A Dark Place

by Keith Yocum

  “Is one of them Judy?” he said quietly.

  Louise turned to look at Dennis.

  “Not sure, since there’s a problem with the bodies.”

  “Problem?”

  “Ghastly, but it’s meant to prevent them from being identified quickly. Or at least until we can use DNA. But if we don’t know who they are to start, we don’t know who to match the DNA with. You with me on that?”

  “I don’t get it, Ian.”

  “The bodies don’t have hands and feet. They’ve been removed. And the heads are missing too. Just the torso left. No clothes. Some folks at the Yard think they’re women who have been used up, as it were, as prostitutes in a human trafficking scheme. Or they overdosed, or there’s a serial killer loose. But the recent grave, well, I gather they think it might be this Aussie woman Judy. The timing seems to suggest it might be linked. But of course it’s not certain. They’re sending to Australia for a DNA sample from this woman’s son.”

  Dennis swallowed several times and twisted his beard with his left hand.

  “Dennis, you there?”

  “Yes, still here.”

  “I didn’t say it was this woman Judy, you understand. I just thought you’d want to know. Might be totally unrelated.”

  “Would you let me know about the DNA test?”

  “Of course. But don’t forget that this may be unrelated.”

  “Sure.”

  Dennis hung up and put the phone on his lap.

  Louise stared out the window. She had heard enough of the one-sided conversation to remain silent.

  ✦

  Judy heard them walking down the hallway and sat up on the right side of the bed so that she could force them to use her left arm for the injection. She had loosened the sash on her gown to make it easier to move.

  Judy was startled to see Voorster with Agata and the small man. He had not shown up in person for an injection since the last incident.

  She held out her left arm as Agata tied the tube around her bicep, and the small man bent over and opened the black bag on the bed next to her.

  “You disappointed me,” Voorster said in his clipped South African accent. “I had plans for you. Good plans, you and I. Not to be, Judy. You are a fighter, and you’re wasting away. My friend here says you are not breakable. Says he’s never seen it before.”

  Judy watched the small man fill the syringe, and then he looked briefly for an open spot on her damaged left forearm. As he leaned forward, Judy glanced up at Voorster, then ripped the syringe out of the small man’s hand in one swift movement.

  She knew they would not expect it, and her only fear was that she would be too weak to actually grab the syringe. But it worked as planned; the syringe was in her right hand, her thumb was on the plunger, and as the small man jerked back from her, she leaped forward and stabbed him in the left side of his exposed neck, as close to the jugular as she could get, plunging her thumb down at the same time.

  Agata screamed and fell backward to the floor. Voorster stood still, momentarily stunned, while the small man staggered back against the wall, ripping the syringe out of his neck and throwing it on the floor. Judy, Agata and Voorster looked at the small man, who roared with fury and stepped forward to take a swing at Judy.

  She rolled away to the other side of the bed and felt his fist glance off her shoulder.

  “You bitch,” Voorster yelled as he grabbed the small man by the shoulders to hold him up, but it was too late; the small man made a small sighing sound and then collapsed onto the floor.

  Judy had planned this meticulously, and it had worked so far; she knew the injection would put the small man down and that Agata would cower and scream. But she had not counted on Voorster being there and had no plan to deal with him. Perhaps she might land one weak punch at his Adam’s apple, if she could muster that much. But he could easily strangle the life out of her or crack her skull with several stiff kicks.

  “Damnit!” Voorster yelled. “Help me get him on the bed.”

  Agata scrambled to her feet, and they clumsily got the small man onto the bed. Voorster checked for a pulse on the man’s neck, then on his wrist.

  Finally, he looked up at Judy in pure rage and shot around the bed to get at her.

  CHAPTER 23

  Shit, Louise, it’s him.”

  She turned and looked at the man walking up the steps to the doorman.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “Let’s get suited up, then. Get back there now.”

  Dennis barely remembered what he was doing; the call from Ian had drained him of energy. Was Judy dead? Was that her headless body in a shallow grave north of London? He was not really surprised; the chance of finding a missing person alive weeks after an abduction was extremely low. Still, he had persevered with the thought that she had beaten the odds. But now, with Ian’s call rattling around in his head, he was growing morose.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Louise asked, ripping off her sunglasses to glare at him.

  “Huh?”

  “What the hell has gotten into you? You forgot your vest. And your gloves. You have to wear gloves. Didn’t we go through this already, for chrissakes?”

  “Yes, sorry. Got it,” he said, taking off his jacket to put on the Kevlar vest.

  She grabbed his arm and dug her fingernails into the skin.

  “Listen, Dennis, I’m not going into this thing with a weak partner; we’ll never make it out. Either you’re focused and ready, or we’re not going. Seems that phone call took something out of you. From the part I heard, they found a body, but it’s not clear whether it’s Judy or not. So why are you suddenly a fucking mess? I thought this was the guy who did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is there a slight chance she might be in this building?”

  “A tiny chance, yes.”

  “Then are you going to grow the fuck up and be a reliable member of this team, or do we bag it?”

