by Kylie Brant
“I will. I’ll make a call to verify it, too.”
His voice softened. “Good girl. It’s all going to be okay, Mia. I’ll be there soon.”
She disconnected. Oddly enough, just talking to him was enough to allay some of her stress. There had been plenty of anxious moments traveling and living alone in foreign countries. With Dr. Halston’s help she’d learned methods to ease it. But as she sat and watched the door, Mia realized that none of those methods was going to completely diminish the strain she felt right now.
That thought was underscored ten minutes later when the fire alarm sounded.
14
Mia sat, frozen. Then she went to the door. Peered out into the hallway. Doors were opening, people piling out. Smoke was thick in the air. She put a hand to the door. It didn’t feel warm to the touch.
She went to the hotel phone and called the front desk. “I’m on the fourth floor and an alarm has gone off…”
“Yes, ma’am,” a harried voice responded to her question. “The fire alarm is sounding throughout the hotel. We’re in the process of notifying all rooms now requesting that people evacuate the premises. Hotel security has been dispatched to every floor to help with the process. The fire department is on its way.”
There was a pounding on her door. “Hotel security. Please evacuate the hotel using a stairwell exit.” Hanging up, she went to the door again and saw a man in dark pants and white shirt walking away. He was difficult to see through the smoke, which seemed to have thickened. It was curling beneath her door now.
She took off the safety latch, collected her purse and phone and stepped into the hallway. Immediately her eyes started to sting.
“Is there anyone else in that room, ma’am?” The security officer was still nearby, his back to her.
“No.”
“Come with me. I’ll show you the exit they want us to use.”
Her eyes watering, Mia began to cough as she followed the man. “You can use these stairs.” He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. “When you reach the bottom floor, please go directly outside.”
She stopped, peered through the doorway. Then above it. “There’s no exit sign.” She looked over her shoulder at him. Froze when she realized the significance of the cuts and bruises on his face. Mia drove her elbow into his gut and tried to run, but he clamped an arm around her throat, forcing her through the door, one hard hand over her mouth. Panic sprinted through her system. She struggled like a mad woman, biting at his hand, stomping on his foot while reaching back to rake his cheek with her nails.
“Fuck this!” He whirled her around and she balled her fist, swung. She had a brief moment of satisfaction when she connected before he gave her a violent shove on the landing of the stairs. In two quick steps he reached her side, taking her head in both hands and slamming it against the wall. A brilliant display of light exploded in her head before darkness descended.
* * * *
He’d told her to call in fifteen minutes. Accelerating, Jude called Mia’s phone at minute sixteen. After six rings it went to her voice mail. A cold knife of dread lodged in his belly. He tried it again before calling the hotel.
“Connect me with room 419, please.”
“Sir, all rooms have been evacuated due to a fire in the hotel. All of our guests are outside as the matter is being investigated.”
Trepidation surged. “Can you ring the room?” Jude was helpless to curb the desperation sounding in his voice.
“Security has cleared all the rooms using a master key, sir. No one is left inside.”
The call ended. Jude wished he felt reassured. But the fire, coming so close on the heels of the trumped up charges against Hunter was too convenient to ignore. He brought the phone up again. Used information to connect to the Davis Police Department. They’d promised to send an officer to Mia’s room. Maybe he could get them to comb the crowd in the parking lot for her.
But the fear clogging his throat now labeled the hope as fantasy. Panic was clawing in his chest. Mia was gone. And if The Collector didn’t have her now, it was only a matter of time until he did.
* * * *
Reading Sully’s text message sent a giddy wash of euphoria spreading through his system. I got your cargo. Anthony closed his eyes, feeling light-headed.
Eleven was back. Or would be, only minutes from now. He turned, brushing by the throng of people mingling by the pool and outside bar. Elation filled him, even as he tried to temper the response. There had been disappointments before. He’d been close to retrieving his possession other times, only to be thwarted. Add in the fact that he seemed to be surrounded by incompetents and he didn’t quite dare—not yet—to believe it.
