Taken by Tuesday (Weekday Brides Series)

by Catherine Bybee

  “Rick?”

  Neil’s voice sounded hopeful.

  “What?” Those around him, including Raskin, turned to look at him.

  Rick held his ear, making it clear he was talking into a mic. “What?” he asked in a calmer voice.

  “The building adjacent has a basement. Two floors under the main structure.”

  Rick waited for the boom.

  “Abandoned . . . secluded . . . easily reached by way of the garage.”

  The hope in Rick’s chest expanded. He looked around the room again, couldn’t help the half smile on his face.

  Rick turned from the room, made it a few feet before Raskin stopped him. The man leveled his eyes to his. “You know something.”

  The smile on Rick’s lips dropped. “And you owe me.”

  The tension in the detective’s jaw was palpable.

  “Damn it.”

  For a minute, Rick didn’t think the man was going to let him go without an argument. “Look around. The answer is here.”

  “Tell me,” Raskin demanded.

  “I need fifteen minutes.”

  Raskin glared.

  “You married?” Rick asked.

  Raskin let him go, nodded toward the door. “Get out of here, Evans. We’ll call you when we have something new.”

  The short nod Rick offered would have to be enough. He lowered his head and walked out the door. Once clear, he jogged to the van that was idling and waiting.

  Neil handed Rick a tactical weapon when he closed the door to the van. “They never left the building . . . not really.”

  The ten-mile high-speed drive back to Westwood was the longest in Rick’s life.

  “I need to pee.” The physical need outweighed the need for silence. The rats had lost interest after the flash of the camera scared them away.

  It appeared she woke Mitch with her words. “Think prisoners of war tell their captors of their bodily functions?”

  Judy did her best to keep a straight face. “There isn’t a war, Mitch. This is your idea of a good time. And I need to pee. Good news for you, a lack of food and water means I won’t have to again for a while.”

  Mitch grinned, lifted a bottle of water to his lips.

  Judy had long since lost the ability to salivate. Between the smoke from the building and the drugs still swimming in her system, she was as dry as they came.

  It didn’t seem like her words were doing anything for him. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the need.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She kept her eyes closed. “Trying to go with an audience. Haven’t done that since I was three.”

  He pushed against the wall, made his way to her side.

  She refused to look at him when he reached for her left hand, undid the knot tying her down.

  Biting her bottom lip, she refused to respond.

  First order of business, get out of the ropes, second was to go. She couldn’t remember ever having the need quite as keen, but it was there now.

  Mitch gripped her wrist before removing the rope on her right arm. Circulation made her arms tingle as he lowered them to her sides.

  “Fight me,” he said, “and I’ll cut you.”

  She felt a blade at her throat. He was going to cut her anyway . . . eventually.

  “I just need to go to the bathroom, Mitch.”

  Pulling both her arms, he shoved her to her feet, where she stumbled into him, felt his knife jab into her arm. The bite of the blade made her cry out and back away.

  Mitch wrapped one of her hands to a bare pipe several feet away from where she’d been for the past several hours.

  He took a step back, but never stopped watching her.

  “Go.”

  The need was so great, but his eyes never left her.

  “You’re watching.”

  He glared. “Get used to it. Mine is the last face you’ll see.”

  She understood that . . . if he had his way.

  Judy moved around the rusted old boiler and knelt in the corner. She thought of the trips up to the cabin . . . how camping and peeing in the forest were just a part of the experience.

  She missed the cabin . . . her family. Rick would love it up there . . . in the mountains above her childhood home.

  He was looking for her now. Probably beside himself trying to find her.

  Her family was worried, fearful they’d failed her in some way.

  She managed to empty her bladder and sat huddled in the corner long after she needed to.

  If she was ever going to see Rick . . . her family . . . again, she needed to be smarter than her captor.

  Mitch had a knife.

  “Knives are easier to outrun than a bullet.” Rick’s words swam in her head.

  Mitch was also crazy. Reasoning with crazy wouldn’t work. Observing the crazy’s actions, motivations, and intentions . . . that she could do.

  “You’re done,” he said while he took the few steps toward her that separated them.

  If she was going to act, do anything to save herself, it would have to be when her arms weren’t tied up. It would have to be when she wasn’t drugged . . . have to be before she was too weak to do anything.

  It was going to have to be now.

  She did her best to act resolved to him removing the tie on her arm and walking back to where she’d sat for the last twelve hours.

  Just when she thought there might be an out, Mitch surprised her. “Grab that bar,” he demanded.

  The bar he pointed to was above her head . . . nearly out of reach.

  “Why?”

  Mitch lost any patience he might have had. “Do it!” His voice boomed and echoed.

  She jumped, not sure if she should comply or fight.

  He moved closer and Judy grabbed for her tied-up hand. She had her cold fingers inside the rope but didn’t manage to do anything but scrape her fingers before Mitch was on her. Her kicks fell on air or his thick boots, which didn’t slow him down.

  She stopped when his knife scraped a line up her neck. Every sucked-in breath met the blade.

