Rusty walked over and yanked open the Judas window.
He found himself peering into a simple, well-furnished room. With its antique canopy bed, three-mirrored vanity, and hooked rugs spread across the floor, it looked remarkably similar to his suite at the Cornstalk Hotel. Neat, well-maintained, and comfortable.
Rusty flinched at the sight of a body lying on the bed under a pile of plush comforters. Turned away from him, legs tucked into a fetal ball, long, black hair spread across the pillow. He thought he heard a faint sigh, like someone emerging from sleep.
Was that Marceline Lavalle?
It could be her. It had to be her.
Rusty’s hand fell to the padlock dangling from the door’s hasp.
“Locked on the outside, huh?”
He said it without turning around, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Seeing her—it has to be her!—so close and apparently in one piece, electrified him. He had to contain it, to channel it, or lose control of the situation.
“For her safety only,” Guillory calmly intoned. “We have no way of knowing when Mr. Abellard might show up and try to take her against her will.”
“If I have to listen to one more lie—”
“Pierre, open it.”
The manservant stepped past Rusty and removed a key from his pocket. He opened the padlock and lifted it from the hasp.
“Want me to warm her up for you?” he said with a leer, placing his hand on the door. It took everything Rusty had not to strike him.
“No? OK, she’s all yours.”
He stepped aside, pocketing the lock.
Rusty reached for the door. His hand froze. It was simple, too simple.
“If either one of you tries to stop us from leaving,” he said, “I’m going to cut both your throats.”
Those words rang slightly false. The Marrow Seeker was still secured in his boot. He’d have to subdue or at least stun the man next to him before gaining control of the weapon, and he felt less than total certainty of accomplishing that.
“Are we clear?”
Neither Pierre nor Guillory answered.
Rusty’s left hand reached for the door handle even as he detected movement in the peripheral vision of his right eye. Pierre was pivoting toward him, arms held low.
He felt a fist slam into his kidneys. It was a glancing blow, diminished by his split-second reaction of turning away. He registered little pain. Everything slowed in his mind. He seemed to observe rather than participate in what happened next.
Can’t reach the blade.
Next best thing…
Rusty’s right hand flew up in a knifehand strike aimed at Pierre’s throat. Direct hit. He felt the man’s Adam’s apple recede half an inch as the flat edge of his palm made contact.
A strangled gasp escaped the servant’s mouth. Rusty watched him stagger back before realizing he’d been struck a second time in the midsection. This one did more damage. It felt capable of fracturing a rib and caused him to double over.
He saw Pierre’s left hand emerging from his coat pocket. It held something silver.
Gun!
No.
A cylindrical aerosol can. Four inches long with a red nozzle at the top.
Close your eyes!
Rusty didn’t know where that intuition came from, but he followed it—an instant too late. Pierre’s thumb pressed the nozzle. A cloud of white mist sprayed forth with a discordant hiss. Rusty’s screams drowned out the noise even as the vaporous assault continued.
He fell to a crouch, both hands clasping his face. Several seconds passed before the pain fully kicked in. Both eyes filled with fire, like they’d been sprayed with battery acid. He screamed louder and his legs buckled, the thud of the stone floor against his kneecap overwhelmed by the agony filling both eye sockets.
He rubbed furiously at his face, feeling a sticky wetness coating his skin that had to be blood. The fire spread deeper into his head until he felt sure both eyeballs had been burned or gouged out. The wetness streaming down his face grew more viscous.
Blood. It’s got to be blood.
But it wasn’t blood, because he couldn’t wipe it away. His eyes were open, but sightless. He used his fingers to spread the lids as far as they would go to prove to himself they were open. Nothing, except a red curtain that darkened to black.
He was blind.
Stumbling to his feet, his upward progress was halted by Pierre’s arm wrapping him in a chokehold. Rusty kicked and swung but only made contact with air. He was suspended two inches from the ground, oxygen supply rapidly being cut off. Pierre tightened the vice until Rusty stopped fighting.
“You’re doubtless wondering what’s eating away at your ocular membranes,” he heard Guillory say from somewhere very close. “It’s called Excoecaria, a plant genus of the family Euphorbiaceae. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? In the tropics, you’ll find it more commonly called blind-your-eye tree. I don’t need to tell you why. Consider it an honor to be the test subject for a project that never enjoyed the opportunity it deserved. If VECTOR came to full fruition, Excoecaria would have been deployed on the front lines.”
Pierre’s hands released Rusty’s neck. Before he could react, a hard shove launched him through the doorway and into the chamber. His balance gave out completely, the misery in his eyes overpowering every other sensation.
“You wanted her,” he barely heard Pierre say. “She’s yours.”
The door shut noisily, followed by the sound of the lock snapping into place on the hasp.
Rusty leaned unsteadily against the door. Giving it a hard push, he felt it open an inch only to be stopped by the padlock.
He could just barely make out the sound of descending footsteps over his own ragged breathing. The footsteps faded to silence. After a few more seconds, he heard the lower door being closed.
Then he heard her voice.
31.
