She gamely tried to move, to relieve the pain, tried to open her eyes at the same time. For a moment, she could do neither, and she felt a wave of panic engulf her. A moment later, her right eye popped open; her left seemed glued shut. And then it, too, opened, but only to a slit. At the same time, she realized, with renewed panic, that she had been bound, her arms wrenched behind her back, her ankles tight together.
What the FUCK! her brain hollered.
And then, above and slightly behind her, she heard, “Well, that gives the term ‘wake-up call’ a whole new meaning, now doesn’t it?”
Emma stiffened, went absolutely still. She recognized the voice. And suddenly she knew what had happened, what was happening. The near-wild, panicky fire heating her blood disappeared, to be replaced with the chilling cold of ice water. She heard a soft thump, as of someone landing lightly on the carpeted floor, then heard approaching, whispering footfalls.
The phone had ceased ringing; the answering machine had picked up, but there had been no message. Now, in her left pocket, where it pressed painfully into her hip, her cell phone began to ring. And she knew instantly it was Daina, because Emma was late and hadn’t called, and now Daina was worried. These thoughts were wiped from her mind as a shadow fell across her, and sneakers and jeans-clad legs appeared before her. She tried to raise her head, felt the carpet, sticky and wet, resist, then give, felt a bolt of pain blast through her head, snake down her back and across her shoulders. Her vision shimmered, grayed. Concussion. I think I have a concussion.
She blinked, trying to focus, and lowered her head to a more comfortable angle. And then a figure crouched before her.
“Don’t get up on my account,” Cathy Marks told her blandly.
The cell phone stopped ringing. Emma’s ears continued to. She was feeling vaguely nauseous; she fought against it, fought against the black tide that was at the edge of her awareness which threatened to swamp her and pull her back under.
“You’re a popular girl,” Cathy said. “Phones ringing all over the place.”
“It’s called having a life,” Emma muttered acerbically. “Maybe you should get one.” If it was Daina calling, she didn’t want this woman clueing in to the fact. Cathy Marks swam before her, then solidified, sharpened. Emma could see her little comment hadn’t exactly pleased Cathy. But she seemed calm enough. She could also see the gun she held, an older .38, dangling from one hand, between her knees. This, then, was what she had been struck with. A second later, she remembered her own gun, but immediately knew it had been taken from her. Obviously, from the way her ankles were bound, the Glock had been discovered and removed.
Cathy must have seen her eyes fix on the .38, must have known what she was thinking. “If you’re wondering about your gun, it’s up there.” She jerked a thumb back in the direction of the tiered shelving unit.
She spoke in an easy, conversational tone, seemed utterly calm, utterly serene, and was so obviously utterly unstable.
“What are you planning on doing?” Emma asked, not because she couldn’t guess but because she could; she wanted to stall the woman, give Daina time to realize Emma had been seriously detained and to call the police. With a story, any story, to get them there, to protect her. She shifted slightly as she asked the question, exploring her restrictions, feeling the bonds on her wrists and ankles rub painfully. They were excruciatingly tight.
Cathy scuttled back a few feet. “You know what I’m planning,” she said shortly.
Emma’s back and shoulders were beginning to ache now, to say nothing of her head. “Okay then, why?” She shifted again, rolled back slightly, only to come up against the sofa. Well, she could rest against that for now. It wasn’t very comfortable, but the discomfort kept her alert.
“Why?” Cathy shrugged. “Because.”
“Because? What are you, ten?” Emma looked at her with disgust and disbelief. “Because. What the fuck is that?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” was the cold response. “You’re lucky you’re still alive. And that I have to go.”
“Wait!” Emma jerked with alarm, then calmed herself. “Wait. So this was all you, right? Even though you said it wasn’t, it was, right?”
“Very good, Constable.”
“So what about your husband?”
