Then she felt it, and remembered. The creeping blackness. Jim’s restaurant. The sense that something besides the alarm was off. The burning cigarette. The disgusting, twisted perversion bleeding into her from behind, wafting like a foul stench from the manager—scratch that—the former manager of The Fourth Street Café and Eatery. Rob the Rapist. A baseball bat to the side of the neck, the groping, and a punch in the face.
Her jaw was sore and she couldn’t move her lips. She put it all together—her lips, the cutting against her wrists and ankles, her aching butt and her sore back. She was bound to a chair and her mouth was taped shut.
She almost let out a whimper, but stopped herself just in time as a wave of thoughts and ideas came steamrolling into her mind. Stay still. Stay calm. He doesn’t know you’re awake. Come on, Em, think. Remember the ship. Remember the experiments. You’re strong. You can do this. Think it through. You’re a warrior. You’re a survivor. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Wait for the jump. It’ll come. Then bust him up when time gets slow and you get fast. He deserves to die. For those children, Em. Do it for them.
Her insides churned, making her emotions grow. Soon, the tingle in her spine began to take root.
Finally, she thought.
She heard movement in the room. She kept her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, all the while listening and using her remaining senses. She could smell his stench as the air moved across her face. He was close. Damn close.
No! No! No!
She tried to flash on him, but he wasn’t registering on any of her channels. He must have been distracted, looking away. The jump was coming, but she needed more time.
Hold it together, Em. Just a few more minutes.
She heard footsteps behind her. Then the pervert started whistling a happy children’s tune—“Hush Little Baby”—it made the tiny hairs on her arms and neck stand on end.
His footsteps circled her. Once. Twice. Three times, all the while he continued with the sinister whistling.
Her heart was beating so hard she thought her chest would explode into chunks. Each thump rattled her eardrums and pressed against her temples.
Then the whistling stopped and he spoke. “There’s no need to try and fool me, Little Flower. I can tell from the way you’re breathing that you’re awake. Welcome back, my precious.”
A hand pressed against her cheek, then a finger dug into her skin. She felt a stinging pain across her lips when he ripped the strip of tape from her mouth.
She opened her eyes. He was standing in front of her wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a sadistic smile. His boxers were sticking straight out like a tent pole from the middle, and his eyes were on fire—driven with pure evil—sizing her up for his version of playtime.
She was in a storeroom, not much bigger than her bedroom in her mother’s house. The shelves around her were stuffed with canned goods and restaurant cleaning supplies.
Rob raised a chef’s knife—its glistening, serrated edge only an inch from her right eye.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped her across the face, then pressed his hand over her mouth, gripping her cheeks with his powerful fingers.
He sang the same tune that he was whistling using a soft, gentle, fatherly voice.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns to brass, Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa’s gonna buy you a billy goat. And if that billy goat won’t pull, Papa’s gonna buy you a cart and bull. And if that cart and bull turn over, Papa’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover. And if that dog named Rover won’t bark, Papa’s gonna buy you a horse and cart. And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”
His eyes turned black when the song was over. He held the tip of the knife to her cheek.
“Now, sweet little baby, will you be good for Papa if I take my hand away from your mouth? No screaming, now, okay?”
She nodded.
He let go of her. The jump tingle was now moving up her back.
Almost there, Em. Hang on.
“Thirsty,” she rasped, trying to buy time for the countdown to finish. “Water . . . please.” She looked at him with desperation.
“Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I got so wrapped up in your lullaby that I must have forgotten.”
He reached to the shelf next to him, taking a glass of what looked like lemonade. “I fixed you something refreshing.”
He held it to her lips, turning the glass up.
She gulped—it was lemonade—taking half of it down her throat before she noticed an odd, bitter taste that had been masked by the sweetness.
His smile turned even more evil than before, if that was possible.
“That should do the trick,” he said. “A special concoction prepared by a chemist friend of mine who loves sweet little babies, too. Very fast acting. Your special night would have gone a lot smoother if you hadn’t fought back. But since you did, baby needs medicine to help her stay calm.”
Her heart sank. He’d just drugged her. It only took seconds for her vision to blur and her head to swim. The drug was overpowering her senses, just like he’d promised. She could feel the chemicals taking her emotions away, sending the jump tingle back into the shadows of oblivion.
Rob put the knife to her throat and drew it lightly across the flesh, not breaking skin, then traced a line to the nape of her neck.
He took the neckline of her t-shirt with his other hand, holding it away from her body. He pushed the tip into the worn cotton.
“I like Lenny Kravitz, too, sweet little baby. See? We have something in common.”
He sliced downward, cutting the t-shirt open along the front, grinning and licking his lips as he worked. He put the tip of the knife under the loose-hanging sides of her shirt—first one side, then the other, pushing the fabric out of the way.
The two sides of the material were now hanging from her shoulders, exposing her breasts.
