switched cars, he’d feel a lot safer.
He glanced at Monique, who was staring straight ahead, tension positively radiating from her body.
“Turn on the radio,” he told her. “Find some news.”
Without looking at him, she pushed the on-off button.
“Still no trace of convicted murderer, Ben DeCarlo,” an announcer was saying, “who escaped from the main courthouse at approximately 11:45 this morning. The police are presently combing the city in one of the biggest manhunts New Orleans has ever seen.
“Police Chief Royce Monk has asked for the public’s cooperation and has announced a reward for information leading to DeCarlo’s capture. A special hot line has been set up. Anyone with information about DeCarlo, or about the three accomplices who overpowered his guards, is asked to call 555-HUNT. That’s 555-4868.
“DeCarlo is white, thirty-four years of age, six foot one, and weighs approximately one hundred and eighty pounds. He has blue eyes and sun-streaked brown hair. When he was led from the courtroom, he was wearing a dark gray suit, black shoes, a white shirt and gray tie.
The Valentine Hostage Page 2