But the exquisite possibility was sweet indeed.
“Where are you rushing off to, dear?” His mother hooked her arm in his, slowing his progress to the house.
“Oh, a delivery got screwed up.” He smiled at her, the fingers on his free hand curled tightly around the flute of his wine glass. “Don’t worry, I’ll steer it away from our guests’ cars to the detached garage. It’ll be safe enough there until tomorrow.”
A frown marring her face, she sipped from a tall glass of lemonade. “That’s odd. We’ve never gotten deliveries at home before.”
“Probably a new driver. Or a new dispatcher. It doesn’t matter. I can unpack it and take it to work tomorrow.”
“Well, don’t misplace the invoice dear.” Seeing someone she wanted to talk to, she patted his arm and headed away. “And don’t fuss with it too long. There are clients here that require your attention.”
Don’t fuss with it. Gloatingly, he savored the words. If Sully had been successful, Anthony was going to fuss a great deal.
He could already see the security guard’s car at the end of the driveway and he jogged to his own. He drove down the drive carefully to avoid the crowd of cars parked there and the grass adjacent to it. The structure that he led Sully to sat well away from the house. His father had built the home after tearing down the century-old ranch house five miles out of town. Much of the land was rented out. The Davis’s hadn’t been cattle ranchers for a generation.
He pressed the button on the opener and a garage door ascended. Waving Sully’s vehicle inside, Anthony parked and strolled in after him, closing the door behind them.
“Where do you want her?” The security guard rounded the car, a broad smile on his face. He popped the lid of the trunk, and Anthony peered inside at the large wiggling garbage bag, secured at one end with a twisty tie. Hardly daring to breathe, he unfastened the tie and with one finger pulled the bag aside to reveal the face of Eleven. Her eyes were murderous and shooting sparks, but she was unmistakably the missing item of his collection.
He stroked her cheek with his finger, chuckled when she jerked away. “I’ve been waiting so long, Eleven.”
Defiance faded from her eyes, to be replaced with fear. Satisfied, he turned to Sully. “Just set her down in the corner.” The man hoisted her out of the trunk, the bag falling away as he carried her. She was gagged and bound with duct tape. Wise. Anthony recalled what a fighter she’d been when he’d first selected her. Her retraining wouldn’t be easy, but this time he’d take a firmer hand.
Something caught his eye then and he frowned. Crossing swiftly to where Sully was lowering her to the cement floor, he placed one hand under her chin and turned her head to better inspect the bloody abrasion marring her forehead. Rage and revulsion worked through him and it took a moment to speak. “She’s damaged.”
“Yeah, I had to give her a tap. She’s a wildcat.” The man was too stupid to notice Anthony’s anger. “The whole thing we planned…it all went off without a hitch. I even managed to make it look like Quimby’s fault that the security cameras failed. When the cops find the smoke canisters on all the hotel floors, he’ll be the first one they’ll suspect.”
Tucking the fury away, he forced a smile. “You’ve done well, except for forgetting that she needed to be blindf
olded. Come over to the workbench. I’ve got your money.”
“You doing some painting out here?” Sully asked as he stepped onto the twenty mil tarp spread on the floor near the bench.
“Just some clean up. The cash is in that toolbox. Reach down and get it, will you?”
“Sure.” The man squatted.
Anthony reached for the crow bar hanging above the bench and brought it down on Sully’s head. The first blow knocked him flat, but didn’t kill him. The man was struggling to rise, as Anthony picked up the folded bath towel laid out for this purpose. Dropping it over Sully’s head he hit him a second time. And then again.
Panting from the exertion, he stopped and watched the still form for signs of life. From the amount of blood and matter soaked into the towel, even if the man wasn’t dead yet, he would be soon. Briskly, Anthony walked over to the work sink tucked in the corner of the space and washed off the crowbar, then wiped his shoes in case a stray droplet of blood might have sprayed on them.
