Which was hypocritical, as Cait had a tattoo of a warrior princess discreetly placed across her lower back and another Celtic-influenced ankle wrap on her left leg. She justified the tattoos as being part of her genetic lineage; they were almost a pagan rite of passage into womanhood. But in her mind, she didn’t choose her tattoos—they chose her.
“Waiting for Dec . . .”
“Hi, Cait . . . Dave,” said Dec, cutting off his sister midstream as he walked in, full of bravado. Pushing the small, chipped table aside with his foot, he propped himself up in the other corner of the window seat opposite Cait, disrobing in a seemingly fluid movement as he sat down.
“I’ll be glad to get some warmth again. Can’t come soon enough,” Dec said to neither Cait nor Dave in particular. “Any chance of a coffee, Davo?”
“Yeah, sure. When you off to Laos again, mate?” said Kiwi Dave in his heavy New Zealand accent, sharpening the A in”mate” so it sounded like he was cutting paper with his words.
“Finished my finals yesterday, so I’m taking off this weekend.”
“Cool. For how long this time?” said Kiwi Dave, a hint of jealousy in his voice.
“Bit over three weeks. Going back to the same project I worked on last year. You know, the school I told you about in Luang Prabang. The one we helped build over Christmas for the hill tribe kids.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. You showed me the photos. Hey man, this time don’t forget to bring me back a spoon for my wall, okay.” Dave turned and pointed to his collection. He was into souvenir spoons. At last count, his customers had brought him back over three hundred kitschy spoons from their world travels, which he religiously affixed to the wall beside his espresso machine. It was part of his own journey to exotic places.
For Kiwi Dave, if nothing else, the spoons made a good talking point. Especially when a customer spied a familiar flag or icon waving at them from a spoon handle and exclaimed, “Hey man! I’ve been there!” Which happened quite often. The chintzy aspect of the spoons was part of the eclectic charm of his hole-in-the-wall coffee shop.
“Hey, saw you made it into the papers the other day.”
Cait looked mildly surprised.
“Well, I presume that the girl called ‘Jane’ was actually you. You’re almost famous!” said Dave, their conversation uncomfortably crossing the boundaries between customer and personal life.
“Macillicuddy’s article in the Australian Tribune? Yeah, I suppose it wasn’t too hard to figure out Jane was actually me.” Cait was slightly taken aback by Dave’s comment, but she kept her cool.
“But go figure. He was a real dork, although nice in a weird sort of way. Nothing like what I would have expected a reporter to be. He actually seemed to care about finding out the truth.”
Robert Macillicuddy had been writing about Indian students in Melbourne, authoring a series of newspaper articles about the random attacks that had been inflicted on them over the past few years. He was hell-bent on proving a racially motivated link to the violence and had been pursuing the story of Cait’s now-deceased lover Rishi’s vicious bashing with the determination of a starving dog with a bone.
Somehow Macillicuddy picked up in his investigations that Rishi and Cait had been the best of friends. In fact, after talking with Cait, his reporter’s nose for a story told him that maybe there had been more to Rishi and Cait’s relationship than just friendship, so he wrote his latest article with a slant about the effects of a murder on those left behind; those who had to pick up the pieces and get on with their lives. And Cait’s heart-wrenching story of a love lost featured prominently in his article.
“Eh? All those journos are just after a sensational story, surely?”
A momentary quiet uncomfortably dominated the space between them.
“Oh shit, sorry Cait. Ah . . . didn’t mean it to sound like that,” added Kiwi Dave almost sheepishly.
Silence.
Cait threw a glance at Kiwi Dave that would freeze water in a hot desert and quipped, “Well, he wasn’t exactly 60 Minutes material, if that’s what you mean.”
Dec picked up on the nuance of the conversation and immediately looked up and caught Cait’s eye, glaring at her. It was clear Kiwi Dave was just making conversation, and Dec didn’t approve of Cait’s behavior.
Continuing silence reigned, bordering on the unpleasant . . .
Cait took in stride her brother’s attempt at keeping the peace, and realizing she’d overreacted, added in a slightly warmer voice, “But he did seem concerned about how I was handling Rishi’s death. Kinda strange, huh?”