A vague look of annoyance crossed Cathy’s face. “I handled him completely wrong. When I knew Daina was coming to the city, it gave me an idea. So I told him about her, told him I loved her, I wanted a divorce. I wanted it set in motion before she came to town. I wanted to be with her, thought I would be. I was stupid. He wouldn’t give me a divorce. Just kept saying he loved me, that I belonged with him. And I couldn’t just leave, where would I go, what would I do? And then he threatened me with an infidelity suit. And I was screwed. I couldn’t afford that; he and I both knew it. I kept thinking there has to be a way, I can be with her, I just have to think of a way. And then I’d think of how she left me, and pretty soon I couldn’t think of anything else. I loved her, I told her I loved her, but that didn’t matter to her. Her and her high and mighty ‘I refuse to be a part of this’ shit. Like she was so innocent. And then she hightailed it out of here, didn’t say goodbye or anything, just fucked off and left me behind to pick up the pieces.”
Cathy was speaking blandly, with very little emphasis on her words or in her tone. Emma was finding it hard to retain a continued level of alertness in the face of such monotony. She shifted once more; pain thumped through her head, scorched her eyeballs, wicked down her back, across her shoulders. Instant alert, she thought sarcastically. She felt her nausea rising again. She clenched her jaw, swallowed against it.
“So I made a deal with him. Take her out of the picture. With her gone, I wouldn’t want to leave him. I didn’t think he’d actually go for it, but he did. He was all for it. Go figure. He started making all these plans. And then just like that,” Cathy snapped her fingers, startling Emma with the sudden action, “I was in. I couldn’t think of anything else. So we started planning together. It was easy after that. He’s an electronics tech and, conveniently, he’s also the light and sound man for the concert hall; he can do amazing things with wires and switches and timers and such. The bomb was his idea, but he sold me on it pretty quick. It was perfect. And for the concert that night they had brought in their own people. He had no affiliation with the show that night at all. His name never came up. It was so simple. And it almost worked.”
Cathy paused, and for the first time a flash of emotion lit up her voice, her eyes. “Except for you,” she said tightly. “And you have been getting in the way ever since. When she was in the hospital, I had him follow you, to find out what floor she was on. He found out, but he couldn’t get to her. I understand he took his frustrations out on you.”
Emma said nothing.
“And then you both disappeared. I knew the only way to get you out of hiding was to make it safe for you. So I told him what to do. He did it. I told him not to worry, I’d get him out. He believed me. Like I’d actually do that. What an idiot.” Cathy shook her head. “All I had to was wait. And not for very long. It was easy. Getting this gun was harder.” She waggled the gun briefly, and then her eyes narrowed, sharpened. “And I’ve been practicing. So don’t think I’m a complete novice.”
Again, Emma said nothing.
“I actually did try to give her a chance to redeem herself, when I showed up today. That was a stupid move. Considering how it turned out, I shouldn’t have wasted my time. But I thought, well, at least give her the chance. I didn’t have the gun with me then or I would have shot her right there. Bitch. What a fucking bitch.” Cathy shook her head with obvious disgust. And then she abruptly stood. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
Emma jerked with surprise. “Wait. What about me?” she asked, wanting to stall the woman as long as possible.
Cathy looked down at her. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t care about you, I never did. It was him who wa
nted you dead. Two dykes with one stone, he said. He thought that was funny. You were a rotten fuck, and you’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since, but I don’t really care about you. But just so you know, once I’m finished with her, I do intend to come back.” She held up Emma’s key chain, jingled it. And then she turned, shoving the gun into the back of her pants and pulling her shirt over it so it was out of sight. She left the apartment without another word or a backward glance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
During the time that Daina waited, she almost wore a path in the plush carpeting of the living room with her endless pacing. She did not want to think of, or dwell on, the myriad possible scenarios that could be delaying Emma, but she couldn’t help herself. The thoughts were making her feel ill. Almost all of them ended with Emma broken and bleeding, somewhere she would never find her, could never get to her.
Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she stalked into the kitchen and grabbed the phone book from the shelf.
“Daina, what are you doing?” her father asked, rising to his feet and moving toward her.