“My, my, my, how delicious. Like a ripe little peach. And I fancy a sweet confection. Let’s move you to a better position, shall we? That way we can both enjoy this properly.”
Emily lost her will to fight as tears started to flow from her eyes. She was trapped, unable to stop this man. All she could think about was her mother, lying on the floating medical table in the ship, helpless to stop her captors and their evil intent.
That’s what she was, helpless. Despite all her gifts and all her powers, she was completely at the mercy of a monster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Derek ran down North Central Avenue, leaving Saint Joseph’s Hospital and Jim Miller behind him, sleeping in his hospital bed.
Emily had never shown up and he’d almost given up and gone home, but something stopped him from walking away forever. He decided to go have a talk with Jim Miller and find out more about the errand that he had sent her on. He’d snuck into the hospital and gone up to Miller’s room, where he found Jim sedated and groggy, but Derek managed to keep him awake long enough to extract the information that he needed. Jim told him that Emily was supposed to grab a stack of sensitive files from the safe in his office after the restaurant closed for the night. But it shouldn’t have taken her more than five minutes.
Derek took off running at that moment, praying that everything was okay. A million flashes of horror coursed through his head, making his heart swim in its own sea of torment. He fought them back, trying to stay positive as he pushed his body to its limits.
He crossed the walkway bridge, his legs and lungs burning. He turned left on Roosevelt, then left on Fourth.
Come on, you can do this. Don’t stop. Ignore the pain. Breathe. Push through it.
After what seemed like days of running, he found the restaurant, stopped, and leaned forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
The rest
aurant, which was actually a repurposed house, was dark and quiet. He took in seven more gulps of air, then ran through the gate, up the garden path, and looked through the front windows. The dining room was dark, but there was a faint light coming through the set of double doors that led from the dining room to the kitchen in the back. He tried the door. It was locked.
Shit.
Then he remembered the conversation he’d overheard Emily have with Jim, in the last row of the movie theater—key under ficus, she’d said.
What the fuck is a ficus?
He looked around the front porch. There must have been at least half a dozen potted trees. He searched in, around, and under each plant, but couldn’t find a key. She must not have put it back. Maybe she never left. She might still be inside. She could have fallen asleep. Or she left and took the key with her.
He knocked with his fist, pounding on the metal frame holding the glass in place. “Emily? Are you here? It’s me, Derek! Emily?”
He put his ear to the glass and listened. He heard a clanking and crashing sound beyond the entrance, then only silence.
He banged on the door again. “Emily? Let me in! It’s Derek!”
He saw movement inside; a shadow passing in front of the dim light near the back of the café. Someone was inside. Why wasn’t she answering him?
A wicked sensation cut across his shoulders and invaded his spine, charging the hairs on the back of his neck. All the earlier flashes of horrors now joined forces in his mind, making his stomach turn sick. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Emily was in trouble.
He picked up one of the potted trees and hurled it at the front door. Its dirt-filled base shattered the glass into a million pieces. He went inside.
“Emily? Where are you? Answer me!”
He heard someone groaning in pain, over and over. It was coming from the back.
“Emily? I’m coming! Hold on!” he called out as he hustled through the dining room toward the kitchen. He heard more groans. They were muffled, but getting louder. He bolted into the kitchen. It was filled with shadows, and only dashes of light from the electronic displays in the room. He looked, but she wasn’t there.
He passed through the kitchen and ran into a short hallway that ended at a door with the word STOREROOM stenciled on a nameplate. The light in the hall was on, and the door to the room was shut, but he could see light bleeding through the gap at the bottom.
More muffled cries.
Derek scrambled to the door and threw it open. His heart nearly stopped beating.
Emily was naked, and bound spread-eagled against a set of metal shelves. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the vertical shelving supports with string and duct tape, and there was blood dripping from cuts on her collarbone, her ribs, her arms, and the insides of her thighs. Her cheek was red and swollen.
Her eyes flared at him and she tried to say something, but the duct tape covering her mouth was doing its job. He couldn’t understand her words but she was obviously frantic.
He stepped inside, ready to run to her, but stopped when he remembered the moving shadows that he saw before he broke into the restaurant. A thought flashed in his mind: the movement couldn’t have been Emily. Not if she was bound to the shelves. Someone else was here.
Derek heard it before he saw it—a grunt and a rush of air from his left. He ducked instinctively as a baseball bat whistled over his head, smashing into the door frame.
He backpedaled out of the storeroom, down the hallway that led back to the kitchen, but the guy was on him in a heartbeat. The attacker lifted the bat over his head and swung down in a vicious chop. Derek dodged the blow as it skimmed past his head and smashed into the tile floor with a thud.
Derek closed the gap and threw his body at the man’s chest, knocking him to the floor. He landed on top of the kidnapper, then grabbed the bat with both hands. Twisting his body, he wrenched the bat free with leverage.
Derek continued his roll, stopping next to the wall. He stood up and moved over the man, then let loose with a powerful swing.
