Anne twisted herself into a more comfortable and stable position. She blanked her mind as best she could, focused on willing the muscles in her body to relax, and fell into a slow rhythmic pattern of breathing.
Five long minutes passed. All that while, she staved off a string of involuntary surges from her stomach. She was beginning to feel more comfortable and confident until the car veered off again.
MacFarlane slowed to a crawl along the new road, but the first bump was a head-banger. It was frightening. The vehicle lurched to the left and then to the right, all along the rutted pathway. Fear jostled the controlled breathing completely from Anne’s mind. The succeeding bumps and shocks were irregular, unexpected, and Anne struggled unsuccessfully to brace herself.
A short smoother period followed. Anne had been knocked about and beaten up in the trunk. She felt the bruising and assessed the soreness that would come tomorrow—that is, if tomorrow came for her at all. In spite of that, however, she realized that her nausea had vanished. Fright and pain had vanquished it.
Then the vehicle stopped. She heard the driver door open and heard the pop of the trunk latch. Someone hoisted her from the trunk by the handles of the bag that held her. Her captor said nothing. She heard his footsteps crossing a short porch and the creak of an old door. She heard the zip of the equipment bag that held her and squinted into a shaft of flashlight too bright for her dilated eyes.
MacFarlane tipped the bag on its side and rolled Anne out onto the bare wooden floor.
“I brought you a playmate,” he said.
66.
“Hey, people! Let’s get this place rockin’.”
William Larsen pushed his way past Jacqui. He ducked as he came through the door, a case of beer tottering above his head. It barely cleared the opening. A corner of the case grazed Jacqui’s cheek as he passed, and she caught the sour smell of alcohol on his breath. Four or five more rushed in after him and disappeared into the kitchen. For a moment, surprise and disbelief overcame her. Then she hurried after them.
“Wait! This isn’t my house! I’m babysitting! You can’t stay!”
The uninvited visitors also caught Bobby and Sig unexpectedly. Both felt awkward and unsure of what, if anything, they should do, and, within minutes, a dozen more streamed past them. Party-crashers filled the house. The din increased. Noise in one quarter competed with noise in another, and chatter and laughter escalated to shouts and manic roars. Someone plugged in a portable stereo. A strident rap song pumped out a muffled defiant lyric. The atmosphere became unrepressed and shrill. More people came through the door.
Rada became alarmed by the growing crowd. The press of so many people so quickly had startled her. So she abandoned her armchair and shrank into a corner near the stairs. Sig moved to her side.
In the kitchen, an already drunken William Larsen and his troupe in the kitchen were draining all of Jacqui’s energy. There was no reasoning with them. They only half-heard what she said, and they laughed at her frustration as if it were some comical routine meant to entertain them. Jacqui hadn’t heard the other cars pull up outside or the pickup truck that had jumped the curb and found a parking space on the front lawn, but she did hear the music rumbling from the living room. Finally, she threw up her hands and retreated.
Jacqui was alarmed at the transformation that had taken place in the living room.
“Bobby! Do something!” she said. Bobby couldn’t hear her from where he stood, but he could read her body language and sensed what she wanted. He looked around blankly.
Even Jacqui found herself at a loss to know where to begin or what she could do next. A swirl of light-headedness swept over her, and she fought to keep it in check. It was the first taste of fear and a precursor of panic, and Jacqui struggled to refocus.
She saw several people descending the stairs from the second floor, and she remembered little Luc who was up there in bed. She bounded up the stairs two steps at a time. Jacqui had closed up all the upstairs rooms when she had put Luc to sleep. Now, two of the doors were ajar, one of them being Luc’s. Jacqui pushed. It slowly opened. She peered into the semi-darkness. He still lay in his bed, tucked in, eyes closed, and fast asleep.
She closed that door and headed down the corridor toward the other. She stopped abruptly when she heard small noises inside. She gave the door a slow shove. A shaft of light from the hallway revealed two bodies on the floor. The scruffy beard belonged to Hank Stillwell. The blonde mop of curls suggested Missy Metcalfe. Her bare breasts and his boney thighs suggested something else entirely.