He took a wet paper towel with him to wipe off the toolbox and put it away before hanging the crowbar back up above the bench. Searching through the drawers he found a pair of work gloves to don and grabbed some bungee cords. A memory flashed through his mind, of him standing in the field, wrapping Eight’s body in a similar way. Sully was much bulkier and by the time Anthony was done he’d worked up a sweat. He dragged the tarp to the man’s still open trunk and with a great deal of difficulty managed to dump it inside. Close the lid.
Later that night he’d dispose of the car in the Buffalo Point Reservoir. No need to drive clear to Wyoming. Right now, though…his gaze went to the woman. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor the delicious sweetness. He went to the wall of shelving and pressed the lever that had the sheetrock and attached shelves sliding silently to the right. Then he picked up Eleven and carried her inside, the familiar pride and excitement bouncing and spiking inside him. He smiled down at her, relishing the panic in her expression. “Welcome back.”
* * * *
“So you’re saying this woman was kidnapped eight and a half years ago. Again a couple days ago. And you think it just happened again today.” The expression of doubt on the face of the Davison Police Department investigator was matched in his voice.
Jude was prepared for the skepticism. He took a sheet he’d prepared beforehand from his pocket and slapped it on the man’s desk. “All I’m asking is that you check this out. Call the Chief of Police in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Sergeant Fenton of the West Virginia State Police. Or better yet call Adam Raiker of The Mindhunters.” He caught the glimmer of surprise in the man’s eyes and smiled grimly. Somehow Raiker’s name seemed to have that effect on cops, no matter where in the country they were located.
“Raiker? He’s involved in this?” The investigator, a Sergeant Carter, picked up the sheet to study it.
“Yes.” Jude had spent the better part of the frantic drive back to Davison on the phone with the man. “Two of his investigators will be here this evening to help with the search.” And Raiker had promised to start rattling the cages of the feds to get Mia’s investigation restarted. But Jude knew that she didn’t have that kind of time.
What had she suffered in the time since she was taken? The question hammered brutally in his skull. If he dwelled on it, the welling guilt and panic would suffocate him. Make it impossible to think. To construct a rescue plan.
“We can talk to people at the hotel. She should have been out there in the parking lot where most of them were gathered until the fire department cleared the premises. Maybe someone saw something.”
Jude tamped down frustration. What the man was offering wasn’t enough. “I’m guessing she never made it to the parking lot. And that the fire was staged. Just like the phony charge against my operative this morning. First the kidnapper made sure Mia was alone. Then he constructed a way to get her out of her room.”
The sergeant shot him a hard look. “That’s a lot of supposition, Mr. Bishop.”
Jude pointed to his face. “Does this look like supposition? Yesterday three guys assaulted me, intent on getting me in a truck. I declined. We’ve been targeted since we got to town and started asking questions. And apparently we’re making someone nervous.”
Sergeant Carter picked up a pen on his desk. Twirled it in his fingers. “Maybe if you tell me what questions you were asking and to whom, it’d give me a place to start.”
“Eldon Weale. Anthony Davis.”
The man’s jaw dropped a bit. “What could Davis possibly have to do with Deleon’s…”? He stopped as Jude’s meaning struck. Grinned broadly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bishop, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. I can’t think of anyone less likely to be involved in this. The Davis family is…”
“Rich. Influential. I get it.” Jude pushed away from the man’s desk forcefully. “Helped build this police station, didn’t they?”
Carter’s faced darkened. “That doesn’t mean they bought the force. I know how to do my job. But it doesn’t include throwing around wild accusations without evidence.”
“Really.” His voice dripping derision, Jude said, “I’m sure Hunter Mason would disagree.”
“Mason is free to go. For now. He was brought in for questioning. Standard procedure when someone files a complaint.” When Jude just looked at him, the man clenched his jaw. “If the contacts you listed verify your story, I’ll ask Davis some questions.” Clearly the man thought Jude would have to be satisfied with that.
