by Mari Carr
“You remember that,” she said neutrally.
He preened, as if her words had been a compliment. “Of course I do.”
“But,” she said softly. “I didn’t actually enjoy it. Too small. Too enclosed.”
His frown deepened. “I bought this for you.”
“I understand that,” she murmured, internally wincing. So his desire to please her was, and would be, rooted in his expectations of her needs, not in what she actually said.
He shook his head. “You’ll love it, Anna. You will.”
A pet name. An intimacy that no doubt made sense to him because it was appropriate in his version of reality.
Annalise slowly and deliberately shook her head, making sure the movement didn’t seem panicked.
His expression darkened, and her stalker’s hand shot out, closing tightly around her upper arm. He jerked her forward, her shins cracking against the metal step just below the door opening. Annalise cursed in pain, and he yanked on her arm so hard that her shoulder joint started to throb.
“Inside. You will love it,” he declared.
One of her side duties at the Kripo was to work with the Polizei on outreach. Mostly she’d written scripts and pamphlets the officers could use when talking about crime prevention to community groups. One of the things she’d written had been a script officers used when speaking at schools, where one of the main points the officers had hoped to drive home was never get into a stranger’s car. No matter what they said, never get in the car.
The script for the children hadn’t included the statistics. Hadn’t told them they were far more likely to be kidnapped by a family member than a stranger. Hadn’t told them that if they got into a vehicle, the chances of being found decreased dramatically.
Never get in a stranger’s car. Too late on that one. But the sentiment still applied.
Never get into a stranger’s caravan.
Especially if you know that the stranger is very dangerous.
“I would prefer to stay out here, in the sunshine and fresh air, and talk.” Annalise knew it was probably futile. Her words were slightly breathless, thanks to a combination of panic and pain.
“No, I got this for you. It’s nice. We are going inside.” His voice was rough with anger.
The stalker hauled up on her arm, and Annalise reluctantly stepped into the trailer. It was either that or run. It was safer, and smarter, to do her best to keep him calm.
Once inside the caravan, which smelled new, he directed her toward a small built-in bench. There was enough light coming from outside that she could see the L-shaped bench, with its artfully arranged pillows, with a small dining table in front of it.
The daylight also glinted off the chain and single handcuff coiled on the table.
Annalise panicked, backpedaling. She knocked into her stalker and he teetered in the open doorway. If she was lucky, he’d fall hard enough to be knocked senseless and give her a chance to escape.
But she wasn’t lucky, or maybe he was too focused, too prepared. He caught himself on the doorframe and then shoved her forward. Annalise stumbled into the table, winding herself when her lower abdomen hit the edge.
He shoved her sideways, sending her sprawling on the bench. Then one of her arms was jerked up and back. A click and the cold metal of a handcuff encircled her wrist.
The caravan door closed, sealing them together in utter darkness.
Annalise had never felt so small, so scared.
There was no steel door, no Jakob.
No hope.
All she had was herself…and a doctorate in abnormal psychology.
Annalise forced herself to sit up, then cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was calm. “Could you turn on a light, please?”
A moment later, lights clicked on. The small camper was elegant inside, with polished wood compartments and recessed lighting. There was a double bed at the back, which she ignored, even as dread and fear formed a tight ball in her gut.
Annalise tugged her shirt down so the front was smooth, brushed back her hair, and dropped the wrist bearing the cuff onto her lap, out of sight. As she moved, the chain slid from the table top, falling onto her lap and to the floor, pooling around the base of the metal table leg to which it was attached.
With no outward signs of either fear or her captive status, Annalise looked at her stalker.
The rage and aggression he’d displayed outside retreated, leaving him looking a little nervous.
“This is quite lovely.” She gestured around with her free hand. “How did you select this particular model of caravan?”
“Oh, um, I thought you would like the wood details.” He smiled, seemingly pleased to be discussing his choices. “And I wanted to make sure we had some place to cook and to eat.” He turned toward the bed, and her stomach lurched. “Those fold up into a couch and a desk. I knew you’d want to be able to work.”
“Can you show me the desk?” Annalise asked, forcing mild curiosity into her voice.
“Of course, Anna. Of course.”
While her stalker went to fold up and stow the bed—which proved to be two single beds, allowing it to essentially split in half for storage—Annalise forced herself to take calming breaths and then to assess the behaviors he’d just displayed.
She was about to use her knowledge and skills to manipulate, and possibly mentally harm, this man. It went against both professional ethical principles and her own personal ethics. She would do this man harm, and since, unlike Jakob, she couldn’t harm him physically, she’d do it mentally.
And she just had to hope that whatever she did would be enough to give Jakob and Walt time to find her.
Vadisk was driving, and they were all going to die. Walt braced his back against one rear door, his foot on the other, and held on for dear life. Jakob—still in talky mode—was in the front passenger seat and had only stopped talking so they could hear the directions being called out by a man named Dimitri, who had a slight Ukrainian accent, his voice coming through the car’s speakers.
