Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  She dredged up a smile. “Of course. I’ll mention to him that I ran into you, Mr. Beckett.” She kept backing away. “Have a good day.”

  Beckett raised his eyebrows, his gaze latching onto her with a sharp return of interest. Sexual interest, by the look of it. But she didn’t stick around long enough to give him a chance to reply. Every cop instinct she possessed shrieked that Luke Beckett was capable of weaving a web and capturing a victim in the time it took to drink a cup of coffee.

  Amy simply refused to play fly to Luke Beckett’s spider. Not after Gabe Labrash. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

  2

  * * *

  Thursday, July 29

  2:30 a.m.

  The thought of getting raped by her kidnapper made Carrie Noble gag under the restraint. But she’d have to steel herself to it, if it came to that. No woman got away from a psycho unless she held on long enough to be found and rescued. Whatever it took to stay breathing, she’d do it.

  When he shook her awake—hours ago, it seemed—her eyes had opened to a blinding light that pounded down on her from straight above. When she tried to turn her head away, she realized she was lashed to a bed, naked and spread-eagled. Her neck hurt from a hard leather collar that chafed her. Her limbs were tied to the four bedposts with rough straps of the same black leather.

  That was when she’d started to scream. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. The full-throated howls gushed from deep within her, driven to the surface by terror and rage and disbelief. Disbelief that a nightmare like this could happen to her.

  God, she was only twenty-two! She hadn’t had a chance to do anything yet. All her dreams were going to vanish, never to come true. Not a single one.

  She’d screamed for as long as she could. Mostly she screamed in stark terror, but she kept enough wits about her to know that noise attracted attention, and there was always a chance that someone might hear. The bastard had grimaced as he watched her yell for a minute or so. But then he left, mercifully flicking off the cruel overhead light before he slammed the door behind him. A while later, when she stopped long enough to hear something besides her own shrieks, she could make out the whirr of a vacuum cleaner in another room.

  What the fuck? He was cleaning? Who the hell was this sick asshole?

  Albert Poole. That’s what his team ID card had read. When he rang her doorbell last night, wearing a Hammerheads tee shirt and baseball cap, she wasn’t going to answer. Not after midnight. Even though he looked a little familiar—through the distortion of the eyehole—she ignored him. But, instead of leaving, he’d held up his card and shouted that Matt had been in a bad accident. Carrie’s heart had started to pound like it was going to jump right out of her chest, and she’d thrown open the door without another thought.

  Dumb . Dumb. Dumb.

  Poole said her husband had been in a car wreck in Viera about an hour earlier, and had been taken to the hospital up there in critical condition. She’d believed him. Hell, under those circumstances, what woman wouldn’t have opened the door to a man who looked like he was with her husband’s team? Especially when the guy looked so young, and was so obviously worried about Matt.

  As she closed the door behind him, Carrie had asked for the name of the hospital. Those were the last words spoken. The guy was strong, and he threw her easily to the floor. She tried to scrabble up, but he slammed her down and stuck something sharp into the back of her neck.

  She had no clue how long she’d been unconscious. Even now, she couldn’t really tell the passage of time. The room had no windows and the only sound—besides that fucking vacuuming—came from the whirring blades of an ancient ceiling fan that barely moved the stifling air in the small room.

  Carrie yanked against the leather straps, feeling panicky and on the verge of suffocation. Sweat pooled on the skin of her stomach and in the cleavage between her breasts. A horrible stench, made worse by the heat, assaulted her nostrils—the sickening odor of mold, she guessed, combined with her own BO, musky and rank from the heat.

  Worst of all was the smell and the wet beneath her thighs. She’d peed herself after coming groggily awake in this chamber of horrors.

  The vacuuming stopped.

  Her mind raced, driven by the frantic need to stay alive. Why had Poole picked her? He wore Hammerheads team gear, but she’d met all the guys who worked for the team, and she didn’t know him. He was vaguely familiar, but if he’d been with the team she’d have recognized him. She was sure of that.

