“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been shot before.”
The revelation stunned her into silence. She felt her stomach lurch again and swallowed repeatedly, fighting the uncontrollable impulse to puke a second time.
The conversation stopped and a strained, tentative calm settled over them as the truck darted in and out of the traffic on Commercial Street.
Turning onto Atlantic Avenue, the pair blended into the growing throng fleeing the urban sights and sounds of the city. Spotting the on-ramp for I-93 south, Aaron gunned the old pick-up’s motor, heading toward the I-95 interchange and the open road. The long minutes of strained quiet turned into almost an hour as each percolated their individual thoughts, keeping them to themselves and listening to the ever-present whine of the studded snow tires on the wet asphalt.
After what seemed to her like days, Aaron broke the pall that had grown with each passing mile.
“We’re almost there.”
“Where is that?” she asked.
“A friend of mine has a safe place we can stay for the night.”
“You need a hospital.”
“I’m not going to a hospital.”
“You need medical attention for that wound.”
“I’ll get it…later,” he said. “Right now, we need to get you off the street and out of sight.”
Part four - The Better Part of Valor
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The adrenaline charging through his sore muscles, Clark Majors threw the reading lamp with all his rage-enhanced strength. Hitting a gilded mirror hanging on the wall, the horrific impact exploded both lamp and mirror in a shower of flying glass.
Standing alone in Trish’s hotel room, his rage flowed through him in pounding waves, spilling out in a hailstorm of uncontrollable violence.
“Casey! You son of a bitch!” He screamed at the ceiling in frustration.
Releasing a strangled roar, he overturned the small table and chair set previously nestled under the window. Swinging one chair over his head, he crushed the other, reducing it to matchsticks. Blinding fury, still unchecked, ran hot in his veins as he continued to vent his anger like some drug-addled rock star. He slammed his fist into the wall below a small oil painting. The concussion dislodged the canvass and holed the wall in an explosion of plaster chunks, filling the air with fine white dust.
A fiery shock raced the length of his arm to burst in his shoulder. The pain, now a welcome distraction, popped the expanding cloud of boiling rage like an over-filled balloon.
Breathing heavily, he noticed Trish’s purse resting on an end table. He stared at the small handbag for several seconds, reliving a nebulous vision of her placing it there before they’d made love. An unexpected sense of loss crawled across his senses, nearly overwhelming him before he battled it back, imprisoning it in the dark recesses of his frenzied mind.
“She’s gone. Nothing I can do about that now…but he will be sorry.” He quietly vowed to the empty room.
He shook his bleeding hand, the fiery sting of the wound further focusing his sadistic thoughts on the task before him, the one he must now complete alone.
I’ve gotta finish the job. I owe Trish that much. But…I’m going to settle the score with that bastard before it’s over.
His eyes darted around the room, seeing the destruction he’d left in his wake.
Someone must have heard that. I’ve got to sanitize this room and clear out…Now!
He dropped Trish’s empty suitcase on the bed, flipping open the lid. Ignoring the throbbing ache of his damaged fingers, he moved to the closet and began to gather her few possessions. He again thought of Casey and his stomach clenched in acidic rage while he carefully laid his fallen partner’s clothes into the open bag.
As he worked, he visualized his hands closing around his nemesis’ throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh. In his mind’s eye he let the malevolent energy flow, the vise-like grip squeezing harder and harder, until he felt the rewarding snap of breaking vertebra.
He shook the vision from his head, folding the suitcase shut and lifting it from the bed.
Casey, you will pay for what you took from me.
Once again in his own room, he snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels off the desk, pouring several inches into a glass. He swallowed deeply, welcoming the liquor’s fiery sting, and moved to the bathroom to tend his injuries. After cleaning and taping his damaged ear, he wound a makeshift bandage around his battered fingers. Returning to the living room, he scrubbed his unshaven face in his palms. He took several deep breaths, the inferno of rage now a low smoldering, the emotional wildfire of the previous half-hour consumed by its own intensity.
Where could they be now? Casey’s not stupid. He won’t go home or anywhere near his offices…same for Ryan. How do I get them to surface?
His devious mind shuffled a slate of possible ways to reacquire his targets into coalescence, bringing his anger in check and his determination to a razor’s edge. An insidious idea percolated to the top of his Machiavellian thoughts.
Simple, grab someone he cares about. He must have a family…friends. He took someone I cared about…time to return the favor.
He sat down, opening Trish’s laptop. The memory of her resting on the very same couch just hours before came flooding back, immersing him in a blazing pyre of feral emotion.
Aaron Casey...He touched the enter key and waited for the WebCrawler to do its work. Google’s dispassionate response contained thousands of results.
Okay. Let’s narrow it down.
He tapped the keys again. Aaron Casey...Boston…
A few thudding heartbeats later the computer responded with a much smaller list. He skimmed the entries, passing those heralding awards and ribbon cuttings, before a single headline leapt from the screen, standing out from the rest.
Jury Verdict: DUI caused fatal crash.
The teaser was subtitled as well and he continued reading.
