But seeing the Catherine Wheel had steeled my resolve. If I had to saw off both of my hands to get free, I would.
I closed my eyes and began to rub the rope against the corner of the block, whimpering in my throat, biting the ball gag so hard my jaw trembled.
Chapter 9
Phin’s nerves hummed throughout his body, making his extremities tingle and twitch. He was anxious to act, to do something, anything, to find Jack. But he had no idea what to do. Herb had taken the Lemonheads boxes, and the single yellow piece of candy stuck in the bough of the tree, and was trying to find latent prints on them. Harry was on his laptop, using Identi-Kit facial composite software to put together a picture of the creepy looking guy with the black hair who’d been hanging around his office.
Phin had nothing to do other than pace. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting to hit somebody. He checked on McGlade, half-expecting the uncouth private eye to be surfing porno, but found him working diligently on creating the composite. Then Phin checked on Herb in the kitchen, who was using a ninhydrin spray to stain the prints on the box and candy. It smelled like acetone, and Herb was working on the stove with the vent on.
Harry had checked the two unknown numbers on Jack’s cell phone. Both were billing follow-ups for cases they’d recently had.
Phin considered calling Mary, Jack’s mother, who was on yet another cruise—she took several a year. But Phin couldn’t see any reason to ruin the old woman’s trip, when there was nothing she’d be able to do to help.
“Got a bunch,” Herb said, stepping away from the stove and fanning the air with his palm. “Some good ones. But they’ll need to dry before I can lift them.”
“Can you search the CPD database by arresting officer?” Phin asked.
“Sure. But Jack was on the force for more than twenty years. There are going to be over a thousand perps she arrested during that time.”
Phin stared at Herb, hard. “Then we’d better get started.”
Chapter 10
I had to stop rubbing my wrists against the concrete because I was crying again. It was both shocking and disheartening how a little salt on some superficial wounds hurt so much. I blew air out of my nose, clearing my nasal passages, trying once more to get my breathing under control. The countdown clock drew my eyes yet again.
1:12:19…1:12:18…
I peered over my shoulder, looking to see the amount of nylon cord I’d managed to cut through, feeling a surge of panic when I saw I hadn’t even gotten a third of the way through one of the ropes, and my wrists were wound around several times.
Doing a quick mental calculation, I realized I wasn’t going to free myself in time. I had to speed this up, or I would still be tied up when the clock reached zero.
Snorting in a big, wet breath, my eyes blurry with tears, I sawed my burning wrists against the concrete with renewed fervor brought about by raw fear. My salted wounds hurt more than just about anything I’d ever felt.
But I knew the Catherine Wheel would be a lot worse.
Chapter 11
“How about this guy?” Phin called out while squinting at the computer. For the past half hour, he and Herb had been looking at Jack’s arrest record, cross-referencing perps’ names on the World Wide Web to see if anything recent or interesting came up. They’d gotten as far as the Bs, then Herb waddled off to check if the ninhydrin had dried.
“What’s Jack’s network password?” Harry asked, walking into the room. “I need to print my guy out.”
“It’s crimefighter.”
“Lame,” Harry said, leaning over Phin’s shoulder. “Who’s that fugly bastard?”
“His name is Victor Brotsky.”
Brotsky was fifty-eight years old, pudgy, sweaty, unshaven, with a lazy eye that made him look even crazier than his police record proved he was. The reason Phin was interested in him was twofold. First, he’d recently been denied parole, and rightfully so—the guy was a butcher. The second was an article from three months ago that appeared in the Chicago Record written by someone named Alex Chapa, which showed up in a Google search. SERIAL KILLER DONATES $50K TO CHARITY.
“What’s up?” Herb said, coming into the room.
“Remember this guy?” Phin asked, zooming in on the article.
Herb squinted at the reporter’s picture. “Chapa? Yeah, we crossed paths a few times. A bit of a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t do anything to Jack.”