  Why had he kidnapped her? Was it for ransom, or was he some sick pervert intent on raping and killing her? Her heart pounded uncontrollably at the thought of what he might do.

  The worst of it was that no one would even know she was missing. Matt might try to call her in the morning, but even that was a long shot. They’d had a terrible fight when he called yesterday afternoon. She had yelled awful things, bitter words that might be the last he’d ever hear from her lips. Grief and remorse choked her, making it hard to breathe.

  Heavy footsteps approached. She started to struggle again, yanking uselessly again on the straps. It made no sense, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her body thrashed around on its own, refusing to lie inert in the face of danger and evil.

  Poole left the door open as he entered the room and flicked on the powerful overhead bulbs. “Through with the screaming?”

  Carrie jerked her head to the side, her eyes assaulted by the sudden burst of light above her.

  He carried a small, metal case in his left hand. In the crook of his arm, he squeezed a big bottle of Dasani water. His bicep bulged. The guy was pretty buff.

  He set the case and the water down.

  “You stink,” he said. “It’s a good thing I put that plastic underneath the sheet.”

  He was a pretty normal looking guy, but his blank expression terrified her. “Wha…what do you want?” she croaked.

  He stood beside the bed, level with her chest, and stared down at her breasts for what seemed like a full minute. “I want you to pull yourself together long enough for us to have a conversation, Mrs. Noble.”

  She inhaled deeply, as if the extra air could give her courage, and steeled herself. “I... I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Poole smiled down at her, but the thin smile didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, a muddy gray-green, shifted constantly over her body.

  Bile rose in her throat, but she had to encourage him. She had to kill time. “If you want me, go ahead,” she said, fighting the quaver in her voice. “I won’t fight you.” As if she could, anyway.

  He frowned, as if disgusted. But then he smoothed his right hand across her stomach. She couldn’t help clenching her muscles in response.

  He gave her a derisory snort and cupped a breast. This time she forced a half-smile and got a quirk of his lip in return. He rubbed his palm over her nipple, played with it for a moment, then pinched it hard.

  She yelped, more from fear than pain.

  That made him grin. “Your body is sure beautiful. I can see why Matt wanted you.”

  She gritted her teeth but kept smiling.

  He pulled his hand away. “But I don’t fuck whores.”

  Oh, God. He’d been watching her. A flash of anger made its way through her fear. “Whore? Why would you call me that? I don’t understand.”

  Poole snorted, his brief grin disappearing. “Lying bitch. You’ve been fucking that asshole. Don’t try to deny it.” He pinched the other nipple, and this time it really hurt. She grimaced, but managed to stifle a cry.

  “You get off by cheating on Matt, don’t you?”

  No! The sex meant nothing to her. She was just frustrated and lonely. “That’s not true! I love Matt.” She swallowed hard, her throat dry as desert sand. “What’s it got to do with you, anyway?”

  The words weren’t out of her mouth before her frantic brain made the connection. “Oh, Jesus, did Matt put you up to this?” she screeched.

  Poole’s hard palm smashed into her chee
k. Her neck cracked and her face slammed down into the bed despite the tight collar. Searing pain lanced through her head as it snapped back from the slap. The hard leather bit again into the delicate skin of her neck.

  “Of course he didn’t, you stupid cow. I’m sure he loves you, though I sure as hell don’t understand why, since you’re a total whore and a nagging bitch. And don’t ever say again that you love Matt. If you did, you’d have been a good wife to him.”

  Every instinct told Carrie to curl up into a ball and whimper. But she could barely move. The crazy son of a bitch was right about one thing, though. Matt would never hurt her. He was soft. Too soft. That was the whole trouble. She’d thought she married a guy with more than just talent. Matt was supposed to be a guy who’d work hard and do whatever it took to make it big. It turned out that he had a ton of raw talent, all right, but zero fire in his belly. No way was he going to become the star she’d thought he would be.

  She didn’t answer Poole’s accusation, because that part was true, too.

  “I bet you could use a drink of water,” he said in a low voice.

