“What’s going on? What happened to me?” she demanded, her throat burning with the need for water.
When the woman was done with the straps on Izzy’s legs, she disappeared from the room, leaving Izzy alone with the doctor.
“Why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling right now, Miss Gillmore,” he suggested, the patronizing smile never leaving his face.
“How do I feel?” her eyes narrowed. She was about to say more, when the woman, whom she was now assuming was a nurse, returned with a large plastic cup of water that had a pink lid on it and a bendable straw sticking out of the top. Izzy reached for it with her good hand and the nurse blocked her from grabbing the cup.
“It’s okay, I’ll hold it for you,” she directed, without the hint of a smile.
Her thirst overriding her indignation, a bewildered Izzy did as she was told and drank deeply of the ice-cold water. The icy liquid was a soothing balm to her parched throat, and when she’d had her fill and thanked the nurse, she turned her attention back to the doctor, who gazed at her expectantly.
“How do I feel?” she asked, sounding much stronger. “How do you think I feel? I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here, and this whole situation is freaking me out. You need to tell me what’s going on here,” she demanded.
“Your mind may be playing some tricks with your memory at the moment, and that’s completely normal under the circumstances,” the doctor replied in a voice that was meant to soothe, but was grating on Izzy’s last nerve. “What is it that’s going on in your life that brought you to this point, Miss Gillmore?”
“This point in my life? I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know what, it doesn’t even matter. I don’t care why I’m here, because I’m not going to stay. I’m leaving,” she said, throwing the covers back to reveal that she was dressed only in a thin mint green hospital gown with the letters WMHC displayed boldly across the front.
The nurse stepped forward, ready to restrain her again if necessary and the doctor held up a hand.
“Miss Gillmore, you are not going to be leaving this facility until we are quite certain that you will not be making another attempt at ending your life,” he decreed, the smile finally being replaced with a stern look.
“An attempt— what???” Izzy was aghast. “I would never— what on earth are you talking about?” she asked, panic fluttering in her chest.
“You were found in your hotel, with you left wrist cut. You’d lost so much blood that it’s a miracle that you survived, but you were able to be saved, and we’re not letting you out of our sight until we’re certain that you’re not going to engage in that sort of behavior again. You have value, Miss Gillmore, your life counts…” the doctor tried to reassure her.
“The hotel…” she murmured, her eyes growing wide. “He tried to kill me,” she whispered.
The doctor and nurse exchanged a very skeptical look.
“Look, Miss Gillmore, it’s very typical for someone in your frame of mind to try to assign blame in a delusional scenario…”
“Oh, stuff your delusional scenario,” Izzy interrupted, furious. “I’m not crazy and I didn’t try to kill myself. It was the bellman from the elevator. He came into my room and attacked me. Don’t you get it? I didn’t do this to myself, he did this!” she exclaimed, memories flooding through her mind.
The doctor nodded to the nurse nearly imperceptibly, and continued to focus on Izzy, who was becoming more agitated by the moment.
“Now, Miss Gillmore, I’m sure that the scenario seems very real to you at the moment, but we need to get to the feelings that are causing—” he began again, in a soft, sing-song voice.
“They don’t seem real, they are real,” she protested, reaching for the IV needle in her foot. She felt a piercing pain in her neck and suddenly lost the strength and will to resist. The room swayed a bit, and the bright light seemed to close in on her. “It’s real,” she slurred, fading away. “It’s real…”
The nurse capped the syringe and placed it in the hazardous waste container.
“Let me know when it wears off,” the doctor ordered, heading for the door.
“Yes sir,” the woman in lavender replied, snapping off her gloves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Spencer awoke on the dungeon floor, feeling like he had one heck of a hangover, he could hear someone breathing nearby. The speed and depth of the breaths indicated that the person was awake, rather than asleep, which most likely meant that someone was guarding him. He tried to pinpoint just how close his captor was, and came to the conclusion that the guard was too far away for him to ambush. It was time to confront the earl and get himself out of this predicament. Every day that he lay here, helpless, on the stone, was a day that Chas was potentially in danger, and it was the Marine’s job to protect the Beckett heir at all costs.
He feigned a groan to let his captor know that he was awake, and opened his eyes, not surprised in the least that when he did so, he saw Wendell Shropshire’s manservant, Kosta, sitting in a folding chair across the room, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Have a nice nap?” he smirked.
Spencer stared at him, the gag preventing him from speaking.
“Don’t even think of trying anything,” the servant warned. “It will not go well for you.”
Kosta was clearly relishing having the upper hand.
“I’m feeling generous today, you filthy American. I’ll let you have some water, if you promise to behave yourself.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow, and the large man lumbered over and untied the gag. There was an opportunity just then for him to attack his captor by swinging his feet up and over his head and wrapping them around Kosta’s neck to subdue him, but he wanted the servant to relax and become careless, so he continued to bide his time.