“Not him. Victor Brotsky.”
“Oh, yeah,” Herb nodded, his chins jiggling. “The worst of the worst.”
“In May he donated fifty thousand bucks to Children’s Memorial Hospital,” Phin said. “Apparently, a rich relative of his died in Russia, leaving him a ton of money.”
“So he tried to buy himself a parole,” Herb said. “And when that didn’t work, maybe he hired a hit man to go after the one who arrested him.”
“Would he be the type to do that?”
“Brotsky? He was an animal. He had to be in restraints during his trial because he tried to attack Jack while she was on the stand.”
Phin scrolled down, scanning the article. “He’s in Stateville. About an hour drive. We can keep searching for other possibles on Jack and Harry’s laptops while we’re driving. Do you have connections at the prison, Herb?”
Herb shook his head.
“I do,” McGlade said. “I know the warden. Guy named Miller. He owes me one. We were at a strip club, and he was heading to the champagne room with a hottie until I pointed out her Adam’s apple. I’ll give him a call.” He looked at Herb. “We could use the law on our side to talk to Brotsky and search his cell. You might have to throw your weight around.”
Herb folded his arms and frowned.
“What?” Harry said.
“I’m waiting for the insult.”
“No insult. If the superintendant is behind this, it’ll make it easier.”
Herb nodded. “Okay. Let me fax the Lemonheads box to the crime lab.”
“I’ll give you my Indenti-Kit composite, too,” Harry said.
Phin was surprised. He didn’t expect the two of them to actually be able to work together. Perhaps they understood the urgency of the situation and were able to put aside their mutual hate society and act like reasonable adults.
Both Harry and Herb took off. A minute later, the printer began to hum, spitting out computer-generated pictures of the man McGlade had seen outside his office, both head-on and profile. Long black hair. Vacant eyes. A pointy chin. Creepy looking guy.
The next pictures were even creepier. Harry had taken Herb’s head and Photoshopped it onto a walrus, with an erection. Subsequent pics had the Herb/walrus apparently making love to various famous people, both male and female. The one that had Herb being ridden by Hitler was particularly well done, for what it was.
In the interest of diplomacy, Phin threw them away before Herb returned with the Lemonheads candy box. It took two minutes to make scans of all six cardboard sides, the prints showing up as purple ink. As Herb was e-mailing them, Harry came back in.
“Did my pics print?” he asked.
Phin handed over the two of the long-haired man.
“How about the others?” Harry asked.
“That was it, McGlade.”
Harry bent down, studying the printer. “You didn’t see one with the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island?”
Phin saw it, and wished there was some way he could unsee it. He grabbed the keys to Jack’s SUV. “Let’s move,” he said.
But the small amount of optimism he had was waning. If Brotsky had hired someone to abduct Jack, it was unlikely he’d talk. And how do you threaten or bargain with a guy who was going to spend the rest of his days locked in a maximum security prison?
Chapter 12
When the countdown timer dropped under sixty minutes, I once again checked out the bindings around my wrists. Through blurry, tear-filled eyes, I saw I hadn’t even gotten through half the rope.
It was no
use. I wouldn’t make it in time. My wrists hurt more than anything I’d ever felt before, like tiny fanged creatures were nibbling away at my raw skin. I let my head rest on the floor, wondering what I was supposed to do next.
Rather than look at the slowly spinning Catherine Wheel, I stared up at the ceiling of the storage locker. I wasn’t a spiritual person. Not one bit. Even so, I searched my mind for any prayers I knew.
That’s when I saw it. Something above me. Something that glinted as it moved.
I blinked away the wetness clouding my pupils, squinting at the object, quickly realizing what it was.
A camera. The son of a bitch was watching me.
Despair dropped on me like a cold, wet blanket. Even if I miraculously beat the countdown clock and untied myself, it wouldn’t matter. If Mr. K was keeping an eye me, he would know when I was breaking free. No doubt he was close by, ready to come in at any moment.