Construction Co. heiress the lone survivor.
Clicking on the link, a full color picture of a horrific car crash appeared on the screen. Seconds later, the image resolved, flanked by the inset headshots of a man and two women. Clark read the accompanying text, greedily consuming the details of the tragedy’s only survivor.
So Casey, you have a sister. I’ll bet you’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?
He lined up his thoughts like dominos until a path came into view. The road lined with piercing hatred, his mind created a clear avenue to a righteous, incendiary wrath on the man who’d ripped Trish away from him.
He closed the lid, shutting down the computer. An insidious grin crossed his features.
Casey, I’m going to make you hurt in ways you can’t even imagine.
He packed his things and walked out of the hotel a few minutes later. No one seemed to notice him as he stepped off the elevator. He by-passed the busy lobby, instead moving down a back hallway and out into the parking lot beyond.
A tedious drive along Boston’s crowded streets into the village of Chelsea, and he now stood outside the home of Elizabeth Casey, Aaron Casey’s sister and the sole survivor of the tragic accident that had claimed two lives.
The small white cottage, trimmed in pale blue, was a study in Victorian elegance. The gingerbread decorations lavished on the tiny dwelling reminded him of pictures he’d seen in glossy magazines. He raised his hand to the polished brass knocker, rapping loudly on the base plate.
In seconds a soft, female voice replied, the words muffled by the door separating them.
“Just a minute!” She said.
He could hear a faint tap-tap, the noise repeating and getting louder as the woman made her way toward the door. The knob turned and a face came into view as the door moved aside, restrained by a gold safety chain.
The young woman who answered was radiant, a long fall of auburn hair offsetting her peaches and cream complexion. Behind the amber lenses of her glasses, he saw the sightless blue
eyes darting to and fro, unable to lock on his face.
She peered out through the small crack between door and frame. “Yes?”
“Are you Elizabeth Casey?” he asked, mimicking the slick tones and demeanor of a door-to-door salesman. He knew the answer before the question left his lips.
She donned a small, polite smile, displaying twin rows of perfect, white teeth. “I am. What can I do for you?”
He studied the petite and attractive 27 year-old in earnest for several seconds, weighing the chances she would be home alone. His split-second assumption that she was proved to be correct.
She called out tentatively. “Hello? Are you there?”
Getting no answer, she opened the door a few more inches, the safety chain reaching its stop. It was enough.
Clark threw his shoulder into the door with elephantine force, breaking the safety chain and knocking the small woman sprawling into the foyer. Stepping through the entrance, he moved toward his victim, now lying stunned on the slate floor.
She moaned in pain, trying to crawl away. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her to her feet.
Her scream ripped the air.
The foyer echoed as he silenced her with a sharp open-handed slap, her shattered glasses skidding across the floor.
“Shut up!” He barked.
Twisting behind her, he slipped a thick forearm around her throat. A painful squeeze choked off any further outbursts. Frozen in fear, she stood motionless in his grip, small tremors of terror shaking her petite limbs.
“Take what you want,” she gasped, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. “Just don’t hurt me.”
He loosened his grip on her throat, allowing her a truncated breath.
“Relax. I’m not here to rob you. If you do as I say, you won’t be harmed.”
“What do you want?” she croaked in terror. Her voice constricted by the controlling grasp, the horrifying possibilities of what he might do ran wild in her fertile imagination.
“I want to talk to your brother. Where is he?”
“What brother? I live alone.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” He tightened his grip around her throat, bringing a strangled squeal from his defenseless captive. “Where is he?”
He held her motionless for several agonizing seconds while a black cloud of panic and oxygen deprivation bloomed in her head, scrambling her terrified thoughts. She felt herself begin to lose consciousness, her body going limp in his arms.
He released his lock on her neck and she pulled in several deep, coughing breaths. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he dragged the frightened woman out of the entryway, into the small kitchen beyond. He forced her down into a straight-backed chair in the breakfast nook.
“Don’t move.” He ordered, then took a zip-tie from his pocket and secured her hands to the chair.
“I’ll ask one more time. Where is your brother?”
“I told you. I don’t know.” She sucked in a gulp of air, forcing the clouds from her vision. “He doesn’t live here.”
“Well then, you’re going to help me find him.”
“Why would I do that?” Tapping into a well of surging adrenaline, her hastily mustered confidence pierced the veil of fear, causing him to unconsciously smile at her grit.
“Because I’m going to hurt you if you don’t.”
Her trembling momentary stopped as his cruelly rendered words registered on her senses. A tear ran down her cheek. She sniffed loudly. “You think that hasn’t occurred to me already?”
She wiped the tear off on her shoulder and continued. “I know how this works. I give you whatever you want, and you kill me anyway. Right?”
Clark cleared his throat, the loud sound reverberating off the kitchen’s pale blue walls. “It doesn’t have to be that way. I just want to talk to your brother. We have some unfinished business.”
Still staring straight ahead, she raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “I don’t believe you. My brother would never do business with someone like you.”