The man put his right forearm up, stopping the blow from reaching his face. The guy screamed when his arm snapped in half at the impact point—he clearly wasn’t used to being on the other side of a beating.
Derek was seeing red in his thoughts, driven by pure rage. He swung the bat again, this time at the man’s head.
His opponent threw up his other hand in a feeble attempt to protect himself, but the club crashed through his fingers and connected with his forehead, just above his nose. His head made a cracking sound like a walnut.
Derek felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. It amplified his already furious rage.
Finish him off! Do it now!
He drew the bat up to hit him again, but stopped when he heard Emily’s muffled cries from the storeroom.
Derek held his pose while looking at the pitiful excuse for a human being lying at his feet. The man’s face was bloody and he looked to be out cold.
For good measure, Derek stomped on his chest, using every ounce of energy he had remaining. He heard ribs crack and air rush out of the man’s lungs, but his chest was still heaving. He wasn’t dead—not yet—but the broken man certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
Derek flew down the hall to Emily.
***
Emily watched Derek come tearing into the room toward her. She couldn’t believe it. She’d been so scared! Rob had been toying with her for what seemed like forever. He sang to her while making shallow cuts on her skin, then taking the blood and . . . uggh. He was the sickest, most twisted person she’d ever met—and she’d met some maniacal, deranged people. A few of them were otherworldly beings who took the term maniacal to an entirely new level.
The drug that Rob had given her had kept her woozy and pliable for his bidding, and combined with the blow to the neck and the punch to the face, it kept her from forming a jump.
Derek ripped the tape from her mouth and kissed her with the passion of three lifetimes.
His touch ignited her, charging her body with a deluge of new energy. His affection, his closeness, his raw emotions were somehow helping her senses clear, as if their connection was ridding her body of the chemicals keeping her sedated and calm. Her body began to bubble with a surge of energy and emotions. The power of his kiss cut through the drugs, her wounds, and hit the base of her spine.
He pulled away from her mouth. “Emily, holy shit! I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up. I knew you wouldn’t blow me off. What did he do to you? Did he—”
“No, he was going to. But you got here in time.” She fought back a swell of tears that were ready to burst from her eyes. “And yes, you’re right. I would never blow you off. Now could you please get me down?”
She motioned to the left with her head. “On the shelf next to me.”
Derek took the bloody chef’s knife and cut her free. She fell into him. He lowered her to the floor, cradling her in his arms.
She looked into his eyes, and once again felt all of him, all his emotions in one massive burst. But this time he felt different—he wasn’t calm and cool. He was on fire; filled with rage and anger; a jumbled mess of intensity that poured straight into her body. His touch, his arms around her—she felt a jump building in her spine. She knew it was going to be a massive jump and she wasn’t going to be able to stop it, either.
“Derek, you have to get away from me. It’s about to happen.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. I promise I’ll come find you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But the power inside of me is building quickly.”
“Please, Em! Don’t go. Please!”
Pain surged into her forehead. This jump process was moving much too quickly. The energy building inside of her was far too great; she had little time.
“I’m sorry, Derek. I wish I could stop it. But I can’t. Not when it’s like this. Now you know why we can never be together. I might hurt
you. I might never come back. Now get away. Please! Get away from me. It’s coming.”
He kissed her again and then stood up.
Emily watched him back away into the hall that led to the kitchen.
He opened his mouth to say something, but time froze.
All the chemically restrained emotion of the past few hours coursed through Emily’s body and released in one colossal rush.
She curled her body and prepared herself, knowing the pain would be unbearable. She prayed she didn’t go too far into the future. Otherwise, he might forget all about her and move on with some other girl.
A moment later, the blue fire consumed her, and she jumped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Seven minutes earlier . . .
Detective Joseph Alison was in his car, watching the front of The Fourth Street Café and Eatery. He’d been parked there for the past thirty minutes, staking out the diner.
While he waited, he passed the time by thinking through the puzzle that was “The Glassford Girl” and how his friend Millsy was involved. His earlier search of Miller’s house had yielded virtually nothing—only a single digital image of a redheaded girl on a computer tablet. Alison had seen that same photo before—on the TV news.
Morgan and the girl were on the run, and if Miller was helping them, then there was a reasonable chance they would turn up here. It’d be a good place to crash for the night and fire down some grub.
Just then, he spotted his suspect, Derek Morgan—confirming that his hunch was spot on. The delinquent was trotting down the sidewalk in front of Jim Miller’s restaurant, then stopped and bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees.
For half a second, Alison thought about jumping out of the car to go throttle the kid right then and there, but didn’t. Sure, Morgan deserved an ass kicking for the injury he’d inflicted with the bedpan. And for the garbage can assault of an officer. But Alison was parked across the street and fifty yards west of the restaurant. If he approached now, he’d spook the target, leading to a track meet with a teenager that Alison would surely lose.
Glassford Girl: Boxed Set (Complete Series) (Time Jumper Series) Page 19