And when that knowledge sank in, I realized, with chilling certainty, that there truly was no way out.
I was finished. This was the end. The only question remaining was how long it would take me to die.
Chapter 13
“Oh…man.”
“What is it, Harry?” Phin checked the rearview and stared at Harry, who was on the phone with the warden of Stateville Correctional Center. At Harry’s prodding, and with a few calls from Herb’s superiors, they’d placed Victor Brotsky in the isolation unit and had searched his cell.
“Brotsky had an iPhone hidden in his mattress,” Harry said. He looked ashen. “There’s some kind of live webcam video image on it. A woman tied up in a small room.”
Phin squeezed the SUV’s steering wheel hard enough for his forearms to shake. “Is it Jack?”
“Brunette, forties, hogtied with a gag in her mouth. Could be Jack.”
“Is she…alive?” Phin asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Harry’s face was slack. “Yeah. But there’s a digital clock next to her. It’s…counting down.”
“How long?” whispered Herb.
“Less than thirty minutes.”
Phin hit the gas. They were on Joliet Road, about eight miles away from the prison.
“Maybe it isn’t her,” Harry said.
Phin hoped that was the case. But he knew better. It wouldn’t be the first time one of Jack’s old cases had come back to haunt her. Imagining Jack tied up, in front of a camera, to be killed for some psycho’s amusement, made Phin’s stomach hurt worse than a year’s worth of chemotherapy. In a way, though, it was better to know where Jack was than to not have a clue. When you know your enemy, you can fight your enemy.
“This Victor Brotsky,” Phin said to Herb. “How bad was he?”
“The worst of the worst. If he’s got Jack…” Herb’s voice cracked.
But Victor Brotsky couldn’t have Jack. He was locked up.
However, he might know who did have Jack.
And if he did, nothing on this planet could save Victor Brotsky from Phineas Troutt.
Chapter 14
O0:15:03…00:15:02…00:15:01…
Fifteen minutes to live.
As I watched the clock, I was oddly philosophical. Once I realized death was inevitable, a cold sort of calm came over me. I was sure there would be fear and panic later, but for the moment, I was retaining some objectivity.
I kind of felt like I was still in college, waiting to get the results of a test. I’d lived for forty-nine years. I’d done things, both good and not so good. I’d tried my best, worked my ass off, pursued and reached my goals.
Now I wanted my final grade.
Did I lead an A+ life?
An A?
At least a B+?
I’d taken some very bad people off the streets. I’d helped a lot of innocent folks. I’d saved some lives. I was a pretty good cop.
On a more personal level, I had loved and been loved. Made friends. Had some fun. Saw some interesting things. Learned a lot.
Was that enough for a B?
My marriage had failed. I’d lost people close to me. Made some big mistakes. Had some big regrets.
Does that get me at least a B-?
Of all my regrets, the one that hurt the most, especially now, was never having children. I’d always been so busy. So dedicated to my job. So intent on saving the world. It would have been nice to have a kid, to pass on some of this wisdom I’d learned, to…
Oh shit.
The memory came stampeding back, making me catch my breath. The memory of last night, clear and focused and full-blown. Standing in the bedroom, looking at Phin in bed, drowsy from his chemotherapy and medication, wanting so badly to tell him about the pregnancy test I just took.
The positive pregnancy test.
I was going to be a mother.
Phin was going to be a father.
I hadn’t expected to see the double line on the little test stick. In truth, I thought the reason for my missed period was the onset of menopause.
But it wasn’t menopause. It was a baby.
A tiny human being, growing inside me.
A miniature version of me. A child. A legacy.
A miracle.
The weight of this realization came crashing down on me, hard. With thirteen minutes left on the countdown clock, I quit being melancholy and reflective, and began to saw the rope with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in my tortured wrists.
I had to get out of there. For the two of us.
Chapter 15
“Got a match,” Herb said, hanging up the phone. “The prints, and McGlade’s picture, belong to a man named Luther Kite.”