The Marine knew better than to even attempt to speak until he’d had some water. The gag had sapped him of every ounce of moisture in his mouth, and his throat felt as though it had glass in it. Kosta ambled over to a cooler which sat beside his folding chair, and extracted a bottle of water from the ice-filled interior. Opening it slowly, and taking his time walking back to where Spencer lay immobile, he stood over the Marine, glaring.
“I could just let you die…” he pursed his lips as though seriously considering the matter. “But that would make things more complicated. So, for now, you get to live,” and with that, he poured the water directly into Spencer’s face.
Using some of the tips that he’d learned for underwater survival, the quick thinking Marine held his breath. He could feel the water entering his nose, trickling into his sinuses, and concentrated on not coughing, though the impulse was strong. He held his mouth open wide, his tongue blocking his throat temporarily, forming a reservoir, and captured a good deal of the flow. When the small bottle was emptied, Spencer calmly swallowed the water that was in his mouth, taking it slowly, so as not to choke. The relief was unimaginable.
“Think you’re clever, huh, American?” Kosta growled. “Next time you’ll drown.”
“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” Spencer asked dryly.
His captor snickered.
“You’re awfully confident for a man who doesn’t have a whole lot of options,” he glanced pointedly at the Marine’s bound hands and feet.
“There are always options,” was the mild reply.
“And you are one of mine,” the servant’s tone was ominous.
***
The parts of Chas’s boyhood home that were open to the public looked almost exactly the same as they had when he lived there. Chalmers had turned the estate into a museum, but there were still private quarters that were closed to the public, and while the furnishings and artwork were the same in the private spaces, there had been major changes in the home in regard to security. Mahogany panels covered impenetrable steel doors which were opened by a thumbprint reader to the left of each door. There were hidden entrances and access elevators to an u
nderground complex that Chas hadn’t even known existed until someone had made an attempt on Chalmers’ life a few weeks ago. The whole setup made him realize that there was far more to Beckett Holdings Corp. than he had imagined, and made him even more glad that he’d been entirely ignorant of that fact for quite some time.
Throughout the palatial home were clean-cut, athletic looking men and women in expensive suits, wearing earpieces and computer watches. Each one of them nodded deferentially to Chas as he passed by. Though he’d never seen any of them, they all seemed to know exactly who he was, and he found that a bit unnerving. There must be a reason for all of this over-the-top security, and he fully intended to find out what it was.
“Master Charles,” Chalmers greeted him affectionately in the hallway outside his quarters, taking Chas’s hand in both of his.
“Chalmers, it’s so good to see you,” he smiled, then sobered. “I only wish that it could’ve been under better circumstances.”
“Indeed, sir,” the elderly man agreed, turning and leading him to his study.
“Spencer is here somewhere, isn’t he?” the detective asked, taking a seat in the parlor, where a snack tray and a pitcher of lemonade waited.
The old man’s demeanor changed in an instant. His smile disappeared and his shoulders seemed to slump.
“I wish he were, sir,” Chalmers sighed. “He went on assignment and hasn’t checked in for a few days. It’s most unusual behavior for him. He’s always precisely on schedule, no matter what happens.”
Chas sat forward in his chair and looked at the servant intently.
“Chalmers, is Spencer in trouble?”
“I really don’t know, sir. But I’m taking measures to find out, of that you can be sure.”
“Where is he?”
“Sir— I really…” Chalmers began to protest.
“Chalmers, that young man has saved my life and the lives of people I love more than once. If he’s in trouble, I’m going to go find him,” Chas interrupted.
“Master Charles, I really must protest. I assure you, I will be bringing the full force of Beckett Holdings’ might to bear on the situation…”
“Where is he?” the detective asked quietly.
Chalmers stared at the man who reminded him so much of his father, weighing his options. He didn’t want to put the Beckett heir in danger of any kind, but he knew that the detective would be relentless in his quest to find his missing protector.
“I honestly don’t know. When he last checked in, he had just arrived at a safe house in England,” he confided at last.
Chas frowned. “England? What’s he doing there?”
“He was planning to have a conversation with the Earl of Halsbury, regarding some suspicious transactions that have been run through Beckett Holdings.”
“What kind of suspicious transactions?” the detective’s eyes narrowed.
“I suspect that it’s drug-related, sir. You know that we do a significant amount of importing goods from places which are notorious for drug trafficking… I believe that one of our newer accounts, based in the UK, has been using the importation of our legitimate goods as a cover for bringing in drugs. There are missing invoices and other documentation, shipments that have been delayed, or haven’t shown up at all… it’s quite a nasty mess, but I have a full detail of specialized personnel doing everything that they can to resolve the matter.”
“Specialized personnel… is that code for assassins, Chalmers?” Chas asked boldly, his voice grave.
“Decidedly not, sir!” the elderly gent exclaimed, straightening his lapels, seemingly quite offended that the detective would even entertain such thoughts.
“So no one who works for Beckett Holdings had anything to do with the death of Hannah Folsom?” he persisted.
“Most certainly not, sir. We own some of the most powerful companies in the world, and we’ve gotten to where we are today by remaining upstanding and above reproach. Those standards will never change, so long as I’m alive,” Chalmers promised.
