Deadly Beginnings

by Jaycee Clark

  Ah, his room.

  Their room.

  A peace settled over him.

  So many memories . . .

  Curls of hair hung in a perfect row atop the mirror. He remembered each of them. Each one he’d had to let go because they didn’t suit. Their rings hung on small hooks with the hair. All of them were enclosed in a wooden box he’d hung on the wall. Yes, he’d want to take that with him.

  He looked around. This was where she was supposed to come. This was where he would have to punish her, but he couldn’t.

  Damn Kinncaid was ruining everything. Everything!

  He picked up a bottle of perfume and hurled it against the wall. It shattered and the room filled with the heady floral scent he’d gotten for Katherine. The white satin bedspread glowed in the light behind him.

  He passed the bed, went to the closet he’d built and opened it. New clothes for Katherine.

  The white wedding gown was in the plastic bag. He’d had it hanging in their room, but he’d moved it down here when she’d run off without a word.

  He unzipped the bag and pulled the dress out, hanging it on the front of the closet door. He leaned down and grabbed the shoebox. White satin pumps, with lace, perfect for the dress.

  Of course a bouquet would be missing, but that was expected.

  He wanted it perfect for them. He really should just grab the things and go.

  Or did he have to?

  Maybe he should just bring her down here, lock the door, push the bookcase into place. He could come and go as he wanted or needed.

  And if he were caught, then he’d have a bargaining tool.

  If she were left alone too long down here, she’d die.

  But if he ran, with her, with their things, then he could take her to the cottage. No one knew of it. No one.

  Yes, it was the smarter way to go.

  He sighed and looked around the room. The carpets needed cleaning. The vanity needed dusting.

  At least the cottage was clean when he left it two days ago.

  The problem would be containing her there. There were neighbors, and he’d already learned the older couple went for walks every morning right by his place on their way to the beach.

  What if she did something to draw their attention? Or screamed and they heard?

  He would cross that bridge when or if it became an issue.

  There wasn’t much time. He needed to hurry.

  But he wanted her here. Here where the others had been. Here where things were . . . were . . . the way he liked them.

  The cottage had so many unknowns.

  But the police were already looking for him. It would not take them long to come look here.

  He put the dress back in the garment bag, settled the shoes in the bottom. He was reaching for the white lingerie when a noise scraped from somewhere.

  He stilled.

  Had they already found him?

  • • •

  Jock Kinncaid zoomed through the residential areas of Baltimore until he reached the more stately homes. He knew which one was the bastard’s. He’d already been here.

  He slid the car into the driveway and looked around.

  An unmarked car pulled up to the curb and two men got out.

  “Can I help you?” one of them asked, pushing his jacket back to show his gun.

  Jock really didn’t have time for this. “Yeah, get on your radio and let the chief know Kinncaid’s here and I’m not fucking waiting.”

  They looked at each other, then at him. “The chief?”

  “Of police. He’s an old friend.”

  Another car turned the corner and pulled to a stop. The chief unfolded his tall frame from the passenger side and shook his head. “You always were a damned hothead.”

  “He. Has. Her.”

  “Jock.”

  “I’m not waiting,” he said again and jogged up the front steps.

  When they’d been here before, he’d taken a set of keys—three—off the peg near the back door and made a set. Then on one of his drives up here, he’d tried the door and realized he’d been right. They opened the front and back doors, and the garage.

  “Jock. You can’t just—”

  Jock turned. “Oh, but I can. I own this house now. Bought it from the bank, so when the bastard came back I could throw his ass out.”

  “And you made certain he wouldn’t work anywhere in Baltimore again,” the chief said. “He’s dangerous.”

  Jock unlocked the door and pushed it open, going inside.

  The house was quiet. Eerily so. Not like it had been the first time he’d come, or the second to replace the keys. No, now it was like someone holding their breath.

  “No one has seen him come in. The driveway and garage are empty.”

  “So? He could park somewhere else.”

  “And drag a woman here?” one of the cops who’d followed them in asked.

  Jock looked him up and down. “You are?”

  “Detective Andrews.”

  “Well, Detective, did you and your partner pay enough attention to know who drives what?”

  The detectives narrowed their gazes on him.

  “Kinncaid.”

  He held his hand up. “No. She’s mine. I’m not sitting back and waiting. As this is my house, we’re not breaking any laws. I give you full right to search away.” The chief held his gaze and finally jerked his head.

  “You bought this house?” the man asked him again.

  “Yes.” Jock took the stairs two at a time just as someone slammed a door in one of the downstairs areas.

  No one was in the master bedroom. Or the bath, the closets. He checked under the beds, looked in the shower stalls of the bathrooms.

  Nothing.

  Nothing and no one.

  Where the hell was she? Where had Goldburg taken her?

  If he was a bad guy and he’d stolen a woman, what part of a house would he take her to?

  The basement.

  Jock turned and ran down the hallway, down the stairs, and skidded across the entryway.

  “Nothing here,” one of the detectives said.

  Jock ignored them and went back to the kitchen and the basement door. It was unlocked. The padlock on the outside had been locked before, but now it wasn’t.

