Freefall

by Kristen Heitzmann

  With a knee in her back and the gun to her head, he coiled a phone cord around her wrists and cinched it. “Sit up.” He tied the rest of the cord to the brown, corroded plumbing under the sink, then stooped down and raked her with his gaze. “Welcome to the sewer with the rest of us.”

  She pressed in between the tub and toilet, away from the snake who’d seduced her aunt while Uncle Rob fought for his life, fought because this same piece of trash had ordered them killed. She wanted to rake her nails over his smug face, chop his chiseled chin with her knee.

  His gun kept her docile. She didn’t walk out on a crumbling shelf, didn’t stand tall in a lightning storm. But if one way was blocked, she found another. And when she found it, she’d take it.

  “How’s it feel?” He slid his fingers over her cheek, down her neck. “Big Hollywood star, every man’s dream.”

  She clenched her teeth when he touched her mouth and willed herself not to bite his fingers to the bone.

  “Maybe that’s what Uncle likes, hmm? Off alone together on your little adventures.”

  “You filthy—”

  He grabbed hold of her ponytail, brought the gun’s barrel to the hollow under her ear. Fear surged through her. Everything she’d done, all that she’d hoped for ended here. Bloody carnage. Headlines. For once she wouldn’t care. She’d be gone.

  Curt ground his mouth into hers so hard she tasted blood. “Is that how he kisses you? How that cripple kisses you, Allegra?”

  Gentry sucked a breath. “I’m not Allegra.”

  He bent her head back hard and scowled. “Not even close. But Uncle Rob likes you better, doesn’t he?”

  “Uncle Rob loves his wife.”

  He smacked her head against the chipped edge of the tub, then let go and stood up. “You’re lucky I’m not a violent man.”

  Sharp stabs of pain shot from the back of her head. Her shoulders burned. The tang of blood seeped into her mouth and warned her not to provoke this “nonviolent man.” If he was crazed enough to imagine her Allegra, then he was more than some con after Uncle Rob’s money. There was no telling what anger he might work out on her.

  He backed out of the bathroom. “I need some sleep.”

  Through the open door, she watched him empty his pockets, lay her phone and his gun on the table beside him, and then stretch out prone on the bed. Within minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened; he snored. She writhed and tugged against her bonds.

  If she screamed would someone hear? Would anyone care? He would gag her—or beat her senseless. Her whole body shook. She couldn’t see the watch on the wrist tied behind her, but she knew it was too late for Uncle Rob to return her call. The tiny note she’d left would probably lie inside her door for days, a piece of evidence in a crime bag after the fact.

  She sank back against the pipes under the sink and pulled her knees to her chest. Drawing a jagged breath, she fought the tears. The bang on her head felt wet and throbbed. Her arms and shoulders ached. Her lips had swollen. But it could get worse. If Curt thought she was Allegra, or got angry that she wasn’t … Lord! Fear choked her. Help me.

  Into her mind came the blurred image in the photo that someone had called her strong angel. Cameron claimed she had divine protection; the centipede, the falls, Malakua. Was it true? Was any of it true?

  Closing the door behind the police, Cameron released his breath. The officer who’d recognized him from the tabloids had assumed he had legitimate access to Gentry’s place. He never thought he’d be glad for those rags, but it had given his presence and his fears legitimacy, and though he’d furthered the impression that he and Gentry were lovers, he didn’t care.

  He’d laid out the situation, shown them the note. The officers were treating it as an abduction rather than a missing person, which would have required a delay of days. The lack of disorder indicated that Blanchard had a weapon, probably a gun. Otherwise Gentry would have fought.

  All over the city, cops would be on alert for Gentry Fox, for her car, her credit cards. But was it all too little, too late? Fatigue dragged him to the futon. Though he doubted he could, he needed to sleep. It was too intimate to use her bed, too presumptuous. He’d like nothing better than to get caught there, if it meant she was free and able to do so, but he was too realistic to imagine it.

