Tucking the image away, he forced himself to focus on her. “Could you see where the grave was?”
“No. The vision was like all the others. A brief flash that quickly vanished.” Fear filled her eyes.
“Don’t go there. Polly is alive.”
“But the grave.” She brushed at the tears welling up. This time he gently pulled her into his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder. It had been a long time since a woman sought solace from him. When their son died, his wife refused the comfort he’d wanted to give. Comfort he’d needed in return, but never received. Instead, she gave him divorce papers.
When he finally let her go, her tear-filled eyes held a look he couldn’t decipher. Dunning arrived before he could figure it out.
The man and his team quickly bagged the dead flowers and the note.
“Miss Martin, do you have any idea who would have given you these flowers?” Dunning asked.
“No, I don’t. Do you have any idea how they got in my car since the door’s locked,” she snapped back
“Someone must have a key and a somewhat sick sense of humor,” he said.
“Did you see the note? I wouldn’t call that humor.” Brian’s contempt for the man welled up. Angie was frightened and this man was treating what had happened lightly. What a jackass.
“And no one else has a key to my car,” she countered.
“Well, we’ll have to impound your car to go over it for evidence,” Dunning said.
“Impound my car. Great! How am I supposed to get to work?” she asked.
“There’s always the bus,” Dunning called out as he directed one of the other agents to phone for a tow truck.
With this the man headed for his car, leaving his team in charge.
“A bus,” she muttered. “What an arrogant bastard.”
Brian chuckled, putting his arm around Angie. She didn’t pull away. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a ride.”
Brian gave a fuming Angie a ride to her apartment. When he insisted he check out her place before she entered, she muttered something about her life not being her own anymore. He tried to bring her back into his arms, but she refused any more comfort from him. As he left, he warned her to lock her door and secure the chain. She slammed the door in his face.
Right now their personal relationship was tentative. Could it dissolve like ice cream left in the hot sun come morning when the newspaper article appeared? He hoped not. He’d meant to tell her about the story he’d just filed, but the dead flowers sidetracked him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the psychic’s involvement in the case. No, he told himself, getting into his car. He didn’t withhold information when writing a story. His readers wanted all the facts. His desire for Angie now warred with his responsibility as a journalist, and that wasn’t good.
****
A loud clap of thunder rattled the adobe’s windows. The little girl started crying again, high-pitched keening sobs that irritated the shit out of him. Storming into the bedroom, he yelled at her to be quiet. Instead she puckered up her little red face and cried harder.
His hands clenched into angry fists. Watching the tears stream from her frightened eyes, he told himself to calm down. Take deep breaths to better control his temper. Something he’d never been good at.
Impatient anger ate at him when he attempted to feed her another bottle of sedative-laced milk. She refused it, turning her face away and clenching her mouth shut.
“Damn you! Cooperate!” he yelled, stomping out of the room. He had things to do, a schedule to keep. Damn if he’d mollycoddle the tied-up kid. Nor would he molest her. His fun would come with the game he played with Angie and the authorities.
Heading into the living room, he nearly tripped over the wheelchair. “Damn,” he swore, sending the thing across the room.
****
Not wishing to be alone after he arrived back at the condo complex, Brian stopped at the casino’s bar to enjoy a beer and eat. The casino remained surprisingly quiet. The only real action came from a group of people surrounding a guy playing a row of dollar slots. When he began to lose, the cheers subsided and the crowd dissipated leaving the poor guy to grieve his monetary losses alone.
Finishing the last of his beer, he headed upstairs. Walking down the hall, he spotted a bunch of colorful birthday balloons bobbing from the condo’s door handle. It wasn’t his birthday. The kidnapper had struck again. The card read “Rub-a-dub, dub, three people in a tub. Is it time to go for a swim?”
“What the hell does that mean?” he muttered, and why was he now being targeted? It was like the kidnapper thought there was a personal relationship between Angie and him. The article didn’t imply this. He remembered the moment outside the San Diego police station when she’d sought comfort from him and they’d shared that heated kiss. How could the kidnapper know about that? Had he been spying on them? This thought sent an uneasy feeling coursing through him.
Entering the condo, he pulled his cell phone out. He knew he needed to call Dunning, but he wanted to call Angie first. She’d been frustrated by the lack of clues, and this new one made even less sense than the others. The wild goose chase continued.
****
Loud voices woke her from a sound sleep at 3 A.M. Listening, she groaned and rolled over. Her windows were closed and the wall air conditioner was running, but she could still hear her neighbors screaming at each other. Shouting a string of profanities, the husband stomped out slamming the door behind him.
This wasn’t the first time the couple exchanged angry words in the middle of the night. He worked the night shift at a nearby casino. On payday, he’d go to the casino bar, belt down a few, and head for the gaming tables where he’d promptly lose his week’s paycheck.
Angie hated casinos, avoided them when she could. The ringing of the slot machines, the shouts of winners, and the despair of losers overwhelmed her. The frenzied energy of those searching for the illusive pot of gold gave her splitting headaches.