“We just have a misunderstanding, that’s all. I just want to meet with him and work it out.”
She struggled in the chair, pulling against her bonds. “I won’t help you!”
“Then it will get very bad for you.”
The click of the automatic’s hammer reached her hyper-sensitive ears. She stiffened at the metallic sound. “I may be blind, but my hearing is excellent,” she said. “Shooting me won’t get you whatever it is you want.”
“We’ll let your brother decide that. I think he might have a different opinion.”
He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his pants. “Let’s call him.”
“You’re making a big mistake.” She said, a grim smile crossing her lips. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea. I’m dealing with a doting brother who, I’m confident, will do anything to save his sister’s life. We’ll see if he’s as devoted to you as I think he is. You better hope he is.”
“I still won’t help you.” Sitting upright, chin held high, she moved her head toward the sound of his voice, trying to line up her face with her captor. “Go ahead. Shoot me!”
He placed the pistol’s barrel against her forehead. She stiffened at the feel of the cold steel on her skin.
Agonizing seconds ticked off the clock as she silently waited for death to claim her.
“Do it already!” She hissed.
“Un-freaking-believable.” Clark said, now pointing the gun at the floor.
She slowly began to breathe again.
“I’ll never give in,” she continued. “So you see, your threat has no teeth. It only works if I’m afraid. I’m not.” She paused for a second, before her soft voice again filled the small room, her words clipped. “You’re the one who should be afraid.”
He leaned on the counter’s edge, folding his arms across his chest in defiance. “Really, and why is that?”
“If you knew anything about my brother, you’d run for your life. Because when he finds you, he will kill you.”
“That’s a lot of confidence in a man who’s not here to back it up.”
She gave him a small, cryptic smile, the expression joining her unseeing gaze. “You broke into his sister’s house and took her hostage…threatened to kill her. He’ll hunt you down like the animal you are.”
He snorted in disbelief as he paced in front of her.
She continued her diatribe, the tone now crisp and matter-of-fact as a stoic, resigned confidence flowed into her words. “If I were you, I’d leave now, while you might still have a chance to get away.”
He considered her words for a minute before small peals of quiet laughter fell from his lips. “You didn’t think that was really going to work, did you? I think you seriously underestimate my resolve.”
“I think you underestimate my brother’s. There’s nowhere you’ll be safe. In fact, it’s already too late,” she said, shaking her head in resignation. “No matter what you do now, you’re a dead man.”
“Me…run away…not a chance,” He stood before her once again, leaning forward, inches from her face. “I look forward to meeting up with your brother again. That’s why you’re going to arrange it for me.”
He reclaimed the phone from its resting place on the counter, flipping it open.
“Let’s give him a ring.” He said, the gentle voice full of manufactured benevolence. “We’ll see just how strong his resolve is when there’s a gun to your head.”
“I told you, I won’t help you.”
As she mentally prepared for his response, the sound of a key rattling in the back door interrupted the arguing pair.
Mom! Oh God, not now!”
A voice called out from the other room, startling both the occupants.
A female voice, soft and lilting, floated in from the hallway. “Beth, I’m back!”
Hearing the greeting, Beth’s blood froze in her veins. The captive woma
n went white when she realized the voice belonged to her care-giver, Melissa Stanton.
In an instant, the gun was back at her temple. “Say a word and she dies.” His order rang in Beth’s ears as her heart raced, banging against her ribs like a drum.
Clark pulled the gun away from her head and she tracked the sound of his footsteps as he moved toward the new arrival.
She heard a small scuffle in the laundry room, followed by the sickening thud of a body collapsing to the floor. The bile rose in her throat as she considered the horrific possibilities.
She heard his heavy footsteps as he reentered the kitchen, the accompanying dragging sound causing her panic to return in flooding waves.
“What did you do to her?” she gasped. “Did you kill her?”
Clark returned to Beth’s side and she felt his hot breath on her ear.
“I didn’t kill her. I knocked her out. She’ll live…If you do what you’re told.”
“I told you, I don’t know where my brother is.”
He pulled the trigger and she heard the faint Puufftt of a silenced shot,
“You shot her!” Beth shrieked, then broke into horrified sobs that racked her body. “How could you do that?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
She sniffed loudly. “But I heard the shot.”
“I shot her in the shoulder.” He said. “But she’ll bleed to death very quickly if you don’t make that call.”
She nodded as a new wave of tears appeared, acknowledging the futility of her situation. “All right. You win. I’ll do what you want…you bastard! Just don’t hurt her anymore.”
“What happens to her…that depends entirely on you…and your brother.” He said.
“He’s going to make you pay for what you’re doing.”
Chapter Forty
Aaron drove the bullet-ridden pick-up truck right through the open gates and into the yard at Big Ed’s Auto Salvage. He made his way back through an intricate steel maze created by stacks of smashed and cannibalized vehicles of every description. Finding a secluded place in the vast expanse of the mechanical morgue, he parked the truck between a towering barbed-wire fence and the scorched hulk of a burned-out motorhome.
Chain Reaction Power Failure Book I Page 26