Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  Perfect.

  They were here, or at least they’d been here.

  He exited by the front, thanking the hostess on his way out. Then he planted himself behind a hitching post and waited. As long as he had his headphones, he could be out here all day. No problem.

  But he didn’t need all day.

  Moments later, he saw Dutch Langhorne and Atticus Spenser amble out of Miss Molly’s, and Caitlin Cassidy wasn’t with them. This was going to be far easier than he’d thought. He had to make a fast choice between following the men and grabbing the girl, but securing Caitlin first made the most sense. Even with his skills, he’d need an advantage to take on two FBI agents at once.

  He’d been prepared to wait however long it took for the trio to separate, and maybe even to create a diversion, like pulling a fire alarm. But it wasn’t necessary. Caitlin was alone. He could nab her, then use her to get the upper hand on the men before ending her—­magnificently.

  The small bed-­and-­breakfast was all but empty of tourists. This time, he went around to the ser­vice entrance, found a maid’s cart, and pushed it down the hall like he belonged. Excitement trilled within him as he tapped his knuckles on the third door from the left. “Maintenance.”

  Good thing he’d been careful enough to invent a cover. A woman who was definitely not Caitlin Cassidy opened the door and said she didn’t need him.

  A quiver of doubt assailed him but dissipated after a moment’s consideration. The humming must have been transmitted through the thin walls from the room next door. There was no other way to account for his error.

  Sure enough, in the neighboring room, he hit pay dirt.

  There was a brief pause, then Caitlin’s distinctly sweet voice came through the door. “I didn’t call for maintenance. We’re fine here.”

  No matter. He’d anticipated she’d be too clever to open the door and that she’d pretend she wasn’t alone.

  He knocked again. “There’s a leak coming from your bathroom into the basement. I need to get in there.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back.”

  His fingers twitched at his sides. “It’s a bad leak. I need to fix it now.”

  Another pause, and then, “I’ll call the front desk to verify first. And I’d like the clerk to come inside with you.”

  “No problem,” he said, smiling as he slipped his bump key into the lock. Lucky for him this old building kept to tradition and used good old-­fashioned keys.

  A minute later, he was inside.

  Caitlin Cassidy had her back turned, standing at the bedside, holding the receiver to an antique dial-­up phone—­another throwback to a previous time.

  The humming in the room made his blood pump ferociously through his body. He jetted across the carpet, grabbed her from behind, and stuffed a medicated rag into her mouth.

  “Fuck!” He took an elbow to the gut, and crammed the rag deeper into her throat with his fingers until only gurgling sounds came forth.

  She slammed her heel into his instep, and pain shot up his leg.

  Oh, my, she was a fighter. Better for him this way. Much more magnificent.

  Somehow, she twisted around and looked at him with hellfire in her eyes.

  The humming got louder, and his dick got harder.

  Hers was no ordinary soul.

  She head-­butted him. Tried to hit him in the face with the phone, but missed. Then her arm went limp. He heard a dial tone as the receiver fell from her hand. Her wild, roving eyes told him she knew she was losing this battle. Spurred on by her panicked breathing, he got his hands around her neck.

  Squeezed.

  The humming undulated sweetly around the room.

  He was the maestro, and she was his Stradivarius.

  At last, her gasping ceased. He’d taken all her air. She struggled only a moment longer. He squeezed one last time, inhaling the pungent smell of her fear. She released her urine, and her body went limp.

  He yanked the sheets from the bed, doused them with chloroform, then laid her on top, bundling her like dirty laundry. He searched the small room, but of course the diary wasn’t there. He knew it wouldn’t be. But no matter. He had Caitlin, and that would be enough to get both the men and the diary.

  He stuffed her into the cart that waited in the hall and wheeled her to his Escalade. On his way out, the woman next door peeked from her room.

  He gave her a jaunty wave.

  Chapter Twenty-­Two

  Saturday, October 19

  2:30 P.M.

  Fort Worth, Texas

  IT WAS LIKE those first few, disoriented moments when you waken from a bad dream. Only this time, as Caitlin blinked hard, no familiar objects came into focus. No relief chased away the shadows in her brain, and she had the terrible sense that when she came fully awake, things were only going to get worse.

  Her lids closed heavily over her eyes.

  The world tilted.

  A seasick feeling in her gut told her she was going to heave up her stomach contents, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d eaten . . . or where she was. She sucked in air through her mouth, trying to calm the storm in her stomach, but it was too late. A robust wave shook her body, and a violent spasm overtook her belly. She was dry heaving. Her brain sloshed in her skull like mush in a bowl. She’d been through this before—­her first thought was carbon monoxide poisoning. Was she back at the Bargain Bayou?

  Where am I?

  “Open your eyes, Caitlin. I know you’re awake.”

  She couldn’t place the man’s voice though she recognized the drawl as Texan. His tone was friendly, though impatient, like a child waiting for his playmate to come out and join him in the day’s games. Another wave of nausea rolled over her but dissipated without realizing its full potential.

  “Dr. Cassidy, can you hear me?” The voice grew sharper, more impatient.