  He opened it and went down.

  The stairs groaned under his weight, but he didn’t care. He skipped the last two and landed on the stone floor. A line of bare bulbs ran the length of the room. A washer. A dryer. Boxes. File cabinets. A worktable and tools on the wall. A bookcase at the end of the basement.

  “See, nothing here,” the cop said again.

  Jock stood in the middle of the room, paced one way and down the others. At the worktable, he grabbed a wrench off the peg board and threw it across the room, growling.

  “Jock, calm down,” the chief told him. “We’ll find her.”

  He looked up, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Where was she? Where was the doctor? What was he doing to her? It had taken so long for the swelling to go down, for the bruises to fade from her pale ivory skin. Jock opened his eyes again, counted the beams on the ceiling to give him something . . . Wait.

  He looked at the dimensions.

  He knew architecture. Knew how things were built. He built hotels for God’s sake.

  “The room’s off.”

  “What?”

  The other cops had gone back upstairs. Only the chief was down there with him.

  He pointed up. “That’s half the kitchen area and maybe the hallway. I know the basement runs to the front of the house. There are small low-level windows along the flower beds. The steps we came up at the front to make it all even. Small front windows marking each side of the five steps.

  He looked again at the room. Counted the windows.

  Not enough. He looked upstairs. “Can your guys count the windows along the walkway?”

  Chief looked at him, looked at the windows, looked at the far wall with the peg board and b
ookcase.

  He sighed and started up the stairs.

  Jock walked closer to the worktable and peg board. This whole wall was wrong. The brickwork was different than the long walls. He was leaning over when something scraped on stone. He turned as the bookcase slowly slid open like a door.

  Jock eased closer to it until he was practically touching it with his shoulder.

  A man stepped out. A man with blond hair.

  Someone yelled, and as Jock gripped the man’s shoulder and turned him around, he realized it was him.

  Landon Goldburg III.

  “Where is she?” Jock hit him, kept his hand fisted on the bastard’s shirt and hit him again.

  He glanced beyond the bookcase’s doorway into the secret empty room. A room with a white bed. A garment bag with white satin spilling out.

  “She’s mine,” the guy said, jerking his attention back.

  “Kaitlyn!” he yelled, but didn’t let the bastard go. “Kaitie!”

  He whirled back and hit the doctor again. And again. “Where.” Hit. “Is.” Hit. “She!” he growled in the man’s face.

  Dark, empty black eyes stared back at him. “If I can’t have her, no one will.” Then he grinned.

  Jock didn’t remember wrapping his large hand around the bastard’s skinny throat. He hit him. Again and again. Face. Ribs. Kidneys. Ribs. He hit him until someone slammed Jock on the head.

  “Jock. Damn it, man! You’re killing him. Let go!” The chief’s words filtered through. “Let him go! Jock!”

  Jock dropped the man, though he squatted beside him, breathing hard. One of the bastard’s eyes was starting to swell. Good.

  “Where is she?” he asked softly and leaned down so he pressed on the guy’s ribs.

  “Jock. Step back.”

  “Where. Is. She?” He bit out each word.

  The doctor’s dark eyes locked on his and he smiled. “She’s mine. You won’t find her.”

  Jock hit him. Since the guy was lying on the floor, his head slammed into the stone and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Damn it all to bloody hell, man. How are we supposed to find out a bleeding thing if you’ve gone and knocked the bastard cold?” the chief yelled. He pulled Jock to his feet and kept on. “You assaulted the man, Jock! You could have killed him and—”

  Jock didn’t listen to the rest. He tuned him out, brushed him off and stumbled into the room. White.

  White curtains on the boarded windows, painted to look like scenes.

  White bedspread. White rugs. White pillows on the rocker. A white frame on the vanity.

  One of the detectives went to the closet and peered in. White dresses, gowns, robes, suits hung on padded hangers. Shoes marched in rows across the top shelf.

  On the bed lay the garment bag. The tag in it read: Katherine’s dress.

  Jock took a deep breath and looked to the side.

  White lingerie.

  Bastard. But she wasn’t here.

  Wasn’t here dressed as a bride in hell. After this, when he found her, and he damned well would, he was going to tell her she wasn’t wearing a white gown to their wedding. Any color but white.

  The policeman nudged a wooden box. The frame and back was mahogany. The glass was fingerprint-free.

  Six curls of hair were looped and stuck to the back of the box. Above each curl was a jeweled ring hung on a small hook.

  “Hell,” the detective said. He looked at the box, looked at Jock. “You know what this is?”

  “Something tells me it isn’t a scrapbook.”

  The detective shook his head. “Might as well be. Wonder who they are?”

  Jock didn’t know, and right now he didn’t care. She wasn’t here.

  She wasn’t in this room, thank Christ.

  Kaitie wasn’t in the house.

  “How did he get here?” he asked.

  “We didn’t see him drive up,” Detective Andrews told him.

  He motioned to all the stuff on the bed. The bag was opened, partially zipped, with the shoe box in the bottom, a dresser drawer not all the way shut.

  “He was packing.”