She wondered how much longer the newlyweds could survive before the bride kicked the groom out. She knew firsthand about a marriage gone bad. However, she’d been the one to walk out. When her ex-husband’s inflated ego wouldn’t accept his wife leaving, she’d fled San Francisco and moved to San Diego.
The man had never laid a hand on her, but his demeaning verbal abuse during their marriage cost Angie her self-confidence. It took guts plus a women’s support group to finally leave him. The dead flowers brought back bad memories. The man possessed a sick sense of humor. When she’d left him, he’d sent her a bunch of dead flowers. This time the flowers came from the kidnapper, but it didn’t quiet the uneasiness they’d created. Love could be a cruel mistress. Not one she wished to tangle with again.
She drifted back into a fitful sleep. When she eventually woke, she remembered she needed to take the bus to work because her car remained impounded. Cursing the FBI, she showered, dressed, grabbed her stuff, and headed out. Fumbling with the key for the deadbolt, she dropped the key ring. When she picked it up, she spied a newspaper next to the door.
Her heart skipped a beat. Had the man been at her doorstep again without her sensing it? Angry with herself for being afraid of something so innocuous as a newspaper, she picked it up and peeled off the rubber band. Holding it away from her, she shook it. Nothing tumbled out. Relieved, she tucked the newspaper in her tote and took off at a run toward the bus stop.
****
Brian drove onto the Strip by habit. The traffic was fairly light at this hour. However, he knew bumper-to-bumper cars would soon crawl from stoplight to stoplight.
The MGM Grand loomed in front of him and memories of times with his son flooded back. The boy loved seeing the large golden lion guarding the front of the place. When they passed it, he’d growl and shout “Lion King.”
The candy store adjacent to the MGM Grand was his son’s favorite spot because of the four floors of chocolate heaven. The scent could make any candy lover drool. His
son used to race to the second floor’s containers dispensing twenty-one different colors of peanut and plain candies.
These were good memories, but there were too few of them. Fighting the overwhelming sadness he felt every time he thought about his son, he turned his attention back to the road. He slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting two jaywalkers directly in front of him.
“Shit,” he swore. At the stoplight, he made a right onto Flamingo and drove toward Boulder Highway and Angie’s place. He started to turn off Boulder Highway onto her street when he spotted her sitting at a bus stop reading the newspaper. He pulled up to the curb. Looking up, she frowned. When she stood, she impatiently motioned him to move on. Damn, she’d seen the article.
Reaching across the car, he rolled down the passenger-side window. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m taking the bus.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She again motioned him away.
“Angie.”
“I’m not talking to you. Promises don’t mean anything, do they?” she shouted, shaking the newspaper at him. “You better get out of the way before the bus runs you over.”
A loud horn honked. “Move, buster,” the bus driver yelled out his window. “You’re in a no-stopping zone.”
Brian pulled forward and watched in the rearview mirror as she boarded the bus. He should have talked to her about the article before it appeared. If only she understood the reason for keeping the story alive. With no leads in the case, fewer straight news articles about the kidnapping appeared.
One way to generate more press was to go for the human-interest angle. Sick of straight news stories, people gravitated to these pieces. If he weaved together a continuing story revolving around the case and Angie, people would read it. One of these readers might see something to help find the victim. He wasn’t doing the articles to anger her. He wanted to save a child’s life.
****
She exited the bus and tossed the newspaper in a nearby trashcan. Damn him, she thought. Hadn’t life taught her never to trust a charming man? They might be sexy and attractive, but beneath the surface always lurked a cad, a person not to be believed. At first, she’d thought Brian was different, but she’d discovered he wasn’t.
She trudged through the heat toward her office building passing a cascading waterfall fountain en route. Before crossing the sun-baked concrete leading to the main entrance, she stopped and surveyed the area. Good, no placard-carrying picketers lurked out front. After the San Diego article, a woman showed up at her San Diego work entrance brandishing a sign that denounced psychics as people possessed by the devil.
Today she saw no one, but decided to slip into the building through a side entrance. She was already an hour late. Entering the reception area, the blonde twenty-something receptionist smiled smugly and motioned her over. “When you have time, I’d love for you to read my fortune. My luck hasn’t been—”
“I don’t tell fortunes,” she snapped, cutting her off.
She marched through the maze of cubicles to her workspace passing several co-workers along the way. When they saw her, they stopped talking and stared. While within earshot, she heard them snickering. Obviously, people already read the morning paper. She retreated into her cubicle wishing there was a door to slam shut so she could hide from the prying eyes and curious whispers.
“Damn it, Brian,” she mumbled, sitting down at her desk.
It was her childhood all over again. At the age of six, she’d begun developing her supposed gift. She could predict who was at the door before they knocked. At school, fellow students avoided her when they learned about her psychic ability. She’d wanted to be normal, but always felt alienated from the others. Some even taunted her and called her a freak.
It didn’t end at the school playground. In her own home, she felt like an outsider. Her father accused her of being possessed by the devil and thought the family priest should exorcise her. When her parents took her to a doctor, he diagnosed her as a schizophrenic because she heard voices and saw visions.