“Which brings me to another point— do you think that the attempt on your life, the drug smuggling, and the death of Hannah Folsom are all related?”
“So it would seem,” he nodded.
“Who’s behind all of this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine, Master Charles. Whoever is responsible for the drug smuggling quite obviously thought that if they eliminated me, they’d be able to take charge of Beckett Holdings, most likely through blackmail. Such a thing wouldn’t be possible if the unfortunate reporter had been able to break a story alleging corruption. There would have been an investigation, and the allegations alone would’ve left an indelible mark upon the Beckett name. I won’t stand for that, Master Charles, I just won’t have it.”
“So you think that whoever killed Hannah did it not only to try to set me up, but so that they could keep the drug smuggling a secret?” Chas summed it up.
“Indeed, sir. If you went to prison for murder, the only story that would break would be that you were the fallen heir. The business would be protected, so they’d have their avenue through which to transport drugs. Our companies have impeccable reputations, so no one would ever think to look for suspicious activity here. Now the challenge will be to catch the dastardly lowlifes before they can get to me again, or you, for that matter.”
“What about Missy? Is she in danger? Or Spencer?”
“Sir, until these cockroaches are exterminated, we’re all in danger.”
“Chalmers… we’re not in the extermination business, are we?”
“Not officially, no, sir.”
“That’s not very comforting, Chalmers.”
“No, sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Hey, did you ever hear back from Izzy?” Missy asked Echo.
“Hmm— no, I never did,” she replied with a frown.
“She must be in the writing zone,” Missy shrugged. “She’ll come out of seclusion when she’s ready.”
“Don’t you think that it’s a little weird that when Spencer disappeared, she disappeared too?” Echo mused.
“No, it’s probably just a coincidence. I mean, I know that they like each other, but I don’t know that they’re… involved.”
“Hmm… Joyce will be glad to hear that,” Echo chuckled.
“Have you heard anything from Kel? He’s usually so good at uncovering clues when he talks to people.”
Echo sighed. “Unfortunately, no. The only thing that the guy at the Thai place saw was a tall, dark-haired, muscular guy who walked beside the building while Hannah was placing her order,” she bit the inside of her cheek, knowing how bad that sounded.
“So he, too, essentially described seeing Spencer,” Missy said sadly.
Her friend nodded.
“Echo… I know that Spencer has some issues with PTSD since he came back from Afghanistan… you don’t think…” Missy’s voice trailed off. She was unable to articulate the unthinkable.
“I certainly hope not,” Echo replied as Missy dropped her head into her hands. “I know that he loves you and Chas and the rest of us like family, and he seems like the type of man who’d do anything to protect his family, but… no, I just don’t see it. Spencer isn’t a killer,” she shook her head vehemently.
“I hope you’re right,” Missy said softly.
***
Spencer Bengal contemplated his next move, hoping that he could incapacitate his large captor without having to resort to lethal measures. He’d been offered no food or water since Kosta had tried to drown him, but his mind was crystal clear and he’d made a plan. His captor had a routine. He’d sit and guard the trussed-up Marine for a few hours, disappear, then return a short time later. Spencer assumed that he was taking meal breaks, not for himself, but so that he could attend to the earl.
Kosta always entered from the same door, and always took the same path around Spencer’s body to get to his chair. The next time that he passed through the
room, the Marine planned to suddenly whip his feet around in a semi-circle, causing his captor to tumble and fall. Once the man was on the ground, he would incapacitate him, and use the knife that he carried on his belt to cut through his bonds.
Hearing the dull thudding of large, worn boots on the stairs, Spencer focused every bit of his energy. In order to pull off this maneuver, his timing had to be perfect, he couldn’t afford to be even a fraction of a second too early or too late. The Marine’s training kicked in, and he took shallow breaths, conserving his energy. He listened as the footsteps grew closer… closer. When he gauged that Kosta was close enough for him to reach, he swiftly jackknifed his body from the waist down to the left, making perfect contact with his captor’s calves. The strength of his motion caused his legs to continue moving forward, just as he had planned, while Kosta tumbled over backwards.
The instant that the large man hit the ground hard, Spencer flexed his legs at a 90 degree angle, and brought his heels down hard, squarely into his captor’s stomach. There was an audible “OOF!” as the air rushed from Kosta’s lungs, and the large man was stunned just long enough for Spencer to swing his legs underneath his own body, rising to his knees and planting the entire weight of his body on the gasping man’s throat. Kosta flailed and thrashed, but Spencer, veins bulging, was immovable, his forearms becoming one with his captor’s throat while he stared him down with cold, fierce eyes.
Days without food and water had taken their toll, and the Marine shook with the effort of preventing Kosta from breathing. The large man rained blows down on his face, back and neck, but Spencer shrugged them off, jaw clenched with determination. His body trembled, but his resolve never wavered, and finally, Kosta succumbed, his body going slack. When he had determined that the man was truly unconscious, Spencer shifted his body, and slipped Kosta’s knife from the holster on his belt. As he grabbed the knife, he felt another bulge under the man’s shirt and lifted a pistol away as well.
Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Page 10