  She nodded, then, with great effort, battled her eyes open again, to find herself looking through a filmy layer of goo.

  She felt a light touch on her hand.

  Then cold fingers quickly pulled away from her skin. “It’s okay. I put some ointment in your eyes to keep them from drying out.”

  What the fuck?

  Through the haze, a fat orb bobbed closer and closer. At first she saw only colors, like an impressionist painting, but eventually a man’s face came into focus. Kaleidoscope blue eyes, dirty blond hair—­just like the man Yolanda had described.

  The Thresher.

  A scream rose in her throat but died at her lips. He’d taped her mouth shut. Thank God nothing came up out of her stomach, or she’d have choked on her vomit. She lifted her hand to yank away the tape, but couldn’t move her arm more than a few inches. Her shoulders ached. She turned her head from side to side and realized her hands were hooked behind her body. Cold metal pinched her wrists.

  Handcuffs!

  A thick rope wound around her body, securing her to a chair. The room was empty save for the Thresher’s chair, a worktable with tools scattered on top, and some contraption behind and to the side of her that she couldn’t quite make out.

  Panic knocked the cobwebs off her brain.

  She might not know where she was, but at least she knew who she was. And Caitlin Cassidy was not about to do whatever some hired hit man ordered her to do, simply because he’d drugged her—­obviously—­roped her to a chair, and cuffed her hands behind her back.

  Defiantly, she raised her eyes.

  “That’s better.” He had a tissue in his hand and swiped her eyes, removing the excess ointment. “Sometimes ­people don’t fully close their eyes when they’re unconscious. I didn’t want your corneas to dry out.”

  He seemed to be expecting a thank-­you.

  And those crazy eyes of his. Something was definitely off with this hit ma
n. She had the distinct feeling she was more than just a job to him.

  “If you give me your word not to scream, I’ll take the tape off your mouth. No one can hear you in here, but I’d rather not have to deal with a shrieking woman. I’m rather sensitive to noise.”

  A pair of headphones hung around his neck. He must have some serious noise aversion.

  “Do I have your word?”

  Another wave of nausea hit. Maybe the next time, something would come up. She needed to get this tape off her mouth. She nodded.

  “All right. One quick”—­he ripped the tape from her mouth—­“pull.”

  “Th-­thank you,” she managed in a scratchy voice. She needed to make him think she was docile, cooperative, everything he hoped for in a victim. Then when he least expected it, she’d turn the tables.

  “Would you like some water?”

  She nodded again, saving her voice—­for screaming later.

  “Just take a few sips, I don’t want you to get sick.”

  Neither did she. As he held a paper cup to her parched lips, she swallowed cautiously. The cool water soothed her burning throat. “Where are we?”

  “Curious little monkey, aren’t you?” He smiled, as if pleased. He wanted to talk to her. Why else would he remove the gag? He really had been waiting for her to come out and play. And that was good. If he wanted to interact with her, he’d have to keep her alive to do it. He seemed to like her, and that meant she had leverage.

  “We’re somewhere safe. Has anyone ever told you, you have a positively mellifluous soul?”

  No. And she didn’t have time to focus on his crazy. Her heart contracted at the thought he might have Spense and Dutch, too. “Are we . . . alone?”

  “Your friends are close by.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Perhaps they can save you.”

  So he didn’t have them. If he did, he’d be crowing to her about it. She worked to keep the relief from showing in her face.

  “Don’t look so happy. I said they might be able to save you.”

  She waited.

  “If they have Cindy Langhorne’s diary, and if they’re smart enough to cooperate. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to be you.”

  She didn’t play coy with him, pretending not to understand. She wanted him to believe they had the journal, and that they’d hidden it carefully from him. “I’ll take you to the diary, myself,” she tried. Though, unfortunately, she didn’t actually know where Spense and Dutch had concealed the decoy. Then another spasm swept over her, this time it was of involuntary laughter. All that effort to use Dutch’s credit card, trying to create a trail for the Thresher to follow, and he’d been there all along. He’d found them on his own. He’d played right into their hands—­in his own horrible way. She neared hysteria.

  He covered his ears with his hands. “Stop it!”

  She gasped, trying to regain control of herself. If she made him too angry, he’d tape her mouth again. “I-­I’m sorry. I laugh when I’m nervous. Just give me a second. I won’t do it again.”

  He shook his head. “I suppose you might know where the diary is, but I don’t trust you.”

  Another peal of laughter assailed her. “But you trust those two? Then you’re a fool.”

  His fist slammed into her cheek, cracking against the bone. She tried to pull in a breath but couldn’t. She closed her eyes, anticipating the next blow.

  Boom.

  There it came, but this punch knocked the breath back into her.

  You son of a bitch. “I only meant that you can trust me because you have complete control of me. What can I possibly do when I’m in your custody?”

  “If I untie you, you can lead me on a merry chase, or straight into a trap.”

  “What makes you think they won’t?” Part of her wanted him to find the men because they had laid him just such a trap. But she’d much rather be the one who led him into it. If only there were a way to keep Spense and Dutch out of it, and safe.