“Out you two! Out! Find a hotel room, for god’s sake!”
“We’re kinda busy,” said Hank. He sounded half out of breath and a bit whimsical. Then he laughed.
Missy moaned in agreement.
“Now!” said Jacqui. “Get out of here now!”
“Come back in ten minutes. You and your boyfriend can have the room then.”
The moaning of Missy and the renewed enthusiasm of Hank infuriated Jacqui. She turned her head away as if to find some resolution and saw Rada, standing just outside the doorway and looking in. She must have sought refuge from the mob downstairs and followed her up, thought Jacqui.
The expression on Rada’s face was troubling to Jacqui. It shifted between tears and fright. The sight before her was sordid and embarrassing, and Rada was appalled. Jacqui felt the anguish and confusion that confounded Rada at that moment. This wasn’t her reality. Rada was an innocent, she thought, not too much different from little Luc in regard to worldliness. At that moment, the thought struck Jacqui that the blame for all this could fall on no one but herself.
An uncontrollable knot of anger overcame Jacqui. She turned back toward the entangled and writhing limbs of Missy Metcalfe and Hank Stillwell. Instinctively she drew back her leg and delivered one of her better soccer kicks into Hank. In their shadowy clutch Jacqui couldn’t see where it landed, but he flinched and squealed in pain like a little boy who’d fallen from his bike, and he rolled away. Missy’s eyes grew large and frightened. Jacqui sent a second kick toward Missy. Despite the faint light, Missy saw a glint of white as Jacqui’s sneaker hurtled toward one of her swaying breasts. She shrank back. Jacqui’s foot fell short of the mark and caught the recoiling side of Missy’s left shoulder.
“Do I have to repeat myself…,” Jacqui said, “…or are you getting the picture?”
By then Hank and Missy had scrambled a few feet away. They cast angry, yet guarded, stares at Jacqui as they hurried into their clothes and made for the hallway, hopping and dressing as they left.
“Come on,” said Jacqui to Rada. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
She grabbed Rada’s arm and led her along the now-empty hall and down the stairs. Sig had remained in the corner near the foot of the stairs.
Jacqui gazed around as she descended into the main room. It was frightening to see the house so full. Many she recognized from school. Others she had never seen before and, from their dress and demeanour, she would never care to see again.
Once more she shouted at Larsen to leave, but Larsen and his group were still too drunk and self-absorbed to make sense out of what she was telling them, and Jacqui’s voice sank beneath the deafening music and a pumping sub-bass that sent tremors into the beams of the house.
At the bottom of the staircase, Jacqui grabbed hold of Sig’s neck and tugged until he bent down toward her. She cupped her hands to his ear.
“Get Rada out of here. Walk her home. This is no place for her.”
Sig nodded and took Rada’s arm. He broke through the crowd and led her toward the front door.
More beer was being passed around. Some drank from their own pints of whisky. Jacqui winced when she saw someone butt his cigarette on the floor. The smoker wore a varsity football sweater she didn’t recognize. Jacqui didn’t know him.
“What are you doing?�
�� she shouted. “Get out! Out! Don’t you have any respect?” She pointed at the crushed cigarette butt.
The footballer stared at her. He looked incredulous. His girlfriend snickered. Both were glassy-eyed.
“Who the hell invited you to this party? Get lost,” he said, putting the palm of his hand on Jacqui’s face and shoving her away.
Jacqui’s foot caught. She stumbled back, lost her balance, and tumbled into a cluster of people behind her. Jacqui and two others sprawled across the floor. Beer spilled. Glass broke. Someone swore at Jacqui.
“Her right brain doesn’t know what her left foot is doing,” said the footballer to his girl. He turned toward a group of his friends, pointed toward Jacqui, and hooted.