Switching on her computer, she attempted to concentrate on her work, but couldn’t. Within minutes, her boss stormed in waving the newspaper in front of her nose. “What is the meaning of this article? This is a conservative accounting firm, Ms. Martin. No one wants a crystal-ball wielding accountant working on their books.”
“I know that, Mr. Cooper. I didn’t write that article.” And I don’t use a crystal ball, she thought.
He glared at her for a minute. Considering how conservative the man was, she held her breath and waited for the words, “You’re fired.”
“Ms. Martin, you’re a damn good accountant. You’ve caught irregularities where others missed them. I’d hate to lose you, but I must protect the firm’s reputation.”
“I understand,” she muttered, still expecting the man to terminate her.
“Why don’t you take a few days off until this blows over and we’ll hope that no one learns where you work?”
She stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t believe what he’d just said. He wasn’t firing her, at least not right now.
“Go home early today. When you leave, hand the accounts you’ve been working on to Ms. Silva. Tell her you’re not feeling well.”
“Yes, sir.”
He started to leave, then stopped. “I’m not sure I believe in this psychic mumbo jumbo, but I hope you can help find that little girl before it’s too late. Good luck.”
Watching him go, she let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d just escaped losing her job. Something she hadn’t done in San Diego. That boss wasn’t as tolerant. She wondered how far her current boss’s patience might stretch. She liked this job and wanted to hang onto it.
The phone rang and she answered it. Hearing the kidnapper’s garbled voice, she cringed. He’d somehow found out her work number. Why not, she thought. He had her home address. Why wouldn’t he find out her work address and number?
“Did you like the article? I thought you’d want to see it first thing this morning.”
He’d been outside her apartment door again and delivered the newspaper. Again, she didn’t sense his presence. The fact that he’d once more invaded her space unnerved her.
“Was that San Diego lady right? Are you a lying charlatan, Angie?”
The phone went silent, and she thought he’d hung up, but he hadn’t.
“Enjoy your bus ride home.”
His diabolical laugh echoed in her ear after she slammed the receiver down. What did he mean by telling her to enjoy her bus ride home? What did he plan to do to her now? A chill traveled down her spine.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday afternoon/Tuesday night
Glancing out the window, he cursed. Another storm brewed. He hated the afternoon thunderstorms and the infernal winds that peppered the windows with disgusting sand. God, he’d be glad to be rid of this place. And rid of them.
The kid tried his patience, and that damn reporter’s glowing words about Angie’s psychic ability made him sick. He’d be glad to put an end to her and all her lying prophecies.
When he reached into his duffle bag, his hand touched something comforting. Smiling, he brought out the Beretta and removed it from its holster. He loved the weight of it in his hand, the power of it when fired. With this, he could take her out right now.
“No,” he told himself. That would be too easy, too quick. To achieve the gratification he craved, he’d wait. Allow her to fail his game and pay a well-deserved, public price for that mistake.
Marching into the child’s room, he grabbed her tiny ankles. She whimpered. He untied the rope wrapped around her legs, and yanked off her pink plastic sandals. He hated the color pink. Pink shorts, pink top, and little pink lips that wouldn’t stop their whining.
He sucked in a deep breath. “Stay calm,” he told himself. It was time to initiate the next part of his plan. Once more the lying fake wouldn’t succeed.
That thought made him smile again. I’ll be so close, but you’ll never know it, my dear Angie.”
He held the gun for another moment savoring the feel of it, before putting it away.
****
Hot, muggy air slammed into her as she left the office building. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any sign-wielding nutcases patrolling the plaza. However, to be on the safe side, she decided to scurry down the palm-tree lined sidewalk in the opposite direction. She’d walk another block to catch the bus, but she didn’t care.
As she reached the bus stop, large drops of rain splattered the sidewalk. She ducked into the bus stop shelter. In the distance, the Stratosphere Tower glowed white against the black clouds billowing over the city. Distant thunder heralded the storm’s approach.
Casino workers, weary from long shifts on their feet, packed the bus. Tourists generally took The Deuce, the double-decker purple bus that ran along the Strip and to area hotels. Locals rode the regular transit buses.
With no seats available, she grabbed the overhead rail. An older, gray-haired woman wearing a large sunhat and baggy clothes got on right after her. The woman squeezed past and walked to the back of the bus. Someone stood and offered the woman a seat.
She scooted away from the person now mashed against her back. She disliked being penned-in, unable to move. But that wasn’t the reason for the uneasiness washing over her. Hatred and evil now permeated the bus’s interior overwhelming her with its presence. She hadn’t experienced emotions like this since the San Diego case. The kidnapper was on the bus.
She studied every passenger, but saw no one suspicious. Most wore baseball hats pulled low on their heads or sunglasses. She couldn’t see their faces or their eyes. The disturbing feeling grew. Desperate, she searched for an escape.
At the next bus stop, she quickly exited the bus and dashed through the pouring rain into the closest casino. Once inside, she glanced behind her. No one who left the bus followed her, but the sense of overwhelming hatred lingered.
One Week To Live Page 6