by Alex Ander
Walking away from her, Harker made a short arc with an arm. “Let me show you the bedroom.”
Passing by the bathroom and seeing what Randall had seen, Devlin nodded at the familiar array of articles. He’s probably right. She most likely had sex and then took a shower afterward.
“As you can see,” the police official stepped to the side after entering the last room in the mini flat, “this is where a struggle definitely took place.”
Staying outside, Devlin surveyed the mess, her eyes zeroing in on a few spots on the carpeting, “More blood,” before she scrutinized the rest of her sister’s belongings.
Harker folded arms and cupped his chin. “We’re testing that to see if we get a hit, see if it belongs to the assailants...or Detective Mahoney.”
Randall moved to the opposite side of the room and stood at the base of an overturned floor lamp. “Have pictures been taken...items dusted for prints?”
“Yes.”
Randall pointed at the lamp. “May I?”
Harker fished out a pair of rubber gloves and underhanded them across the space.
Randall caught the gloves, slipped them on, picked up the lamp, and squinted at the broken bulb. “There’s blood here, too.”
“We know. A sample was taken.”
Pursing his lips at the splintered bedroom door, Randall bent at the knees and held the lamp up like a hockey stick. He looked left and right before swinging the stick back and forth. This must be where she fought back.
Devlin faced Harker. “What about her cell phone?”
He motioned behind him. “It was in the back pocket of her pants. Investigators are combing through it for clues as we speak.”
Randall glimpsed the shards of broken bulb on the floor on his two o’clock. He swung the weapon in that direction, his mind showing him the bulb breaking as it struck someone. His attention darted to his left.
On his ten o’clock, drops of dried blood on the carpet made a line toward the dresser.
He lifted his gaze.
On the dresser, another line of blood led to a large circle.
He whipped the ‘sword’ back to his left, envisioning the sharp edge of the light bulb’s base slicing skin as a second attacker spun away while holding his face. “There were at least two of them.” He laid the lighting device in the same place he had found it.
Harker crossed his forearms over his chest. “How are you so sure?”
Randall opened a dresser drawer and spotted several bloodied t-shirts. He glanced right and saw remnants of the lamp’s globe on the dresser. “I’m assuming your sister’s a tough cookie, Jessica?”
Devlin nodded. “That she is.”
He went to the doorway. “This is how I see it. After locking herself in her room,” he made a swift motion, “Faith yanked the lamp from the wall outlet.”
Randall backed away from the door. “She then,” he made another motion, “broke the globe on the dresser as she,” he backpedaled, “retreated further into the room. Shortly thereafter, the assailants kicked in the door and rushed her.”
Knifing the air to his right with the lamp, he acted out his movements from earlier. “She swung the lamp at a man over here, shattering the light bulb, before swinging it back this way and striking a second man, ultimately cutting that man’s flesh.”
“What leads you to believe there was a second man?” Harker glanced around. “Nothing here supports that assumption.”
Randall tapped the light bulb base. “One side of the base is dented in while the opposite side has blood on it. If the bulb had been broken and the metal had cut someone at the same time, both the indentation and the blood would be on the same side.”
“She could’ve hit the same person twice.”
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
Randall set the lamp down. “The glass from the bulb is on the floor here while,” he pointed at the floor three feet to his left, “the blood spray starts here and,” before extending an arm further left, “goes that way...which is consistent with a second man quickly turning away after being struck.”
Pursing his lips, Harker slowly nodded his head at the evidence.
“The gash must’ve been a bleeder, too, because,” the former DEA man pointed at the dresser, “there are t-shirts in the top drawer with blood on them. The wounded man grabbed one to stem the flow, dripping blood onto the other ones in the process.”
Harker laid hands on his hips. “That’s quite a tale you tell, Mr. Randall. My crime scene investigators haven’t even come close to anything that specific yet.”
Devlin recalled Randall telling her he had been trained by the CIA’s best, trained to notice the tiniest of details. She also remembered how he had pieced together observations about her and deduced she had been married for six months and had a child. “Yeah, but I’ll bet none of your investigators have,” she bobbed her forehead toward her partner, “his kind of experience.”
Randall removed a handkerchief from a pants pocket, dabbed his brow, and replaced the cloth. “This gives me hope, Jessica.”
She tilted her head to one side.
He saw the quizzical expression. “The attackers killed a man. If they had wanted to kill Faith, they had plenty of time, and a place, to do just that. But they kidnapped her instead. That means they need her alive...for something.”
Harker tossed a look at the agents. “Money? I’m not aware of any ransom demand having been made.”
Randall shrugged. “I don’t know. But my instincts are telling me she’s alive. We just have to get to her before the kidnappers actually get whatever the something is they want.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 5
Shank
Sitting on a toilet seat lid, barefoot, dressed in the same baggy shorts and skin-tight t-shirt she had been wearing when she had been abducted, Faith removed the toilet paper roll and spool from the wall fixture. Working quickly, while shooting glances at the closed bathroom door, she pulled apart the spool and took out the spring inside.
A fist pounded on the door.
She flinched.
“Hurry up!”