Bobby leaped over Jacqui and the two others on the floor. He drove his right fist into the footballer’s belly, just below his rib cage, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over. His beer bottle fell to the floor. Bobby’s arm encircled the boy’s neck. His other hand clenched it in place, and rendered him helpless. Bobby led him out the front door and threw him off the porch onto the front lawn.
Jacqui had recovered by then. She pulled herself up, shoved her way through the amused crowd, and yanked the plug from the disc player. The wall of sound crumbled into a stunning and somewhat sobering quiet. The voices and shouts that had been competing for space in the din now seemed garish and shrill and out of place. There was an embarrassing lull.
Jacqui seized that moment, stood on a chair near the centre of the room, pulled a cell phone from her pocket, and held it above her head.
“Hey!” she shouted loudly enough to get the crowd’s attentions. “None of you were invited into this house. I want everyone to leave. I’m calling the police. Anyone here when they arrive will be arrested. So get out now,” she said.
Then she tapped in the emergency 911 number.
67.
“I brought you a playmate.”
Anne could see nothing in the stark darkness of the room. But she heard the words, and her skin crawled. She recognized the voice. Jamie MacFarlane’s.
Anne heard the snap of a match and saw the flicker of a kerosene lamp. Then she heard a roar of anger. Her eyes hadn’t quite focused, but her head turned toward the sound. A hairy tattooed arm lunged toward her. Behind it she saw a ragged tooth and the weathered face of Cutter Underhay. Instinctively, she rolled and skittered away but fetched up against a cabinet. She shut her eyes and braced for the clasp of hands around her throat or the thrashing of his fists. Then she heard a metallic clatter, a sharp clank, and a litany of vile profanities and foul oaths.
“Nice reflexes, Ms. Billy Darby,” said MacFarlane. Then he turned to Cutter. “Play nice, Cutter.”
Cutter’s vulgarities and curses dwindled into unintelligible hate-stoked grumbles. It was only then that Anne gathered the courage to turn around and face him. He glared at her from across the room. Looking around for the first time, Anne found herself in a small, crude cabin that, at one time, hunters or woodcutters might have used as a refuge. Now it was abandoned and in disrepair. A single kerosene lantern illuminated the interior and threw creepy dancing shadows whenever a draft of air breached a crack in the flimsy wallboards.
A rusted wood stove stood by a side wall. The pipe from the firebox had disconnected from it and dangled from its hole in the roof. The floor was water-stained and soiled with animal droppings and bits of pine cones shucked by squirrels. An old beer case lay in a remote corner. Several beer bottles littered the corners. A few had been broken. And there was a dearth of furniture. One wood table stood in the centre of the room. One usable chair was pulled next to it; the only other seat had a broken back. An ancient metal frame bed butted the long wall opposite the door. A dank mattress lay on top.
Still cringing against an old floor cabinet, Anne’s eyes remained fixed on the bed. Cutter had retreated there. He sat on the floor, leaning against the side of it, his right arm crooked on the frame as if poised to leap, his left arm bent to grasp the tubular metal headboard. One handcuff held his wrist; the other encircled both bed and post. His failed attempt to attack Anne had been just inches beyond his reach.
MacFarlane chuckled a bit at the rage in Cutter and the terror in Anne. Then he reached out and pulled the tape from her mouth. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her across the floor to the other corner of the metal bed. He snapped a cuff over her left wrist and secured the other cuff to frame and post, just as Cutter’s had been.
“There,” he said. “Get comfortable. You’ll be here until tomorrow.”
“What happens then?” she asked.
“You’ll find that out tomorrow,” he said, removing the tape from her hands and her ankles.
“That better?”
Anne nodded. “Can I have some water?”
“No,” he said flatly. Then his cell phone rang. When he looked at the caller display, his brow crumpled in thought and displeasure. The phone continued ringing. He glared at it as if it were a personal affront, but he took the call, answering brusquely, “Wait.”