  “They’ll take me straight to the diary. Because if they don’t, you’ll die.” He leaned in, and she could smell mint on his skin. “And what a death it will be.” Smiling, he spread his arms. Then like a magician, pulled something out of his sleeve.

  A long strand of barbed wire.

  She recoiled in the chair as much as her bindings permitted.

  “Your outfit is a bit drab. I think you could use a few accessories.”

  Her heartbeat rocketed into outer space as he approached, then draped one long piece of barbed wire around her waist, in between the ropes that bound her to her seat. He wound it just tightly enough to stay in place. The sharp barbs scratched her skin like brambles on a bush.

  “There, that belt looks quite nice on you, don’t you think? But it’s not enough. We need one more thing.”

  He stroked the hollow of her throat with his thumb, and she had to fight off another retch. “A pretty barbed-­wire necklace would be just the right touch.”

  She forced herself to remain perfectly still while he wound another length of barbed wire around her throat. Again, just enough to stay in place, and this time the barbs, pricking her bare skin, drew blood. Looking down, she watched a drop make its way from her neck to her chest.

  Don’t move.

  Any resistance might anger him and make him tighten the “necklace.” She didn’t know what kind of game he had in mind, but by now, she was absolutely certain he was a sadist. Her hysteria replaced itself with a deadly calm.

  He snapped a picture of her with his phone.

  Light cracked through the boarded-­up windows, but the semidarkness had a terrible effect on her spirits. The man placed his headphones on his ears. He stepped behind her, fumbling with the belt and necklace, then a soft, mechanical whir echoed through the room.

  “What’s that?” she asked, fighting to keep the bile down and her voice calm.

  He walked to the door, and she saw he held a remote control in his hand. He pressed a button on the remote.

  The whirring grew louder.

  He stepped outside, and she heard the door lock behind him.

  MALACHI RUBBED MORE of his special mint ointment onto his hands, then raised his palms to his nose, inhaling a cleansing breath. He’d resumed his position behind the hitching post in front of Miss Molly’s. A few minutes later, the men popped out of the bed-­and-­breakfast, waving their arms around and scanning the area in apparent agitation.

  He smiled.

  It seemed the gentlemen were looking for someone.

  The two men walked into a shop with a pair of boots in the window, then came back out, still scanning the horizon. He followed them from a distance, keeping within range of the humming coming off their bodies. As long as he could hear them, he didn’t need to see them—­but oddly enough, it turned out the ideal range for listening and seeing was about the same. He followed them into a sweets shop and lounged near the doorway until the noise of children gave him a headache. Apparently, Spenser and Langhorne believed Caitlin was a fan of boots and candy. He went back outside and waited on the sidewalk for their return.

  After a while, they left the tourist area, eventually arriving at a pasture, where several longhorns were on display behind iron fences. He had to stay far back, to keep from being spotted. But then he decided, now that they’d left the crowd, it was time to show himself anyway. Pistol drawn, he stepped out into the open, a pace or two behind them.

  In his pocket, something buzzed. Ah, that would be Caitlin’s phone—­her beau was calling again. He kept his pistol aimed straight for Spenser while he answered, “Hello.”

  The men whirled on him.

  “Hands in the air please. Stay right where you are,” he said over the phone.

  He thought the men had given each other some sort of signal with their eyes, but no matter. He had the advantage. Both men raised their hands in
the air. Spenser still held a cell phone. “On your knees. I’m coming for your guns.”

  The men nodded, again looking at each other with crafty eyes.

  Malachi approached and cautiously removed both men’s sidearms. Nobody put up a fight, which made his confidence waver a moment. This seemed almost too easy, but then again, by now they’d surely realized he had Cassidy.

  Good.

  That meant a little less explaining for him to do. “Keep your hands in the air, but you may rise.”

  The men climbed to their feet.

  “Now then, let me tell you how this is going to go. You two are going to do exactly as I say. If either one of you so much as takes a sideways step out of line, I’ll shoot the other one dead. But your troubles won’t end there. You see, I’ve got your girl.” He was gratified to see angry red splotches appear on Spenser’s neck and face. “If anything happens to me, I’ve got a real party planned for Dr. Cassidy. So you’re going to take me to Cindy’s diary, and quick.”

  “We haven’t got it,” Langhorne answered with a funny look on his face. Obviously, he was lying.

  “What a shame for Caitlin.” He almost felt sorry for them, the way they exchanged worried glances. “But if, upon reflection, you decide you do have your wife’s diary, you only need to take me to it, and I’ll let Cassidy go.” The Thresher had never failed to deliver. Not once. And he didn’t intend for his spotless reputation to be ruined. Of course, he also didn’t intend to let Caitlin Cassidy go. Not when he’d planned such an exciting death for her. It would be one of his finest productions ever.

  She should be very, very grateful.

  The truth was he envied her. Because she was being granted a truly magnificent death. Then a pleasant thought came to him. Suppose these two special agents put up a fight. Suppose instead of cooperating, they captured him, or killed him. Cassidy would still die her magnificent death, her soul would be added to his roster, and his own death would be elevated.