  He lay back, assailed by memories of Gentry lighting candles, her eyes laughing, her mouth … Fear caught him by the throat. “Jesus,” he breathed. He’d carped about Alec kissing her, but darker thoughts assailed him now.

  Curt had seduced her aunt. What would make him keep his hands off Gentry Fox? Ransom and leverage were probably the reasons he’d taken her. But this was a man who used sex as a tool. He was already wanted, desperate. If Gentry pushed him, angered him …

  He clenched his fists. Denny had called her a light in the darkness. Was she so radiant, evil couldn’t tolerate her?

  He pressed his hand to his face. Lord. Akua. She’s in your hands. He closed his eyes and saw her flinging off the centipede. He’d believed on the island. Did he believe now?

  Gentry cringed against the chipped bathtub, averting her face when Curt came in and relieved himself. His crassness chilled her as she gagged on the sharp odor. He zipped his pants and stood there with an expression she didn’t want to see. How desperate must Aunt Allegra have been to fall for the sensuality he exuded?

  The frailty she’d seen at Uncle Rob’s, the despair in her aunt’s face, explained so much—a woman fighting time, faith, and anything too real. Curt Blanchard found and exploited weakness. And while she’d never thought of Aunt Allegra as weak, he’d seen what the rest of them had missed.

  She pulled against the cord. Both wrists were raw. She had worked at it throughout the night, whenever she woke from the snatches of sleep that had overcome but not restored her. These were not the gentle knots Cameron had tied when Malakua ordered it. Kai. If he knew, nothing would stop him helping her.

  But how would he know anything was wrong? Not talking to her one night wouldn’t tell him. She twisted her wrist; the cord only dug in. If she had stayed and read with Alec, would she be safe now? If she hadn’t left early … But she’d followed her conscience. And now this.

  She inched away when Curt squatted beside her. Though a handsome man, the smile that found his lips was ugly. She braced herself when he touched the swelling on her lip where his teeth had ground it into hers. Her stomach turned.

  “Sleep well?”

  She was not playing his game. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled as he experienced the power of her helplessness, her need to ask because she couldn’t get up high enough to use the toilet. He could refuse, but he reached under the sink and untied the cord from the pipe.

  She imagined head-butting him, but there was hardly room to stand. Her hands were trapped behind her back, and he would clobber her. He took the gun from atop the toilet tank and held the end of the cord like a leash while she struggled to her feet.

  She looked him in the face. “I’d like some privacy.”

  He stepped out and pushed the door almost closed.

  Immediately she realized her mistake. How could she undo her jeans? Trembling, she called, “Curt.”

  He opened the door with a lascivious look. “Need help?”

  “I want my hands untied.”

  “Can’t risk it.”

  “You’ve got a gun.” You slimy coward.

  He pondered, then turned her around. She gasped with relief when her arms fell to her sides. Her thumb and forefinger felt like frozen sausages. She’d probably crushed the carpal nerves trying to get free. Tears stung, but she would not let him see. She waited until he had walked back out, and then closed the door. There was no escape from the bathroom, no window, no ceiling panel or air vent large enough to slip through, only a rusty fan vent and a cracked light fixture.

  When the toilet flushed, he opened the door, gun raised. He motioned her toward the bed.

  H
er stomach clutched into a fist, but he said, “Call your uncle.”

  She sat down near the nightstand where he had laid her phone, then opened it and dialed. Please, Uncle Rob, please. The phone rang. Oh, God, please let him answer.

  “Good morning, Gentry.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Curt snatched the phone from her hand without shifting his aim. “Listen close.”

  “Who is this? What’s going on?” Her uncle’s voice carried.

  “You know who it is. And it’s what’s going to happen that matters; what you’re going to do, and what I’m going to do if you don’t.”

  She quailed at the look he shot her. What would stop him doing anything? Her muscles tensed. Her hands were free. She could jump him right now. The bullet might go wide, or it might rip through her abdomen, followed by a whole cylinder of cartridges tearing through her. She wasn’t that desperate. She prayed he wasn’t either.