  “Yes, water, please,” she managed. “My throat is shot.” She decided to take a risk. “And do you think maybe you could take off this collar? I can’t go anywhere, and it really hurts.”

  In truth, everything hurt, her jaw more than anything right now.

  Poole unscrewed the cap from the Dasani bottle. “Poor little Carrie. Carrie’s not used to hurting. Carrie’s used to having everything her own way, isn’t she?” He spoke as if she were a little child.

  She stared at him. What the hell was he talking about? Her life was shit. It had always been shit. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If you want water, then open your mouth,” he said. He put his left hand into his pocket.

  Carrie licked her parched lips and parted them a fraction of an inch, waiting for him to place the bottle against them.

  “Open your mouth wide, goddamn it!”

  His shout made her jerk her head and instinctively clamp her jaw shut.

  Poole grabbed her jaw with his fingers and brutally pried her mouth open. His fingers were thick and hard and she tried to bite down but he’d jammed something in between her teeth. It felt huge and hard and round, and tasted like rubber—dirty rubber. She gagged and tried to spit the disgusting lump out, but his strong fingers held it in place easily. She tried to scream, but the shrieks died in her throat.

  Her heart pounded so hard it made her sick. All she could do was jerk uselessly and stare in horror as he grabbed the Dasani and tipped it upside down over her mouth. A cascade of water poured around the lump—which had to be some kind of ball—washing over her palate and sluicing uncontrolled into her throat and airway.

  Her body convulsed as she choked. She gagged over and over, her lungs on fire. Water poured down her cheeks, her chin, everywhere. Her mind screamed in agony.

  He’s drowning me!

  Suddenly, the water stopped, and Poole yanked the ball out. Carrie turned her head to the side and spat and gasped for air, thrashing her arms and legs in spite of the cruel bite of the rough leather.

  Poole quickly unbuckled the collar and lifted up her head. Just a few inches off the bed, but it was enough. She spat and coughed and sucked in gasps of air for what seemed like an eternity before finally letting her head collapse back onto the mattress. Exhausted, her entire body burned with pain.

  After a few seconds, Carrie blinked, cleared her eyes, and stared into his bland features. Her teeth started to chatter as it sank in. Poole didn’t just mean to kill her. God help her, but he was going to torture her first.

  But why? Was he punishing her for cheating on Matt? Why the hell would he even care?

  Her throat ached, but she had to speak. “Listen,” she croaked, “if you really knew Matt, you’d know he wouldn’t want you to do this to me.”

  He nodded as he buckled her collar back up. “You’re probably right, whore. But, then again, he doesn’t know what’s good for him, does he? Otherwise, he sure as hell wouldn’t have married a life-sucking bitch like you.”

  She sobbed. He had it so wrong. “Please don’t kill me. You say you care about Matt, but killing me will destroy him.”

  Poole shook his head dismissively. “No, it won’t. He’ll get over it a lot quicker than you think, and then he’ll be damn glad. Look at him now, for Christ’s sake! He’s a total mess, thanks to you. But that’s going to change. By the end of the season, he’ll be a new man. So, you’re right, I’m going to kill you tonight. The only remaining question is how.” He stuck the tip of his index finger against her forehead, his lips stretching into a horrible, flat smile. “And that’s up to you, Carrie. We have some options, and you get to make the call.”

  Carrie’s brain collapsed in on itself, spinning into a bottomless well of fear. But her body sucked in a gasp and her arms pulled hard on the straps, her torso rigid with a desperate surge of strength. Then she screamed again. Screamed to the uncaring world outside her chamber of death.

  Hear me! God, somebody—please hear me! “What do you want me to do?” she shrieked. “What do you want me to say?”

  “We need to talk about your husband,” he said, turning his back to her.

  “I know you think I’m a bitch,” she sputtered. “But I do love Matt. Things haven’t been perfect, but...” She let the words trail off.

  Poole grasped the metal case from the top of the dresser, then faced her again. When he dropped the case onto her stomach, she gasped, and her belly stiffened at the touch of the frigid metal. He must have kept it in the fridge.