  The detective looked at the clothes, at the closet, at the door and nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Jock checked his watch. He’d broken every speeding law created. “He couldn’t have had time to take her anywhere. Not really. He was here packing. So the car he was in, the car he left her in has to be close, right?”

  The detective looked at him, seemed to think about it and nodded again. “We kept in radio contact with the state boy giving chase, the city cops when they crossed over, though the state boy stayed with them. You’re right, doubtful he had time to change cars. Though not impossible. Just unlikely.”

  Jock ran from the room, passed the other detective, who was talking to a patrolman and the chief.

  The latter followed Jock and Andrews up and into the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” the chief asked.

  Jock didn’t wait to answer and left that with Andrews. He heard more sirens. But he didn’t care. He took off down the street and noticed Andrews across the street doing the same. Driveways were still empty for the most part. One woman was unloading kids from her car and waved at them. She was on Andrews’s side, so the cop stopped to talk to her. He walked five blocks, then made his way back, checking the side streets.

  Where was Kaitlyn?

  Chapter 11

  Noises filtered through and Kaitlyn tried to concentrate, but things were fuzzy, fuzzy and warbled.

  She closed her eyes, opened them again, but it was still dark. Sort of. Dark and smelly.

  Where was she? She took a careful breath. Musk. Dust. Old papers. Rubber. Fuel.

  Where was she? She tried to roll over but realized she was cramped. Kaitlyn sat up and hit her head on something . . .

  Rubbing it, she tried to think. Why couldn’t she think?

  What was the last thing she remembered?

  She remembered saying bye to Pat, remembered seeing Nathaniel against the black Caddy. She was going on a date tonight with Jock. A date. With Jock.

  Nathaniel.

  And Landon’s voice in her ear, his arm tight around her chest pulling her back. The sting in her neck.

  “Oh, God.”

  Memories tumbled and slammed in her mind. He’d taken her. She had a vague memory of falling, of lying on a seat.

  Where was she?

  She put her hands out, up, and realized there was a top. Frantically she ran her hands along the sides and realized one side was closer than the other.

  “Think. Do not panic. Stop. Take a deep breath, Kaitlyn, m’girl,” she muttered in Grammy’s accent. “Think.”

  Had he put her in a coffin?

  No. No, she realized. The sides were too far for a casket, thank God.

  Rubber. She smelled rubber and the faint scent of gasoline.

  “Okay. Think this through logically. He kidnapped you.” She rubbed the side of her neck and suddenly remembered the police.

  Nathaniel saw what happened. He’d let Jock know and hopefully the police would come soon. Surely they’d been followed.

  So where was she now? Kaitlyn turned and looked, scooted and realized she could faintly make out the lid of the trunk. Light. A faint light.

  She turned her head until she could see the red glow of the taillight down near the floor of the trunk.

  Kaitlyn could not believe the bastard had put her in the trunk!

  A line of round red lights went from one side of the car to the other.

  She turned on her side to see better, even if that made the space seem more cramped. Okay, maybe she could get the taillights out?

  Or she could try yelling.

  “Help! Help!” she yelled, kicking the roof of the trunk. “Let me out! I’m in here!”

  She waited but no one heard her. She listened but there was nothing. No sounds of traffic. She thought she heard a dog bark but wasn’t sure.

  Kai
tlyn felt around the floor of the trunk.

  At least it was clean. She frowned. This was not Landon’s car. His car was a Mercedes. She had no idea what this one was, but she knew it wasn’t his.

  Who had her?

  It had been Landon’s voice, and did it even matter? Right now she needed to focus on getting out of here.

  She felt a tire. A tire.

  There would be a jack, or a tire iron. Or . . .

  A long metal stick?

  She grabbed it and pulled it close to her face. A screwdriver. Okay. And then she found the tire iron. Was the tire bolted down? She squirmed over to it and shoved the tire. It moved.

  Perfect.

  There should be a jack and she could always push the lid of the trunk up.

  She shivered.

  It was November and the days were shorter, the temperatures dropping faster. She pulled her sweater closer to her as she felt around and didn’t find the jack. She shoved the tire again and it scooched up and stopped, she assumed against the back of the backseat.

  Feeling under the edge of it, she realized there was a space for a jack but no jack.

  Where the hell was the jack? Didn’t all cars have them? Granted, she’d never actually owned a car, but she remembered her father teaching her how to change a tire. The jack was supposed to be with the tire.

  She huffed out a breath and laid back down, her eyes better adjusted.

  A siren screamed by and parked somewhere near.

  The sound continued.

  She beat again on the trunk lid, kicked it with her feet and yelled.

  Not that anyone heard her. The stupid siren continued to whine and it wasn’t helping her.

  Damn it!

  Where was Jock when she needed him?

  Riding to the rescue, she was sure.

  He’d come for her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to be sitting on top of the trunk rather than in it.

  Feeling around for the screwdriver, she realized it would be a great weapon if Dr. Dick came back for her.

  She wanted out of here. Wanted Jock. Wanted to be at the hotel.

  And she was hungry.

  “Focus.” She took the screwdriver and jammed it against the light, through the round hole. Again and again she beat at the stupid thing until finally she heard it crack.