With a satisfied glance at his two prisoners, MacFarlane walked outside. The sagging door dragged across the threshold. With a final lift and jerk, he slammed it shut and walked toward the car. The evening was clear and moonless. A damp air had drained vigour from the blackness of the sky. The dim stars had disappeared. The strong ones had grown indistinct and dull. MacFarlane put the phone to his ear and listened to the tirade his caller had launched against him. He feigned patience and said nothing. The rant finally lost some impetus and spiralled into pointless repetition.
Finally, MacFarlane spoke: “I’ll meet you in half an hour. Don’t be stupid! You’re up to your ass in this, too.”
MacFarlane never returned to the cabin. Anne and Cutter heard his car start and listened curiously to the rattly sound as it backtracked over the path. The sound grew fainter, and finally it disappeared below the rustle of leaves and the scraping of branches in the October breeze.
The day had been balmy and pleasant, but as the evening progressed, the balminess turned damp, and the agreeable temperature grew chilly. The lamplight fluttered madly in the drafty cabin. Both prisoners had grown quiet and reflective. Cutter stared somewhat blankly at the shape-shifting of the shadows. He looked like a wound spring. Anne’s fear had subsided, but the foreboding atmosphere of her tenuous situation replaced it. It was almost as if she could hear a clock ticking, like dedicated footsteps, toward an ill-fated hour. She couldn’t afford to wallow in the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. She needed answers, and she needed them soon. Anne became consumed with uncovering those answers. It was a curiosity bred in desperation. It was undirected and unquenchable, and Cutter’s continuing, sullen silence fanned her anger and determination. Finally, she could stand his indifference no more, but she took care to choose her words and tone judiciously.
“‘We’re going to find out tomorrow.’ What did he mean by that?”
“You’re the detective,” he said. He responded slowly as if her inquiry had diverted him from an important engagement. “You figure it out.”
“Look, Cutter, getting in each other’s face may be an amusing way to round out the evening, but we’ve got more important troubles to work out. Things don’t look so good.”
“Ya think…”
Cutter’s sarcasm rankled Anne, but she suppressed the urge to snap back and replied as calmly and as low-key as she could manage.
“You got a plan?” she asked.
“Yeah, I have a plan.”
“What is it?”
“Kill you…kill MacFarlane…or vice versa.”
Cutter turned away and sank into some dark private thought. So much for the voice of reason, she thought. She needed a different tack. What if I provoked him? she thought. That might open him up.
“You’re so full of shit, Cutter. Kill me? You had your chances. Y
ou blew them all. You had me pinned down in your own club just over a year ago…and what happened? I got back what you stole from me. Oh yeah, and there was that fire I started that almost burned your club down. Remember that? And you tried again two days ago. You blew up my car and almost killed my daughter! You aren’t smart enough to kill me, are you?”
“You got lucky last year. A fluke. And that explosion? That wasn’t me. MacFarlane engineered that fiasco. Then he framed me for that job.”
“So you say. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve done a lot of business together over the years. He tipped me off. Said that the cops had a warrant and one of my boys framed me. He said he could hide me until the dust settled.”
“Why would he double-cross you? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I said I don’t know, but it had to be him.” Cutter sounded genuinely perplexed. “All I know is that he wants you dead and me dead.”
“You know his plan?”
“Bits and pieces. He likes to show how smart he is.”
“You want to fill me in? Maybe we can figure something out.”
“He took me up here in the trunk of his car.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Soon as he opens the trunk I know where I am. This is my cabin. My uncle left it to me in his will along with his business at The Hole in the Wall. I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” Cutter grinned and sounded almost excited.
“Forget the memory lane flashback.”
“Anyway, he pulls his gun and handcuffs me. Later he gets braggin’ and tells me about the frame. I ask him what he’s goin’ to do. He says his story is going to be that he got a tip about my whereabouts, which is here, and that I had grabbed you, but he arrives too late. Supposedly I’ve already killed you. Then he kills me in the shootout. You’re dead… I’m dead…and he becomes a big hero again and lives happily ever after.”
The Dead Letter Page 23