  Dennis thought he’d seen all the sides of Louise’s personality, but he had not seen this person before. Her pale blue eyes were almost too luminous to look at, and her expression was hardened into a fierce block of pale granite.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m ready.”

  They got out of the van from the rear. Louise wore a red beret and her small ponytail jutted out behind. She wore a pair of gray wool gloves. Dennis noticed that her right forefinger was stiffly extended.

  Dennis wore dark blue slacks, a light brown jacket and a logo-less maroon baseball cap. They both wore sunglasses.

  They crossed the street and walked arm and arm toward the building, just as she directed, they were to act like an affectionate couple on an afternoon stroll.

  When they got to the awning, Louise suddenly looked up at the doorman.

  “Excuse me, is this a hotel?” she said, leading Dennis up the steps.

  “Ah, no, miss,” the burly doorman responded in a thick accent. He wore a full-length double breasted navy blue wool coat, blue slacks and black polished shoes. He also wore a pair of black leather gloves, but his shaved head was hatless.

  “I thought this was a hotel,” she repeated. “Are you sure? I saw it on a brochure at the hotel.”

  Dennis smiled, as he had been directed, and kept his eye on the doorknob of the huge, ornate glossy black door.

  Louise reached into her inside coat pocket and pulled out a brochure, unfolded it and pointed at something.

  “See, it says so right here.”

  The doorman frowned and took a step closer to look at the brochure. As he leaned forward, his chin exposed, Louise pointed her extended right forefinger under his chin. There was a small whoosh of air and the man yelled, “Ow!” and grabbed his throat as if stung by a wasp.

  Angry, he grabbed Louise by the shoulders and y
elled, “What the bloody hell was that!”

  Dennis released her arm and reached for the doorknob, turned and pushed it open, leaving the hulking man and Louise behind him. He prayed that this silly palm pump weapon was going to work as she promised.

  Inside the plush, ornate foyer, Dennis saw a startled, well-dressed, dark-haired man in his thirties behind a counter. A very attractive, very tall blond woman, also well dressed, stood next to him.

  Before they could speak, Dennis did as Louise instructed.

  “Excuse me,” he said, holding the door open. “There appears to be something wrong with your doorman. He might be sick.”

  Both rushed from behind the counter to the door as Louise led the doorman inside.

  “Philippe,” the woman said, “what is wrong?”

  But Philippe was not doing well. He was still ambulatory, and Louise did her best to direct him to one of the sofas, where he collapsed, his eyes rolling around. He made a guttural sound and gestured to his throat.

  “I think he had a heart attack,” Louise said.

  Dennis furiously scanned the foyer, looking for hallways, doors and any obvious CCTV cameras. Louise told him there would be no cameras in sight, but she was convinced they would be there somewhere.

  “Philippe!” the young man said, leaning into the doorman’s face. “What happened? Are you all right? Can you speak?”

  Dennis stepped backward behind the woman and slowly withdrew the 32-caliber from his coat pocket. He heard the faint whoosh sound again as Louise fired another glass pellet into the side of the young man’s exposed neck.

  “Ahh!” he screamed, holding his neck and standing up in alarm. “What did you do?” he yelled at Louise.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  The young man stumbled away from Louise, his eyes wild with fear. “You stabbed me! You stabbed me!”

  Louise opened her gloved hands palms up and said, “No, I didn’t. What’s wrong?”

  The young woman rushed to her colleague. “Michael, what is wrong?”

  Dennis noticed both of them had foreign accents and were, as Louise had predicted, completely confused by these unfolding events.

  Suddenly the young man sagged and Louise rushed to help the woman lead him to a large brown leather chair. She turned to Louise. “What did you do to him? And him?” she said, pointing at the doorman, who had slumped sideways onto the couch. His eyes were closed, and he was snoring lightly.

  Dennis stepped behind the woman, grabbed her arm and put the tip of the silencer against her temple.

  “Come,” he said, pulling her to the small counter.

  Louise rushed to the front door and slid two large bolts to lock it. Then she closed the two cloth curtains on either side of the huge Victorian-era door. She joined Dennis and the woman behind the small counter.

  “How many guests do you have?” Dennis asked.

  The woman shook her head violently and said nothing. Dennis could not tell whether she was frightened of them or someone else, but her eyes kept darting to the two cell phones on the counter.

  Louise pulled a gun out of her pocket with her left hand and placed the silencer against the woman’s nose, of all things, and said, “How many?”

  “Three,” the woman said.

  “Where?” Louise said.

  The woman pointed to a hallway behind them, her long arm shaking violently.

  “Dennis!” Louise said.

  He remembered his task.

  “Where is the recording equipment?” Dennis said.

  “No recordings. Not allowed.”

  Louise pressed barrel against her nose again.

  “Tell me where the recordings are made,” Dennis persisted.

  “No recording. We don’t have. Please.”

  Louise rolled her eyes.

  “You have recording equipment here. We know you do. Your clients don’t think you do, but we know you do. One last time. Where is it?”