  “Grab the fucking bar, General.”

  The desire to fold in and protect her body made it nearly impossible to comply.

  He tilted the knife so only the tip sat at her neck. He pushed it in like a needle. His body pushed hers against the boiler, a valve shoved into her side.

  “You’re testing me.” He moved the blade, cut deeper.

  Judy closed her eyes and lifted her hand, gripping the bar.

  He secured the rope dangling from her wrist, tied her to the bar above her head. The blood that had managed to make its way to her fingertips fled. He moved her other hand next to the first. She was nearly on her tiptoes, dangling. She wasn’t sure what was going to give first, her wrists or her shoulders.

  Nothing Rick had taught her about protecting herself was going to work like this.

  “Now isn’t that better?” Mitch’s voice upped an octave. She realized then that he used the higher voice when he was delivering packages. His assertive voice was so much harsher. Still, she’d curse herself for the rest of her short life for not recognizing it. For not knowing he was the man who attacked her in the garage.

  Judy looked at her hands holding on to the bar. One slipped and she felt her muscles strain.

  “You don’t like it.” Mitch cocked his head to the side. “And here I thought you wouldn’t mind standing for a while. That floor is cold.”

  She was trying not to show her fear but knew she failed.

  He stood back and looked at her like she was a painting on a wall. From his pocket, he removed his phone and focused it on her. “How about a smile.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He winked. “Not yet . . . but soon.”

  She cringed.

  “Now smile.”

  She lost her grip on the bar and tried to catch hold again. Her toes pushed off the floor and she managed to grab the bar again.

  Mitch moved closer
. “Let me see if I can convince you to smile.”

  She focused on his knife as he moved it under her shirt and started to cut away at the buttons holding it together.

  She whimpered and he kept popping buttons until her torso was exposed to his eyes, his blade.

  “You ready to smile, General?”

  He stood back, lifted the phone again.

  Tears ran down her cheeks while she forced a smile.

  Light blinded her.

  He stood back and looked at the picture. “Now isn’t that better?” He twisted the phone for her to see it. The image didn’t even look like her anymore. Smudges of mascara streaked her cheeks, while the swelling and bruising of her jaw accompanied the drops of blood on her neck. Her hair was matted, her skin was pale, and she looked like a dangling carcass with a caricature smile.

  Mitch sat back, looking at pictures on his phone, then he stared at her, lost in his own thoughts.

  Every second felt like hours.

  She bent one knee, trying to find something behind her she could wedge against to relieve some of the pressure on her arms.

  The bar above her creaked and snapped Mitch out of his self-induced trance. “You can’t get away,” he told her.

  “I can’t feel my arms.”

  He puffed out his bottom lip like a two-year-old. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  The knife slid up her sleeve, exposing her arms. He looked at his earlier handiwork and traced the edges of her scar with his knife. She tried to pull away as he made sure she felt her arms.

  He laughed, and she screamed with every cut.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Neil and Rick sprang from the van before it rolled to a complete stop. Night vision goggles, heat-sensitive radar . . . they had what they needed to go in quietly and find their target. Good thing it was pitch-black outside or they would appear just as crazy as the guy who kidnapped Judy.

  They started in the garage, found the entry to the adjacent building, and easily disabled the lock. In single file, and without words, they moved down the short hall before they found the stairs leading down. A Do Not Enter sign was plastered over the door, but it was obvious the door had been used recently. Someone had actually oiled the hinges, making the door silent as it opened.

  Rick clicked on the night vision and the hall in front of him offered a green view of the empty basement. The sound of a fan blowing accompanied their footfalls. The first fork in the hall split them up. Without words, Neil took the right and Rick continued forward . . . closer to the noisy fan.

  A door on his left made him pause. The rusty lock and unoiled hinges had him moving on. The corridor veered left. Without a direction, he took it, found a storage room filled with old chairs, desks, and various office supplies. The space was dusty from its obvious lack of use. The only thing there was evidence of was rats in the corners.

  Back in the hall, he continued toward the fan.

  In his ear, Neil said, “Moving northeast.”

  “Copy.”

  Each step in the basement met with disappointment. If Judy wasn’t there, where was she?

  Rick pushed back the desperation inside him. C’mon, Judy.

  He rounded what looked like the end of the building. An arrow pointed to the boiler room.

  Judy’s piercing scream filled him with both dread and relief.

  He ran now, switching the safety off his rifle.

  Judy wasn’t sure if pure adrenaline or unadulterated fear gave her strength, but when Mitch started back at her with the knife, determined to hurt her even more, she gripped the bar over her head and bent her elbows like she did when she worked out.

  With bent knees, she connected with the man’s chest.

  He stumbled back and she kicked both feet toward his face with a scream.

  Mitch hit the floor, blood spilled on the side of his face.

  The pipe above her started to give with her weight and she tried to bounce the rust free.

  Mitch scrambled to his feet right as the bar gave way, dumping her on the ground.

  Blood rushed to her arms with pins and needles.