“Looking for something,” she muttered tightly. Her entire body felt like an overstretched steel cable, taut and thrumming and so terribly close to the breaking point.
“What are you looking for?”
“Her address,” she rasped through clenched teeth. She felt herself beginning to shake.
“What?”
“Her address!” Daina’s voice rose, as she slammed her fist down on the phone book. “Her address! I don’t know her fucking address!” And then she started to cry, in anger, in despair, in shame. “I’m in love with her and I don’t know her address! I don’t know where she lives!” Tears poured down her face. “How pathetic is that?”
Steve Buchanan pulled her into his arms and soothed her, and she held tightly to him for all of thirty seconds, sobbing uncontrollably, before she gently disengaged herself from his arms. She glanced once more at the phone book listing, and then slammed it shut.
“ Fremont Avenue, where the hell is Fremont Avenue?” she murmured, wiping at her eyes.
“Daina, you are not going there.” Her father stepped toward her, one step. “She told you to stay here, not to leave.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not here, she was supposed to come to me,” Daina reminded him sharply. “Obviously, something’s happened. So I’m going to her.”
“Daina, listen to yourself. That makes no sense.”
Daina knew he was right, it made no sense at all, but it was better than sitting here waiting.
“She could be anywhere between here and there,” he pointed out.
“ Fremont is on the other end of the city, in the south end,” her mother provided, though whether as a way to help or as a deterrent, Daina couldn’t tell.
“Well then, what am I supposed to do?” she flared at her father. “What do you suggest?”
“Call the police,” he told her.
“Call the police,” her mother echoed firmly.
She is the police! Daina felt like screaming. Instead, she clenched her teeth and asked, in tightly clipped words, “And tell them what, exactly? That my girlfriend is late? That she thinks I might be in danger, but she’s not sure? That the woman whose husband tried to kill me might also be trying to kill me, but we don’t know for certain? Is that what I’m supposed to say? Because it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Tell them anything, anything at all to get them here,” her father advised. “Emma’s not here, and she’s out of touch. If she can’t get here to protect you, she would want somebody here who could. Call the police.”
And Daina realized he was right, that his reasoning made all the sense in the world, and she was ashamed of her irrational behavior. She stared at him for a moment; he stared back. Finally she nodded and reached for the phone. That was when she heard it, all three of them heard it: footsteps running up the walk, up the steps. And then, pounding on the front door.
Daina whirled and dashed through the living room, filled with a relief so huge it threatened to overwhelm her. She reached the front door, unlocked it, yanked it open without hesitation.
“Emma, Jesus—!” she began.
She saw Cathy Marks first, saw the gun in her hand second.
“Is this where she was heading off to?” Cathy inquired mildly.
***
It was only after Cathy had left that Emma saw what she’d missed earlier. On the floor, a few feet away, lay a bundle of what looked like multicolored rope. Emma raised her head, tried unsuccessfully to ignore the pain, and looked hard at the bundle. At first, she couldn’t make out what it was. And then it hit her: bungee tie-downs. All of them a foot long. Oh, dear God, is that what she tied me with?
The pain was incredible as she shifted, swung her legs forward and craned her neck to see…bungee cord, wrapped around her ankles. A surge of elation filled her and then another, as she flexed her wrists and felt an infinitesimal give. Bungee cord. The cords themselves were wrapped hideously tight and were cutting and burning cruelly into her; the metal hooks attached to the ends of them were digging into her flesh like icepicks.
With a sense of vicious euphoria, she spared a moment to glance at the clock on the wall in the kitchen directly opposite her: five fifty-four P.M. She began to work at freeing her wrists, shifting over onto her right shoulder, almost banging her head on the floor. The movement caused pain to flash through her skull like lightning, a wave of nausea clutched her gut, and she whimpered and swallowed and tried not to hurry, but knew that she had to. She worked her wrists back and forth almost frantically, pulling, stretching, twisting; she broke out in a light sweat.