She stretched the spiral, “I haven’t,” straightening it as much as she could, “peed since you kidnapped me. The old tank is full.” She wound the metal around her right hand until three inches of straight material stuck out. Too long. It’ll bend.
Faith undid the wire, adjusted the starting point on her palm, and coiled it around her hand again, leaving a one-inch shank this time. She bobbed her brows once. It’s the best you can do. Go for the eyes.
More pounding.
She faced the door.
“You have ten seconds, and I’m coming in there!”
The prisoner put the spool and toilet paper roll back in their proper places, stood, and adjusted the homemade weapon to prepare for an overhand strike. Eyeing the metal shaft, she took a breath and exhaled, blowing a tuft of matted, stringy hair away from her face. You have one shot at this, my dear Faith. Make it a good one.
After flushing the toilet and running the faucet for a few seconds, she grabbed a towel and headed for the door which opened a half-beat later.
The man built like a linebacker, the man who had taken down Faith at her apartment and landed on her with all his weight, stood in the archway.
Using the towel to hide the weapon, while pretending to dry her hands, she remembered the crooked smile on his face when he had been on top of her, grinding his groin against her smarting pubic bone. Envisioning the makeshift weapon under the hand towel, she clenched her fist. You were so eager to stick something somewhere, she zeroed in on his left eyeball, let me show you how it’s done.
Linebacker glimpsed the cloth in her hands and thrust his chin at the sink. “Leave that.”
“Sure thing, sport.” Twirling left, she turned her back on him, pitched the towel, and continued her counterclockwise circle, speeding up the last ninety degrees and deliverin
g a hammer strike.
Jerking to his right a quarter turn, bellowing, Linebacker clutched the left side of his face.
Faith grabbed his head with both hands and rammed his bleeding cheek against the edge of the door molding twice, punched him once in each kidney, and...
He arched his back at the searing pain.
...drove a heel into his right knee.
Dropping, he reached out to the wall for support.
Unsure of her bearings, since she had been blindfolded when brought to this location, Faith ran down the hall and stopped at what appeared to be a darkened living room. She pivoted her head left and right and spotted windows. Light came from the other side of closed curtains.
Weaving her way around furniture pieces, she hurried to a door, twisted a knob, and pulled.
Nothing happened.
She squinted at the barrier and saw screw heads around the door’s edges. She cursed under her breath. They screwed the damn door shut. Faith did a one-eighty and put her back and hands to the panel. Her eyes scanning the area, she tried to put together a layout of the structure.
A noise came from her right.
Faith whipped her head in that direction. He’s getting up again. She scampered across the living room, put her left shoulder to a wall, peeked around a corner, and saw a kitchen...and another door on the opposite side.
Glancing right, down the hallway, and seeing Linebacker staggering toward her while holding a hand to his injured face, she darted through the kitchen.
“You’re dead when I catch up to you.”
She sidestepped right to draw a long knife from a butcher block and threw open the door.
Six feet away, Blade, the man who had held a knife to her throat at her apartment, was ascending the two steps leading to a three-foot-square concrete landing just outside the kitchen. He froze for a beat before throwing back the right half of his suit coat.
Seeing the holstered weapon on Blade’s hip, Faith envisioned Linebacker closing the distance from behind. Take out the nearest threat first. She advanced and swung the butcher knife.
Blade retreated into a garage while raising his left arm a half second ahead of seeing the stainless-steel slice through his sleeve. He grimaced when the tip touched skin.
Faith made two more strikes while lunging forward with each attack.
Taking longer strides, Blade backtracked with each attack, gained separation from her, and drove his dress shoe into her gut.
Groaning, she hunched over and held her belly.
He drew his firearm.
She lifted her gaze.
He aimed the Glock 22 at her nose and slowly shook his head. “Knives and gunfights...they don’t mix well.”
She stood taller while catching her breath.
He smiled. “Drop it.”
“Why,” she filled her lungs, “why don’t we both drop our weapons and,” she made fists, “go back to basics.”
Feeling liquid running down his forearm, he chuckled.
“Unless you’re afraid of losing to a woman.”
“I won’t tell you again.”
“If you wanted me dead, you’ve had plenty of time and opportunity. That tells me I’m more valuable to you alive.”
Blade cocked his head to one side. “True. But there’s a lot of real estate between alive and dead.”
Faith felt a looming presence behind her...right before she felt something hard slam into her right kidney. Gasping, her body going rigid, she fell to one knee and slapped the garage floor to keep from toppling over.
Linebacker disarmed her and forced her to both knees.
Her joints pressing on the hard surface, waves of pain flooded her senses.
He pinned her arms behind her back, got a handful of hair, and wrenched her head backward, exposing her throat.
Blade holstered his pistol, approached, and picked up the knife. “You’ve cut me,” he touched the bandage on his left cheek, “twice now, Ms. Mahoney.”
She glanced down and saw drops of blood coming from his forearm and staining the concrete. She looked up at him, smiling. “Care to make it three?”
He backhanded her across the face.
Her head held firm by Linebacker, Faith was unable to roll with the punch. Her left cheekbone absorbed the full brunt of the blow.