  A blurry mass rushed her, knocking her to the floor. “You’re going to regret that.” Mitch’s arms squeezed around her so hard she fought to breathe.

  “Let her go!”

  Judy almost didn’t recognize Rick’s voice.

  Suddenly, Mitch pulled her in front of him, dragged her to her feet, his knife at her throat. Her hands gripped his to prevent him from killing her.

  Rick had his weapon pointed directly at them, a lethal stare boring into the man holding her.

  “I’ll cut her.”

  Rick’s beautiful green eyes found hers. Her trust in him didn’t waver. “Shoot him,” she pleaded.

  Mitch pulled her closer, ducked behind her head.

  “Going to risk killing your own wife?” Mitch moved to the back of the room. She had no idea if there was an exit that way or not.

  Rick’s weapon traced their movement. His eyes moved from hers and pinned on Mitch.

  “Take the shot.”

  The tension in Mitch’s hand was so tight she knew she wouldn’t survive the cut. The knife drew blood.

  Noise behind Rick gave Mitch pause.

  Judy pulled his arm, prayed her strength would hold, and twisted her head so it wasn’t blocking his.

  Noise exploded inside the room. The man behind her fell to the ground, nearly dragging her with him.

  Judy stepped out of the mess and directly into Rick’s arms.

  Rick buried Judy’s head against his shoulder and held her.

  Behind him, Neil and Detective Raskin stepped closer. From the look of Mitch’s body, he’d suffered more than one bullet.

  Rick gently dislodged Judy from his shoulder and felt down both sides of her arms, her body. “Were you hit?”

  She looked down at her mess of clothes and shook her head. “No.”

  Thank God. He pulled her into him again and her arms gently wrapped around his waist.

  “We need an ambulance,” he heard Raskin say into his phone. “And the coroner.”

  Neil laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll call the family.”

  “Tell them I’m OK,” Judy whispered. “Just a few cuts.”

  Rick noticed more than a few. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  They walked toward the corridor. Detective Raskin shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to Rick to place over Judy’s shoulders. Without words, Rick led Judy out of the basement, half carrying her away from her prison.

  “All charges have officially been dropped.” Dean delivered the news Monday afternoon.

  Judy held Rick’s hand over the table and squeezed it hard. In the other rooms, her entire family moved about the Beverly Hills estate.

  Judy didn’t want to discuss the kidnapping, or the man responsible for it, in front of her parents. All of it had been traumatic enough . . . for all of them.

  “Do we know why he targeted me?”

  She and Rick had their theories, but nothing had been confirmed.

  Dean glanced at Rick, then to her. “How much of this do you want to hear?”

  “All of it,” she told him. “He can’t hurt me now.”

  No, Mitch Larson wouldn’t ever hurt anyone again.

  “I’m sure Rick told you about the pictures.” She couldn’t imagine her image all over the man’s home, even after Rick told her about them.

  “Yes.”

  Rick offered a smile of encouragement.

  “Along with the pictures were long-winded rambling narratives blaming you for his dishonorable discharge from the military.”

  “But—”

  Dean waved a hand in the air. “Of course you didn’t have anything to do with it. He also used your name and that of the female officer who his real grievance was with, interchangeably, in his letters. He had pages of notes from that online game. He had three accounts, including that of a woman you friended on Facebook.”


  Judy pictured the profiles in her head when Dean listed the names Mitch Larson had used. The dots connected and linked him directly to her.

  “So when I kicked his butt on the game, he found his target,” Judy concluded.

  “It appears that way.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. “How stupid and naive of me.”

  Rick brought their joined hands to his lips. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. But I made it easy for him.” She turned her attention to Dean. “How soon can I scrub my profiles from the Internet?”

  “Detective Raskin is working with the Internet department to back up the files for their use. Shouldn’t be but a couple more days.”

  “I want it all gone, everything I can get off the Internet. No more online games. Monopoly might be boring, but it’s safer.”

  Dean pushed away from the table, shook Rick’s hand. “If you need anything . . . you know where to find me.”

  Judy offered a hug. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Be safe,” he told her before he left the house.

  It took a month for her family to return to their normal lives. If it wasn’t for the promise of going to Utah for Thanksgiving and a week at Christmas, her parents wouldn’t have ever left.

  Judy met with Debra Miller after the family dispersed.

  They sat across Michael’s kitchen table, drinking coffee. “I’d like you to come back,” Debra told her.

  Judy smiled into her cup. “I don’t honestly know if I can.” She was stronger than she thought she’d be, but walking back into the office . . .

  Debra tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her cup. “I won’t pretend to understand how you feel. Get through the holidays before you give me your answer.”

  “I’m just an intern,” she reminded her. “You don’t have to feel any guilt about what happened.”

  Debra actually laughed. “I don’t. Misdirected guilt isn’t fueling this conversation, Judy. I like your designs . . . like your passion. José was promoted and we’re in need of someone to replace him, not to mention I’d like you around to help with the Santa Barbara project.”