They were still five minutes from the prison, even with Phin blowing through red lights and stop signs and crushing the accelerator.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Harry asked.
“Remember the Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre? It made the national headlines seven years ago. Involved that horror author, Andrew Z. Thomas, who went nuts and started killing people back in the nineties. Kite has an outstanding warrant for his connection to the murders, and he’s the prime suspect for a killing spree across North Carolina right before the ferry slaughter. Hung a woman off a lighthouse.”
“Record?” Phin asked, eyes stuck to the road.
“Not much. Arrested for animal cruelty. Resulted in a fine. Seems he skinned some cats.”
Phin waited for Harry to say something flippant, but McGlade remained eerily silent.
“Kite and Thomas have been on the lam for seven years,” Herb continued. “We know there were two people watching the house, and gassing you and Jack while you sleep sounds like something a writer would dream up. Now that we’ve got a solid connection, we should get the media involved.”
Phin nodded. Herb got on the phone again, began making calls. By the time he was finished, everyone in Chicago, Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin would be looking for Jack, Andrew Z. Thomas, and Luther Kite.
Phin hoped it would be enough.
Chapter 16
I had no idea how long the digital countdown clock had been blinking 00:00:00. It may have only been for a few seconds. It may have been several minutes. I was so totally absorbed in trying to get free that I’d blocked out all other fears, thoughts, and senses.
So it was quite a shock when I saw Mr. K standing there, staring down at me.
“Hello, Jack. It’s been a while.”
My wrists—bleeding profusely now—still weren’t free.
I didn’t make it. I was too late.
Then Mr. K pulled something out of his pocket. Small and white, and possibly the most horrifying thing I’d ever been shown.
My pregnancy test.
“Isn’t this delightful,” he said. “Now I get to kill two for the price of one.”
Chapter 17
When Phin saw Jack on the iPhone screen, tied up on the floor and helpless, he wanted to put his fist through the wall.
“There are, ah, controls,” Warden Miller said. He was a meaty, red-
faced man who had a mustache that rivaled Herb’s. “If you tap the image, you can zoom in, move the camera a bit.”
Grinding his molars, Phin followed Miller’s instructions and a white cross appeared on the screen, superimposed over Jack. By touching different parts, he could pan and tilt. Two white dots, when pressed, let him move in and out. Phin got a close-up of Jack’s terrified, crying face, a ball gag in her mouth. Then the man in the room with her stood in front of the camera, blocking the shot. The man wore a hat, the overhead camera view making it impossible to see his face.
“You talked to Brotsky?” Phin asked the warden. He felt as if his veins were full of antifreeze.
“He’s not saying anything.”
“Can we talk to him?” Herb asked. He was standing over Phin’s shoulder. Harry sat in the chair across the warden’s expansive desk, with his face in his hands.
“Of course,” Miller said. “We’ve got him in the isolation unit.”
Driving into the visitor’s parking lot of Stateville Correctional Center made Phin feel a bit nervous. After all, he was wanted for several crimes, and Stateville might be where he wound up if he were ever caught. The complex itself seemed to be designed for the express purpose of intimidating anyone who walked in. A thirty-foot-high concrete wall, topped with razor wire, surrounded the institution. The main buildings were called round houses, and as their name implied, they were circular, with the cells arranged along the walls. In the center of each was a watchtower. This design was known as panopticon, which made the inmates feel that at any given time, they were being watched by the guards.
Warden Miller led the trio down an officious-looking hallway, through a barred security door, and into a very long corridor. The air was warm, stuffy, and smelled like sweat and desperation. Phin clenched the iPhone in his hand, watching the image. He wished there was audio, because the man seemed to be talking. Then he lifted his head up and stared right into the camera. Phin didn’t recognize the guy—he didn’t have long black hair like Luther Kite supposedly did. But Kite easily could have cut and dyed it.
Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 36