Blade touched the weapon’s tip to her neck, “I have orders not to harm you,” before slipping the instrument under the neckline of her t-shirt. “But,” he drew the knife downward, slowly cutting the thin cotton material down to her belly button, “orders change. And when they do,” he ogled the inner portions of her breasts, “I’ll take great pleasure in carrying them out.”
Linebacker sneered.
“So,” tasting blood, her elbows almost touching each other near her spine, her deltoids close to tearing, Faith struggled against the man with a viselike grip on her upper arms, “the only way you can get a woman is,” she winced at the throbbing coming from her swelling face, “is at knifepoint?”
Blade laughed. “At knifepoint, gunpoint, I don’t care how it happens...but I’ll have you, Ms. Mahoney.” He lifted the knife and eyed the shiny metal. “And then I’ll really have my way with you.” A beat later, he jerked his chin toward the far side of the garage. “Take her back to the basement.”
*******
Linebacker picked up his pace and shoved his hostage.
Unable to get her arms back around in time to break her fall, Faith landed face first on an old canvas cot, the wooden frame creaking under the sudden load.
Linebacker backed out of the ten-by-ten room and returned, “The next time you need to piss,” tossing a coffee can onto the floor a second later, “there you go.”
She trundled onto her left side, eyed the metal toilet rolling her way, and examined her handiwork displayed on his face.
While Faith had missed his eyeball with the shank, she had managed to open a three-inch-long trench just below his left eye. His left cheek was red and glistened in the glow of a light coming from outside the room.
“As for your other bodily functions,” he glanced at the cinder block walls with no windows and flashed a crooked smile at her, “if I were you, I’d try my best to hold it.” He slammed shut the door.
Enveloped in total blackness, listening to the sound of a lock being secured, Faith threw her legs over the side of the cot, sat upright, and rolled her shoulders. She felt around and found the battery-powered lantern she had been given. Her fingers on the light source’s knob, she hesitated. Not sure how long I’ll be here. She returned the powered-down lantern to the floor beside her bed. Need to save the batteries.
After touching fingertips to her injured cheek and wincing, she dropped elbows onto aching knees, hung her head, and weaved fingers through her hair. What do they want with me? If it’s money they’re after, they picked the wrong person to kidnap.
She went to her back, laid her head on a thin pillow, and folded her arms over her chest. Her mind carried her back to the attack. She had had all of two seconds to scribble out a note and hide the scrap of paper before picking up the floor lamp. She had wanted to leave a clue to help investigators identify the criminals. The investigator she had in mind, however, was not one of her fellow officers. She had stashed the note in a hiding place only her sister would think to look. She made a face. Maybe that wasn’t the best of places.
Feeling a chill, Faith overlapped the ends of her split t-shirt, only to have the taut material spread apart a beat later. She brought a smelly wool blanket to her chin and hugged herself underneath the scratchy fabric. She inhaled and wrinkled her nose. Smells like eighth grade gym class in here.
The shivering woman rolled onto her right side and brought her knees up to her chest. The thought of her sibling triggered other thoughts, memories from her childhood, from playing make-believe with Jessica. She smiled. Good times.
Growing up, Faith and Jessica had not been typical girls who played with typical girl toys. Their dolls and tea sets becam
e obsolete after their father had taken them to the shooting range, put a twenty-two rifle in their hands, and let them squeeze off that first shot.
From that moment on, the Mahoney girls loved anything involving guns. They read about guns. They drooled over pictures in gun magazines. They even asked their father to show them how to clean the weapons they had fired. They watched cop shows, war movies, Westerns, and spy movies before going outside and playing cops and robbers, soldiers, gunslingers, and secret agents with silenced pistols.
Shutting her eyes, Faith focused on the time she and Jessica had spent pretending they were spies, doing all the secret, clandestine things that spies did. Faith recalled the note she had slipped under the bedpost in her apartment, the note meant for Jessica. I sure hope you remember the silly stuff we used to do as kids, Jess.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 6
Good Eye
5:59 P.M.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
For the last two hours, Devlin and Randall had gone over every inch of Faith’s apartment three separate times. Neither agent had spotted anything that could have explained the disappearance of the dwelling’s tenant.
Now Devlin and Randall, along with Harker, were huddled together in a cramped closet that housed cheap video security equipment. Multi-colored wires ran in all directions from a recording device attached to a small monitor that rested on a thin metal shelf.
“That’s as far back as the footage goes.” Sitting on a yellow plastic chair in front of the screen, the apartment’s assistant manager wiped a straight finger across his nose and sniffed.
“Mr. Spalding,” standing on the seated man’s six o’clock, Randall glimpsed the back of the forty-year-old’s greasy head of hair, “what’s the reason for the snowy picture...at the 10:14 and 10:29 p.m. mark?”
On Randall’s right, Devlin nodded. “I noticed that, too. According to the time stamp, each blackout lasted about a minute.”
Spalding’s shoulders rose and fell. “It happens sometimes.” He threw out a hand at the devices around him. “This stuff is ancient. But my manager says there’s no money in the budget for upgrades.”