Monday sat at the wheel of the rented Lincoln Navigator, clutching her cell phone tightly like the application of manual pressure might force it to ring. She was parked on the roadside about ten yards east of Anne Guillory’s driveway. Rusty had been right, the elaborate mailbox was hard to miss. Headlights turned off, the engine had been idling for almost twenty minutes.
He’d said to give him a half hour. Monday had accepted that timeframe, but now she wondered why? If Marceline was being held somewhere on the property and Rusty was going to bring her out by persuasion or force, why assume thirty minutes was sufficient? Why not ten minutes, or five hours? So much of what he’d presented as a viable plan back in New Orleans now struck her as woefully half-baked.
She’d sent a series of texts:
WHATS HAPPENING?
IS SHE THERE?
SHOULD I COME GET U?
IM COMING IN 5.
None received a reply. She could fathom no explanation of why Rusty wouldn’t get back to her unless something had gone wrong.
Monday took a last fruitless look at her phone and decided she wasn’t waiting any longer.
She backed up to the driveway’s entrance and eased onto the property with her headlamps still dark. The trees thinned as the Navigator rounded a bend. A pair of stone walls appeared, connected by a metal gate obstructing further progress. Just as Rusty had described.
Monday got out for a closer look. A hard tug on the gate proved it immovable. She peered through the metal bars and saw the lights of the house at the end of the driveway. Abellard’s black SUV was parked by the front porch. About fifteen feet inside the gate a wire ran across the driveway, connected to a flat metal sensor.
Monday found a toehold in the stone wall and hoisted herself up. Thankful to be wearing tennis shoes instead of high heels, she climbed over and dropped to the other side. She walked over to the ground sensor and stepped on it.
Nothing. She jumped in the air and landed with both feet. The gate swung inward.
Monday ran to the Navigator and dove behind the wheel, barely managing to pull into the d
riveway before the gate crashed shut against her rear bumper.
So far, so good. Even if she was going off-script, Monday felt better just to be taking some kind of action rather than twiddling her thumbs out on the road. If nothing else, she’d be able to provide a faster getaway.
Monday slowed as she passed the Escalade. Nothing was visible through the tinted windows. She pulled to a stop two cars’ lengths in front and just sat there for a minute, unsure of how to proceed.
She didn’t relish the idea of waiting here in plain view of anyone inside the house. Reaching for her phone with the hope of seeing a new message that would tell her this was all over, she found none.
Monday turned off the engine. She had no idea whether to approach the house or put the Lincoln in gear and drive back out to her lonely roadside sentinel. The one option that seemed least intelligent was to stay here in the driveway like a sitting duck.
Deciding she could cough up some bogus story about running out of gas if necessary, she got out of the Navigator and approached the house. She’d just passed one of the front columns when the driver’s door of the Escalade swung open.
Before she could react, she heard the shot. Just one brisk pop, sounding very much like the report of a medium caliber handgun.
She whipped her head around and saw the rough outline of Joseph Abellard reeling from the vehicle. A nickel-plated revolver flashed in his hand. Hanging from his wrist was one severed half of the Cobra cuff.
Abellard swayed on his feet, looking slightly dazed.
Monday slid behind the nearest column, breathing hard. He hadn’t seen her yet but she couldn’t stay hidden for long.
The front door of the house was barely five feet away, the Navigator three times that distance. She’d never make it to the vehicle without attracting his notice. The house door was closer, but what reason did she have to think it was unlocked?
No choice. She lunged for the door, her right hand gripping the brass knob and pulling hard.
It didn’t budge.
She tried pushing, knowing it was pointless. The door was firmly bolted.
Then she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Monday turned around just in time for Abellard to smash the gun butt into her face.
32.
“Rusty. Oh my God, say something.”
It was her voice. There was no mistaking it. No matter how much time had passed since he’d last heard it, that voice would always resonate in his ear with total recognition. It cut through the torment that dripped like molten lava into his cranium, burning red pathways across the back of his skull. He anchored himself to her voice.
“Talk to me, Rusty. Please.”
He tried to speak but it came out as a hoarse croak. He clenched against the pain and tried again, articulating her name one syllable at a time. A third attempt came more easily.
“God,” Marceline uttered, her lips close to his ear. “I just can’t believe—”
“It’s me, Marcie. Christ, I can’t believe it’s you.”
He felt her fingers touching his face. Their touch was familiar. Strong fingers wiping away the sticky residue covering his eyes.
“Can you see?”
He shook his head. “Blind as a bat.”
“What did they do to you?”
“I’m not sure. Some kind of…venom, or poison. I let that fucker get the drop on me.”
Marceline’s fingertips traveled from his face to his neck, making exploratory gestures as if testing his reality. The sense of tactile recognition hit him even harder than before. Then her hands clasped his and she helped him to stand.
“Come on. Let’s get you over to the bed.”
Rusty rose awkwardly and allowed her to guide him across the room. He heard the groan of floorboards under his feet, followed by the squeak of aged springs as Marceline lowered him onto the bed.
“How’d you get here, Rusty? God, I don’t even know where here is.”
“Are we alone?” he asked. He tried opening his streaming eyes but quickly shut them. If all he could see was black, he’d just as soon do it with his lids closed.