  Before the woman could finish saying “No recording,” Louise lowered her pistol and shot the woman in the top of her right foot, the silencer partially muffling the sound. Dennis jumped nearly as far as the woman did, but the woman went down in a scream, grabbing her leg.

  “Louise!” Dennis said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We need to get to the recording device, Dennis. We’re being recorded right now, and we need to destroy it or we’ll probably go to prison. Get this lady off her ass to lead you to where the recording equipment is. I’m going to look for Judy, and I don’t want you to be with me if I find her. I thought I told you that. Get moving!”

  Dennis leaned down and put his hand over the wounded woman’s mouth.

  “Shut up,” he said, suddenly feeling buoyed by Louise’s ferocity and the thought that she might find Judy. If she was here, he knew it would be better if Louise found her first.

  Dennis jerked the woman to her feet, though she could barely walk. The woman whimpered her way down a small, carpeted hallway, leaving a thin trail of blood.

  She stopped in front of a door and leaned against the opposite wall, her eyes closed in pain.

  “Here?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The door was locked.

  “Keys, please.”

  “No keys.”

  Dennis pointed his weapon at her other foot. She yelped and put her hands together as if praying. “They do not give us keys! We don’t have. I tell you the truth. Please!”

  Oddly, Dennis believed her. He tried to test the door’s strength by shoving it with his shoulder. It was solid.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Dennis had never shot a lock off of a door, like they did in movies. He did not know how to do this and wished briefly that Louise were next to him, because she seemed capable of anything.

  He stood back from the door, aimed at the keyhole and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he fingered off the safety.

  The pop of the silenced 32-caliber was loud but barely dented the keyhole. He fired again as the woman slid to the floor and cried. He shoved the door with his shoulder, but it remained firm.

  He flipped the safety back on, slid the gun into his coat pocket and reached around inside to the small of his back and pulled out the 9 mm. This time the pop was louder, and he aimed for the area above the keyhole but below the knob. Wood splinters shot into the air, and he fired two more times in quick succession.

  This time the door gave a little bit when he hit it with his shoulder. He took a more severe angle at the lock and fired, splintering more pieces of wood. But the door barely budged.

  “Damnit, damnit, damnit!” he yelled. He took a deep breath to calm down, gave the whimpering woman a glare and then leaned to look at the lock more closely. He realized that he would never open the door by shooting the lock mechanism itself but looked at the wood molding around the door where the lock bolt sat inside the wall.

  He stood back, flinched, and shot three rounds into the molding at the area where he thought the bolt would be housed in the wall. He reared back and threw his right shoulder against the door, and it moved several inches as the wood split on the molding and old wall plaster gave way. But it still would not open completely.

  Dennis reared back and flew at the door with his shoulder. The door gave way, with pieces of drywall and wood falling to the floor. He flipped on a light switch and illuminated a small den that held a desk and two laptop computers. He pulled the power cords out of the computers and put the laptops into a small bag Louise had given him.

  The crying women let out a bigger moan as Louise poked her head in.

  “Judy?” Dennis asked.

  She shook her head.

  He sagged. Louise stepped in and took the bag.

  “Keep an eye
on her and the hallway,” she said. He stepped outside and kneeled next to the woman.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said, looking at her nylon-stockinged foot. It had a small hole in the top. “Bullet went right through. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here soon.”

  But the tall blond woman continued to cry softly, rocking back and forth as she cradled the shin above her wounded foot.

  Louise returned.

  “Were other guests here?” Dennis asked.

  “Yes, just as she said. Three customers and three women. They’re all sleeping now, though I’m nearly out of pellets. Judy is not there, or your South African.”

  Louise kneeled down and grabbed the crying woman’s chin in her gloved left hand.

  “Where’s the basement?”

  The woman pointed to the foyer. “Other door. Is locked. Key is at front desk. I show you.”

  “Is someone down there?” Dennis asked, lifting her to her feet.

  “Yes.”

  “Are women down there?”

  “Yes, I think.”

  The woman could barely walk as she led them to the desk. Dennis stopped, picked her up and carried her to the desk, gently setting her on a stool.

  “There,” she said, pointed to a key ring.

  Louise grabbed the keys. “Which one?”

  She pointed to an old-fashioned skeleton key.

  Louise grabbed the two cell phones on the counter and pocketed them. Then she reached into one of her coat pockets, pulled out a plastic zip tie, and spun the woman around on the stool. She tied her hands behind her back, spun her around again, pulled another tie out and bound her ankles together.

  “Is that necessary?” Dennis asked.

  “Jesus, Cunningham,” she said, shaking her head.

  They walked over to the basement door, and for the first time Dennis noticed Louise was visibly nervous. She took off her beret and jammed it into one of her coat pockets. She pulled off her right glove, and detached the palm pump and put it into her other coat pocket.

  “Safety off?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “For the record, Dennis, basements are bad. I don’t like this, but there’s no other way in. Either we wait for your friend to come up or we go down and see what’s there. I say we go down and get this over with. We don’t have much more time with these guys,” she said, pointing to the doorman and the young man. “That stuff is a sedative, not a poison.”