  Curt instructed Uncle Rob to send the money to his offshore account, money he’d been willing to kill for. What would stop him now? She could identify him, testify in court. He must know that. She had to get away. But how?

  Hiding her fear had kept her strong, but showing it might lower his guard. She needed a director to tell her which way to take the scene—and then she realized she had one. Lord, show me how to go over these falls, how to stop this wrong.

  If this were a script, there’d be something she could do. But it wasn’t make-believe. It was real. And she could die.

  Curt pocketed her phone and picked up the cord. “Lie down.” His voice was cold. “Hands over your head.”

  Her breath stopped. Fight. Kick the gun from his hand. Run for the door. But it was bolted and safety chained. He was bigger, stronger. She wouldn’t make it out.

  “On your face on the floor.” He pressed the barrel of the gun to her head.

  She dropped to her knees, shaking. He pushed her down, pinned her arms with his knees, his weight on her back. He knotted her hands with the cord. Then he attached the other end to the leg of the bed frame against the wall. The minute he released her, she rolled to her side, but his face was right there.

  “A note to the sex goddess. If I want it, I’ll take it.” He stood.

  She pressed her back to the bed frame. It was time to report to the studio. What would they think when she didn’t show? Alec might tell them she’d been acting strange. They’d call, send a runner to her apartment, but no one could get in; no one had a key, not even Cameron. How had she thought they would find her note?

  She pictured Dwight, tight-lipped and sharp, cursing the money she was costing them. He’d shoot scenes that didn’t include her and hadn’t been on the call sheets, but that would take time to gather the actors, rearrange the sets. Time and money.

  It made her sick to think of Uncle Rob scrambling to meet the demand. Could he come up with so much? He’d done well, but … that well?

  Curt sat down against the wall, confident that she’d been neutralized. She couldn’t do anything he didn’t want her to, and he could do anything he wanted.

  “So. Tell me about the kid.”

  She swallowed. “What kid?”

  “You know the one.”

  Then it hit her. “Troy?”

  The air-conditioning unit came on with a heavy growl. It hadn’t cooled the bathroom, but it chilled her now where she’d sweat a circle at the neck of her cotton tank.

  Curt leaned forward. “Tell me how he felt about you.”

  “He had a crush. He’s just a boy.”

  Curt rested his forearms across his knees. “Why you?”

  She shook her head. “I gave him a venue to express his feelings. I guess he got confused.”

  “He wasn’t confused.” Curt stood and paced the room. “He wanted to be recognized, appreciated.”

  “He was.” She raised her chin, “I gave him a chance through therapeutic improv to work through his feelings, but also to learn the craft. He knew he had talent. I gave him confidence.”

  Curt sneered. “You didn’t get it. You still don’t.”

  She sighed. “Maybe not. But at least I tried.”

  Curt’s anger gave way. He slid down the wall to the floor and stared at her. He was at least ten years older, probably more, but looked as lost as the kids she’d tried to help. Maybe he was what happened when no one did.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Cameron woke up in Gentr y’s apartment, amazed his eyes had even closed. He’d been lured to sleep by an assurance that drained from him now like sweat. He sat up, went down the hall and showered in Gentry’s bathroom, surrounded by her scented soaps, candles, and shampoos. Only, her scent was missing.

  In the kitchen, he sipped a mug of bitter grocery store coffee and called the police for a status report. The first person he reached was not forthcoming. “Then give me to the person authorized.”

  The detective in charge of the case came on the line and told him they’d found several overnight withdrawals from Gentry’s account from various ATMs. They’d collected video from those locations and plugged them on the map, but she was the only person visible in her own vehicle. In other words, nothing to prove Curt Blanchard’s involvement.

  He dropped his forehead into his hand. “What can I do to assist the investigation?”

  “We’re aware of your qualifications and your relationship, Mr. Pierce.” Detective Stein’s voice had rusty undertones. He didn’t like his toes stepped on. “The best you can do is stay calm and available, in case she tries to reach you.”