“I’ve been alone the whole time,” she said. “Ever since I woke up, five nights ago. I’ve been keeping track.”
He felt her fingertips tentatively touch his face again. The discomfort in each eye was slowly receding from a stabbing needle to a pounding hammer, but he was still completely sightless.
“What is this stuff?”
“I don’t know. She said it was some kind of toxic plant residue.”
“Who?”
“Guillory. I think it’s just her and the other one. Didn’t see anyone else.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Is that door the only way out?” he asked, craning his head in different directions, futilely attempting to conjure some spatial sense of the room imprisoning them.
“Uh huh. I’ve been trying to pick the lock since I got here. There’s a transom up by the ceiling, but it’s too high to reach. Bolted too.”
“Is there something we can climb up on?”
“There’s a dresser. It’s just barely tall enough for me to reach the transom when I’m on top. No luck. That window’s got to be three-inch glass. Steel frame built right into the ceiling. No way out, but at least it lets in some sunlight.”
“Well, then. Guess we’ll have to take another look at that door.”
“Come here first.”
She took his hand and led him across the chamber, flicking on a light inside the adjacent bathroom. Then she filled a drinking glass with water and placed a folded towel on the rim on the sink.
“Lay your head down here,” she said. “Open your eyes.”
Rusty was reluctant to follow that command, sensing it would usher in more discomfort. He was right. Both lids immediately shut of their own will after barely a second. The pain didn’t upset him nearly as much as the yawning expanse of darkness it revealed.
“Open them, Rusty.”
He did as he was told, bracing himself. Marceline titled the glass and flushed his eyes with a steady stream of cool water. Rusty winced, fingers gripping the sink, but the water’s sting lasted only a moment before it offered some cooling relief.
“Nursing 101,” Marceline said, and he could almost hear the trace of a smile in her voice. “SOP whenever the eye gets exposed to an irritant.”
“Should’ve known I was in good hands.”
Marceline repeated the flush three more times. She grabbed some dry towels and guided him back toward the bed. Rusty lay his head in her lap and she started cleaning the affected area.
“What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”
Marceline paused before answering.
“I was home, after a shift at the ward. Went to bed early. Someone was on top of me, in my bed. I didn’t have time to resist, he shoved a rag over my face. I smelled something…like a chemical only not exactly like that. I was out. Next thing I remember, I woke up in here.”
“Do you have any idea where we are?”
“None. I can’t see anything but some treetops through the transom. It’s quiet out here, so we can’t be near the city.”
“We’re at the house of someone named Anne Guillory, about twenty miles north of Maurepas. Any of that mean anything to you?”
“No. I don’t…none of this makes any sense.”
Rusty could hear the rudderless despair in her voice, but the foundation beneath it was weighted far more heavily toward anger than fear.
“So you’ve never seen anyone, all this time?”
“A man comes to the door twice a day, wearing a hood. Slides in a fresh tray, grabs the old one and leaves. Won’t say a word, no matter how much I scream at him. When I tell him I need toilet paper and some other things, he brings ’em. Fresh towels, linens. Couple of aspirin, whatever. It’s like being a prisoner in some plush hotel.”
The flow of watery discharge from Rusty’s eyes had slowed, drying to a
thin crust on his cheeks. She brushed it away with a kind of thoughtless intimacy.
“And the food,” Marceline continued, her voice betraying amazement. “I swear, it’s like eating at Commanders’ Palace every day.”
A pause, then Rusty felt a jab to his ribs from her finger. “I’m eating for two, so no judgment.”
“The guy who brings it, you never saw his face? Or anyone else?”
“Nope,” she said. “Thought about trying to pull his damn hood off, but what good would that do? Figure I’m safer not knowing. Kidnappers can’t let you go if you know who they are, can they?”
“I think that’s how it usually works.”
“How in the world did you find me?” she asked, wiping away more flakes from his face.
“Your ex-boyfriend.”
Rusty heard a startled inhalation at those words, which he’d spoken with open hatred. He understood too late the casual reference to Abellard must have come as a shock.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have put it like that.”
“Joseph knows I’m here?” she asked in a slightly strangled voice. “He’s known all this time?”
Rusty lifted his head from her lap. He figured the mix of emotions she was feeling had to be dizzying—fear of the man whose violent temper had caused her to break off the relationship even as his child grew within her, combined with hurt astonishment that he might have gone so far as to make her a prisoner.
“When I found out you’d gone missing, I figured he was probably behind it. Turns out it’s this Guillory, she’s been using you as a kind of…I don’t know, bargaining chip. So Abellard will come through on whatever scheme they’re in on.”
“This is about Claude Sherman,” Marceline said after a long pause.
“Yeah. He’s the one who broke into your place and…grabbed you. But Abellard didn’t put him up to it, if that makes any difference.”
Marceline didn’t say anything for some time. Rusty knew she was still right next to him, could hear her breathing. He didn’t know how much of what he’d just told her she’d already pieced together on her own, but her stony silence suggested a boatload of her worst suspicions had just been confirmed.
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