  “A bit cold, isn’t it?” He slid the case up through the gap between her breasts, and rested it just below her chin. Then he opened the lid and tilted it enough for her to see inside.

  “Oh, Jesus!” she wailed.

  The case had two compartments. One side contained a syringe. Not the skinny little ones diabetics use. No, this was big, with a long needle. On the other side, Poole had wedged three small vials amid wads of cotton pads.

  “I can be reasonable, Carrie,” he said in a solemn voice as he extracted one of the vials. “I don’t mind giving you an easy death. If you earn it, that is.”

  It’s all about time. Stall him. Do anything to stop him from sticking me with that needle. “What can I do?” she finally choked out. “Please tell me. Can we talk about it?”

  Slowly and deliberately, Poole uncapped one the syringes, inverted one of the vials, and stuck the needle in. The clear liquid quickly filled the syringe, and he returned the vial to its case.

  “It’s time to confess, Carrie. That’s what we’re here for.” He gave her an eerie smile that scared her almost as much as the needle.

  “Confess what?” she gasped. “That I cheated on Matt?”

  “Yes, but not just that. I want everything—everything you’ve done to Matt since the day you married him. I can’t absolve you of your sins, but I need to hear about all of them.” He brought the syringe so close to her eye that she thought for a moment he was going to inject her there. She closed her eyes and screamed again.

  When she opened them, he was standing straight again, intently flicking air bubbles from the needle. “Forgiveness. They say it’s divine, don’t they? Well, Carrie, you’ll have to hope God forgives you. Though I don’t see how he’s going to look too kindly on one of Satan’s whores.”

  He pointed at the metal case. “Like I said, I can’t forgive you, but I can make your passage to eternity easier. Those vials contain the same stuff that they use to knock off the poor bastards on death row. They call it a drug cocktail, but it’s no fucking Long Island Iced Tea, I can tell you that.”

  Carrie moaned as Poole laughed at his own sick joke. Then he pushed the plunger down and a few droplets of cold liquid dripped onto her stomach, making her stiffen.

  “Here’s the thing, Carrie. You can see that the more I do that, the less juice there is in the syringe. And that means it’s going to ge
t bad for you a little later. Real bad. Believe me, this stuff is what you want in your veins right about now. And as much as you can get.”

  It must be a sedative . Carrie almost wished he’d just shut up and inject her with so much that she’d go to sleep and die. Almost. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She had to keep him talking.

  “What…what is it? A sedative? Is that how you’re going to kill me?” She didn’t want to know, but would talk about anything to drag out the time.

  He pursed his lips as he inspected the syringe. “This one’s a sedative. Those other two, though—they’re bad shit. Really bad shit. If I keep squirting this nice stuff out, so you only end up getting a tiny little bit, I’m afraid you’re going to still be wide awake for the other two shots. That means you’re going to see and feel everything, Carrie. Everything. You’ll be paralyzed by the second needle, your lungs slowly shutting down as you asphyxiate.”

  Carrie gasped and clenched her fists so tightly that her nails scored her palms. She wanted to scream, but the horror choked her.

  Poole gave her a solemn nod. “You get the picture. That would suck, wouldn’t it? But hold on, it gets worse. A few seconds after I give you the second shot—and by that time your mind will already be begging for death—I’ll inject the last drug. That one’s the real deal. The coup de grace—I think that’s what they call it. Can you imagine what it would be like to have something like lye or drain cleaner coursing through every vein in your body? They say that’s what it feels like if you get a shot of vial number three while you’re still conscious. You feel like every vein in your body is on fire. The stuff rips through you like that until it hits your heart and switches off the lights for good.”

  He nodded, as if he’d handed down some divine truth. “Your choice, Carrie. And you’ve got ten more seconds to make it. I’m on a schedule.”

  He squirted a tiny bit more onto her skin.

  Her body gave a violent shudder, and any last vestige of fight drained away. Time had run out. She didn’t want to die in agony. She would say anything—whatever he wanted.