  No way he was calm, and available? “I’ll be as reachable doing something as not.” Gentry had all his numbers in her phone. She could reach him if she got the opportunity. “This isn’t just anybody. We’re talking Gentry Fox.”

  “In this department, everyone’s case is taken seriously, and we don’t know for sure that she’s in danger.”

  “Don’t know …”

  “Mr. Pierce, we’re doing all we can to locate Ms. Fox. But what we have right now to indicate foul play is a scrap of paper that could have been part of an errand list.”

  He expelled a breath. “She was attacked on Kauai. Days ago she recognized the man who ordered it. Now she’s missing. How much more do you need?”

  “We have competent officers on the search. My partner and I are covering every angle.”

  “What other angles are there?”

  “In the bank security tapes from last night, Gentry Fox appears to be on her own.”

  Cameron gripped the phone. “The officers who responded agreed Curt was probably armed. He could have stayed out of sight in the car and still had her at gunpoint.”

  “We are proceeding with that assumption, as you’ve seen on the news. All units are on alert for her and her possible companion. Trust us to do our job. And don’t get sideways of this investigation. We won’t look away from the kind of thing you pulled on Kauai.”

  “Fine.” The worst thing he could do was antagonize the detective. “But keep me in the loop.”

  “That I can do.”

  Mug in hand, Cameron invaded the living room. He wanted a plan, needed one, but Detective Stein had neutralized him. His glance fell on Gentry’s Bible. He sat down in the chair and picked it up. The pages were penciled with dates and comments, personal notes and study notes, and a lot of thoughts with question marks that might have been Daniel’s interpretations.

  He flipped through the pages where she’d inserted markers, passages she wanted to find easily. It felt like reading her diary, but he was glued to the notes in the margins. Joy poured from her scribbles, as she found new meaning or personal application to phrases and paragraphs. Her words illuminated passages he’d heard but had never taken personally.

  A ribbon marked Psalm 64; verses 2 and 3 were highlighted and underlined. “Hide me from the conspiracy of the wicked, from that noisy crowd of evildoers. They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim their words like deadly arrows.” Beside it she’d written, Pray for Troy
.

  His heart squeezed. Where was she? How was she? Brave, yes, and strong. Spitting mad, he hoped. He couldn’t imagine her afraid, broken, violated. And he wouldn’t. He pulled out his phone.

  The washcloth bound into Gentry’s mouth with a lamp cord, would keep her quiet. The cord connecting her wrists to the bed held fast. Curt went out to the motel office to pay up a couple days and keep the manager off his back. But when he ducked into the tight and dingy office, Gentry was on the portable TV with a snapshot of him alongside. It was like a hammer to the head.

  How could they know? He’d told Fox to keep silent. Cold fury gripped him. He ducked out before the manager responded to the bell on the door. Swearing all the way to the room, he let himself in, anger forming like a fireball in his gut.

  He ripped the cord off and yanked the rag from her mouth. “What did you do?”

  She lay there, scared and confused.

  “How do they know? The cops. The press.”

  “I told you I’d be missed.”

  He shook his head and paced. “I warned him not to talk to anyone.”

  “It wasn’t Uncle Rob. They’ve been looking for you since the party. What did you expect when you showed up there?”

  “Shut up.” He hated someone telling him his mistakes, like he didn’t know already. She sounded like his mother. “Just shut up.” He should have left the gag in. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do it with her shrilling in his ears.

  He’d remained anonymous through the whole interaction with Malakua and left him to take the heat. He’d pulled all kinds of cons, but he’d never been on the run. What should he do?

  He’d planned to leave Gentry in the room once the money was transferred, but now he’d need a hostage. And then what? If he left her alive she could finger him. He swore.

  All he’d wanted was Allegra and the life she had. He could have cleared his debts, gotten his neck out of the noose. They could have been happy. But she’d gone back to Rob. He smashed his fist into the other palm.