Dimitri was, apparently, someone of considerable power and authority—Vadisk called him “sir”—who also had access to every security camera in and around Krakow.
“No, he did take that exit. Go back,” Dimitri said.
Vadisk screeched to a halt. “Check,” he barked at Jakob.
Jakob swiveled, put a hand on Walt’s head, pushed him down, and looked out the back window. “Go,” Jakob commanded.
Vadisk threw the car into reverse and hit the gas. Walt thought it might be a good time to switch from agnostic back to the God-fearing Methodist his mama had raised him to be. He needed Jesus to take the wheel from Vadisk.
There were some honks and the car lurched to a stop, then shot forward again, taking a curve so fast, the G-forces pushed Walt even harder against the door.
“What else do we know about him?” Jakob asked, his voice calm, and maybe even a little chipper.
“Axel Richen. Age twenty-nine. German national with no living relatives. Software developer,” Dimitri said.
They knew that much already—Vadisk had read out stats as they raced from the hotel room to his car.
“No known connection to Dr. Fischer,” Dimitri continued.
“There wouldn’t be. Annalise didn’t have any exes who fit the profile of a rejected stalker subtype, and we looked at other associates.”
Walt raised his head enough to look at Jakob.
“I tried to find him,” Jakob said. “We looked at everyone she knew.”
“She worked for the police,” Vadisk said. “Revenge?”
“That would be the resentful subtype, and we looked into that too. I went through every case she worked on.”
Vadisk looked over at Jakob. “You went through every single casefile and checked out each man who might want revenge on her?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dedication.” Vadisk sounded shocked.
“I love her,” Jakob declared softly. “I
would have killed each possible suspect on the off chance it would keep her safe. If my imprisonment wouldn’t have also meant leaving her unprotected, of course.”
“No killing. Killing bad,” Walt said.
Vadisk, Jakob, and Dimitri all laughed.
Well, that was really fucking scary…
“He’s headed out of the city. Toward an undeveloped area,” Dimitri said. “We have the car on a highway camera about ten kilometers in front of you. There isn’t going to be much after this.”
“Keep looking,” Jakob demanded.
“I’m not going to take offense at that,” Dimitri said mildly.
“Faster,” Jakob demanded of Vadisk. “The longer he has her…”
Walt’s stomach sank. She’d already been gone nearly two hours. He couldn’t think about what Annalise might be going through right now. If he did, he’d start sobbing or raging, and neither reaction was helpful.
Vadisk put his foot down, and the car picked up speed.
Chapter Thirteen
Annalise set down the cup of coffee, smiling at the man. “Just the way I like it.”
He grinned, looking relieved. “I’ve been practicing.”
The man vacillated between angry and sweetly uncertain. Those seemingly disparate reactions, paired with the relatively stable fantasy reality he’d built for himself, were making her attempts at on-the-fly diagnoses difficult.
There were five types of stalkers. Rejected were people who stalked their exes; resentful, those who usually sought revenge for a perceived wrong. Neither was applicable to this situation. Though it was entirely possible she’d done or said something that he perceived as worthy of revenge, his behavior didn’t fit with the psychopathy of someone who felt humiliated.
Predatory stalking usually involved sexual fantasies. Given what he’d done to her sister, that would make sense, but predatory stalkers rarely fantasized about relationships with their victims, and it was very clear that he either wanted, or already believed they were in, a relationship. Of course, the sexual component couldn’t be discounted.
That left the incompetent stalker and the intimacy seeker. Of those two, he fit most of the markers for intimacy seeker—belief in a relationship with a complete stranger, a delusion that the feelings were reciprocated.
Intimacy seeker with predatory elements would have to do for her quick-and-dirty diagnosis. A clinical way of saying he’d created a delusion-based fantasy relationship with a complete stranger, but also showed paraphilia centered around abnormal control and authority over that person.
An incredibly dangerous combination.
She’d decided to try and figure him out so she could manipulate him. Use her knowledge and skills as a weapon. The only weapon she had, considering she was chained to the table. However, there was a great deal to be said for ignorance being bliss. She might have been happier not having a preliminary diagnosis that made it clear exactly how dangerous he was.
Given her analysis, there was no denying this man was capable of doing horrific things. Her sister’s face as she lay in the hospital bed the morning after her rape flashed in Annalise’s mind. In the past, those memories haunted her so badly, she’d failed, lost her dream job, let it shake her confidence right off the foundations until there was nothing left but a pile of dust.
But not today.
Today, she would seek to find justice.
For Adele.
For herself.
Annalise took another sip of coffee, considering what she should say next. Indulging his delusion was dangerous, and not something she would ever normally do, but it might buy her the time she needed. Then again, if she didn’t behave exactly the way he expected, thereby breaking or ruining his fantasy, he might lash out.