“And you’ll question Weale. He’s not in town. He might be at his place in Jackson Hole.”
The sergeant slammed the pen down on his desk. It rolled to the edge. Teetered there.
“We’ll do our job, Bishop. Just stay out of the way. And do not—I repeat—do not attempt to approach either of the men on your own. Because if they have cause to lodge a complaint against you, I will personally haul you in myself.”
* * * *
Violent shudders worked through Mia in great heaving waves. Her skin was clammy, her mind numb with disbelief. All the fears that had haunted for years coalesced into this moment. The monster from her past had clawed through the fabric of her memory and lunged into her present. And this time the monster wore a face. Somehow that was even more terrifying.
“There.” Sounding pleased with himself, the man working above her set down the metal scissors. “It wasn’t easy to cut those clothes off without nicking you, especially with the way you’re shaking.” He’d managed to do so without releasing her from her bonds. Now he loosened the tape over her mouth with surprising gentleness. “Say thank you, Eleven.”
Her lips parted. “Go…to hell.”
His slap was sharp and vicious. It rocked her head to the side and for a moment stars danced beneath her eyelids. “Ungrateful. You always were. It’s to be expected, I suppose. Does a slab of marble thank its sculptor? A canvas its artist? And I’m rushing.” He stood and picked up the scraps of fabric and the scissors. Busied himself for a few moments disposing of the material in a wastebasket. Taking the scissors back to the cupboard he’d gotten them from.
The cupboard was above a short counter and were loaded with boxes. Supplies he used with the women he enslaved? He took a box off the shelf, opened it with the scissors and then disposed of the wrapping. When he approached her again she rolled away. Didn’t get far before he caught up with her. “First things first.” She struggled mightily as he shoved his knee between her legs to open them and took swab samples. Then he rose, carefully placed the swabs inside the case provided and carried it back to the counter. “Safety is critical. Who knows what you’ve been doing and with whom while you were roaming around lost for the last few years.”
Lost. A hysterical laugh welled up in her chest. As if she’d merely been off course. When in reality she’d spent the last five years running as far and fast as she could away from him.
“You killed that man.” The horror of watching the swift brutal attack was emblazoned on her mind.
“Think, Eleven.” He thumped her forehead with his index finger. “I could hardly let him live after what he’d done for me.” He must have read her thoughts in her expression. “Ah. I see the mental processes are waking up. Too much information can be a dangerous thing. You’re the first to have seen my face, given that cretin’s ineptitude. That will require some careful consideration. Not that you’ll be slipping away from me again.”
He got up and went over to the wall opposite the cupboard where a long Plexiglas container with an attached cradle of sorts was tucked in the corner. It was about six feet long. Two feet high. It had a lid that latched on to the body at several junctures. The man released each fastener. Struggled to lift the lid off and lean it against the nearby wall. Her heart scrambled inside her chest like a wild thing, sensing the horror to come.
He looked at her and his smile sent hot balls of dread spreading through her veins. He was an average looking man. His nose a little too short for his face. His mouth a bit petulant. A non-threatening façade to hide the evil within. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought.”
Striding over to her he picked her up easily and carried her over to place her in the clear box. Her weight had the container swaying on the attached cradle. “Your boot camp training was quite thorough. One can’t expect a second round of training to be successful given the apparent failure of the first. At least not without adjustments.” Leaning forward, he fiddled with a faucet mounted above the receptacle. For the first time she noticed the hose connected to the front. A thin trickle of tepid water began dribbling from it.
He reached up for another twist of the knob and the trickle turned to a slow stream. “You can get anything off the Internet. Even made it to spec for me. But you haven’t seen the most ingenious part.” The heavy lid was lifted and fitted into place. Observing the tiny pinholes that perforated the inside of it had despair crashing over her with the force of a riptide. Mia battled to withhold a low moan of despair. Because it wasn’t difficult to imagine the function of the container.