Panting, trying to calm herself, she felt the nausea rising and tried to fight it down. She lifted her head and tried to roll onto her knees, pulling her wrists as wide apart as she could, which was only a centimeter, if that, and twisting at the same time. It was the impetus she’d required because, suddenly, her right hand slipped free with almost ridiculous ease, and she was shaking the cord off, shifting position, reaching back to free her legs, kicking them free. And as she rose up on her knees, she felt like laughing in triumph. But the sudden change in elevation was too much for her. A solid wall of black slammed into her; she passed out, dropping unceremoniously back to the carpet.
***
At Cathy’s words, Daina tore her eyes away from the compact weapon in her hand and glared at her with barely controlled fury.
“Where is she?” she demanded hotly. “What have you done? What the fuck have you done?”
“Relax. She’s fine. So far,” Cathy assured her. Her eyes were odd-looking, glassy, almost seeming unfocused. Her voice was bizarrely, disconcertingly mild. “She may have a concussion. I hit her pretty hard, but other than that, she’s okay.”
“Where is she?” Daina took a threatening step forward, oblivious to the danger to herself.
Cathy chose to remind her of it, brutally. Her eyes suddenly lost their glassy look. She took a step back, raised the gun and pointed it at Daina’s forehead. Her eyes were sharp, focused. Daina retreated that one step back in shock and surprise.
“I could kill you right now,” Cathy told her, losing her conversational tone. Her voice was cold and brittle, her words ice. “And if you move one more step, I will.”
Daina blinked. “What do you want?” she asked, managing to dredge up the words somehow, though her throat felt constricted with fear.
“You. I want you.” The conversational tone was back. “Step outside.”
Daina hesitated.
“Now!” Once again cold, brittle.
Daina had never been in the presence of madness, had never been face-to-face with it, but she had no doubt about Cathy Marks. She stepped out onto the concrete landing of the front steps. Cathy backed down one step to give her room. And then looked past her. At the same time, Steve Buchanan called, “Daina? What’s going on?”
“Ah, ah, ah, no one else comes out.” Cathy spoke over D
aina’s shoulder. “If you do, I will shoot you. Don’t think that I won’t. I’d rather not, only because it’s so damn inconvenient, but I will if I have to.” She focused again on Daina. “Close the door, Daina. If they follow, they’re dead. You might want to impress that upon them.”
Daina did as she was told, calling out, “Dad, don’t come out. She’s not kidding. Stay in the house.” She pulled the door shut, let the screen door swing back.
“I imagine they’re going to call the police, which means I don’t have much time,” Cathy said thoughtfully. The gun was now pointing deliberately at Daina’s abdomen.
“What do you want, Cathy? Why are you doing this?”
“I want what you want.” Cathy seemed surprised. “I want to be happy. Do you want to see your girlfriend? I bet that would make you happy. I’ll take you to her. In fact, I insist. You know, it’s really rather ironic that the two of you ended up together.” Cathy’s voice made the abrupt switch to hardness once more. “Move it, now, down to the car.”
Holy Christ, she’s completely whacked. And because she had no choice, Daina obeyed. She walked slightly ahead of Cathy, terrifyingly aware of the gun pointed at her, of the cold, almost detached determination of the woman wielding that gun. She thought of Emma, and prayed that she was okay. As they walked quickly across the lawn to the street, she absently noted that there was a storm building, that it would break upon them very shortly. Distantly, she heard the sound of squealing tires far down the street. Someone in a hurry, she thought distractedly. They reached the Sunfire and Cathy stepped aside.
“Open the door,” she ordered.
Daina did. On the seat were a handful of multicolored bungee cords.
“Bring them out.”
She did as she was told. She held the cords loosely in one hand. Cathy stepped forward, between her and the car, and took them from her. And then she frowned. “Shit,” she muttered.
Daina realized what the problem was: how to tie Daina up without relinquishing control of the gun. It made for a pretty problem. A second later, she became aware of the sound of an engine gunning down the crescent. Cathy heard it, too, and they both looked to see a huge, black pickup truck roaring down the street toward them.
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