And the one thing she wanted to do, and absolutely could not, was ask him his name.
After all, if they were in a relationship as he believed, she would know his name. Asking would break his fantasy.
Given all those factors, her best option was to…
Annalise sucked in a deep breath, steadied herself, and grabbed hold of every last ounce of courage she had. She was going to challenge his delusion that he was “caring” and “cared for” her, without outright confronting him with reality.
Annalise dipped her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face, hide that she was looking at him. “Why did you send me the flying bugs?” she asked softly. “It was very scary. I was really afraid.”
He jerked, as if she’d poked him. His mouth opened and closed, two lines appearing between his brows. For the first time, he turned away, no longer staring at her with an intensity that made her hindbrain nervous.
He turned his back to her, opening the small refrigerator. “I have your favorite cheese. Crackers. Dried fruit.”
Annalise often made a meal out of a simple charcuterie platter. Her stomach knotted that he knew that even though it wasn’t a surprise.
She watched him fumble for a few minutes, getting things out of the refrigerator, and then setting everything on a small cutting board. He brought it over, placing it in front of her expectantly. Annalise was nervous about eating any of it. Though the cheese was still wrapped up in what looked like its original wrapping, it was a soft cheese, and maybe he could have injected something into it, through the packaging. Same with the dried fruit. She took a cracker, carefully taking a small bite. He smiled, relaxing.
“Why did you choose a caravan?” she asked, keeping her focus on the tray, as if she were just making conversation. He hadn’t been able to engage with a direct question, so she’d have to try to work her way around to it.
“You had one, growing up.”
“Yes, but I also had a house. You chose something portable.”
“To keep you safe.”
Annalise folded her hands, looking up. “Am I in danger?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
He pushed to his feet. “I have wine too.” He took her coffee cup, tipping it into the sink.
“No, thank you.”
“I got it for you.”
“I understand that, but right now I’m nervous. Will you tell me why I’m in danger?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, setting it on the small counter. But he didn’t move to open it.
“This must have been very expensive,” she said. “The caravan. The cars.”
He relaxed, opened a cupboard for a corkscrew. “I’m rich. Very successful. I could have anyone I want.”
“But you want me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked mildly.
“Why?”
She wanted, oh God, she wanted to say, “Why me? Why are you doing this? Did we meet? Do I know you? Please say something that will make everything make sense.” Instead, she said, “Women like to know what men appreciate about them.”
He frowned down at the corkscrew in his hand. “I know what women want.”
She was on dangerous ground. Rather than risk saying anything else, she picked up another cracker. Her mouth was dry from the last one, so instead of eating it, she broke it in half.
“I could have any woman I want. But I want you. Not just because of how you look.” He rushed to add, then smiled as if he were proud of himself for not being shallow. “You’re cerebral, like me.”
She was many things but “cerebral” wasn’t one of them, though the term was amusing, given what she did. What Annalise was, was determined, hardworking, and, in many ways, insightful. But something about her made him identify her as “cerebral”—an odd and specific choice of words.
Or maybe after he’d focused on her, selected her as his victim, he’d decided that the object of his affections had to be extraordinary, according to his own definition and terminology. “You’re cerebral too, of course. Tell me about work.” She hoped she’d phrased that generically enough.
He set down the corkscrew, running his fingers up
and down the bottle of wine. “I don’t want to talk about me.”
“Well, I think we should. I’d like to talk about you.” Her tone was a little too clinical, too much like a therapist, and she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. She saw his shoulders tense, and his hand tightened around the bottle. “Where did you buy the camper?” she rushed to ask. “Here, or in Frankfurt?”
For a minute, she thought she’d managed to distract him, but the tension was still in the lines of his body. “I knew you might do this,” he murmured. “But I’m not like them.”
“Of course not,” she soothed. Them could be anyone from the people she’d helped the police hunt to other men in general. Who exactly they were didn’t matter as much as assuring him she agreed with his distinction between himself and those who were “other”.
“You’re in danger, and I’m protecting you.” He said the words steadily and calmly. They had the tone and cadence of words often repeated, almost a mantra.
Had there been a slight stress on the word “I’m”?
“And I need protecting,” she said, neither question nor statement but an ambiguous place in between.
“You do. You might not see it, but I do. The people you try to find, they’re too dangerous. One of them will want to find you. Hurt you.”
One like him?
Anger welled in her, and though she knew better, though her control should be better, Annalise raised her chin, her soothing tone becoming accusatory. “Yes, I am in danger. Some coward broke into my house one night and attacked my sister.”
“Coward?” He whirled, wine bottle in hand, eyes narrowing. “She was in your house, pretending to be you.”
“She was welcome in my home,” Annalise snapped, ignoring the way his body language had changed from tentative and unsure to aggressive. “She was invited. She has a place in my life.”
She saw the words hurt him, knew she had wounded him by highlighting a reality—in which he was unknown and unwelcome—that was so different from his delusion.