“Yeah, well. That was bad luck about Rishi’s bashing, wasn’t it?” Dave looked as comfortable as an unwanted guest at a funeral and took it as a hint to return to his coffee station.
As he cleared the table he said as an almost throwaway line, “Rishi seemed like a nice kid, but goes to show you never can be too careful. Certainly not around here at least.”
By that point Cait had already switched off, leaning back against the wall, where she had started losing herself in a world of memories.
“Ah!” Cait almost yelled out loud, as if she had been bitten by something.
“What’s up?” said Dec. “You okay?”
“Something’s wrong! I can feel it.” Cait had a panicky edge to her voice, her widening glacier blue eyes darting, scanning, searching for a point of focus, her head following in jerky movements as if it was being dragged along by her fleeting glances.
“Eh? Get real. What you on about, sis?”
Cait bolted upright as an electric shock rushed up her spine, her sentinel eyes resembling huge orbs, senses heightening as she focused on the here and now. The world around her crystallized, turning into sharp edges and bright light, gaining another dimension: clarity and perception usurped the almost prosaic view of the world around her and a fluid, rolling vision of reality cascaded in front of her. Dec and Dave faded into nothing but a muffled whisper as Cait experienced a weird feeling of déjà vu. As if a magnet inside her brain had been suddenly activated, her head was forcefully drawn to look outside.
The white van again!
But this time, instead of cruising by it had momentarily stopped outside. Cait took in the outline of the two passengers in the front. They were staring inside 21 Squares, seemingly pointing and laughing at her, mocking her.
“Ah, that’s stupid,” Cait muttered half aloud, half to herself. “Surely not . . .”
And then the van drove off.
“Creepy dudes,” whispered Cait.
“Eh?”
“Nothing, Dec. All’s good. Just had a moment, yeah. Mum says it’s PTSD stuff after Rishi’s murder.”
But the hairs on the back of Cait’s neck were still standing on end.
“Okay Dec, time to split. Not exactly looking forward to walking home. At least it’s finally stopped raining.”
“Yeah, the weather’s crap,” said Dec. “Think yourself lucky, sis. I’ve got to go into town to exchange some currency and then sort out some stuff at uni.”
“Life’s tough for someone who’s about to disappear overseas, little bro.”
Cait stood up, straightened her heavy woolen jacket, retied her scarf so it was high up her neck and placed her beanie over her long strawberry blonde hair. Time to brave the elements.
This weather really is awful. I’ll take the shortcut down the lane.
As she was walking out of 21 Squares, Cait pulled out her iPhone and put on David Gray. She was currently into “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye” and knew the eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds the track took to play would almost see her home.
This was their song. It belonged to Rishi and Cait. Every time she played the now-familiar tune she was taken back to happier times; to a time and place when Rishi was alive and they were together—an item, about to start a real relationship.
Rishi hadn’t been like the other men in her life. They had all been playthings. Someone to have fun with, but that’s as far
as it ever went. Then she met Rishi during orientation week on the”official” pub crawl around the hotels encircling Melbourne University, and that was it. When they realized they were both studying psychology they hit it off immediately, becoming instant friends.
And now four and a half years later, Rishi—her soul mate and father of her unborn child—had been stolen from her. Murdered. Senselessly beaten to death.
He had been innocently walking down Robe Street on his way home after a night out with Cait and her friends and was assaulted by three thugs, simply for being in their space. Three weeks later, Rishi died in intensive care. He suffered a massive stroke as a result of what initially appeared to be a minor brain injury caused when he was knocked to the ground, his head bouncing off the sidewalk like an overinflated basketball.
But today the music was everything. It took away the grayness of the afternoon and the pain of losing her soul mate a few weeks ago. It felt like it had all happened yesterday though. To Cait, Rishi’s death was still raw.
Cait was dancing between the wet cobblestones, skipping over puddles, lost in a world of memories as she listened to the song.
“Hey lady.”
“Eh?” Cait pulled her headphones out of her ears, annoyed someone had interrupted her train of thought.
“Where’s Acland Street? Been driving round and round in circles trying to find it.”
Cait was about to walk over to the open window of the vehicle to help out when alarm bells inside her head went off.
“Oh!” Cait gasped, too shocked to mouth any words as she processed the moment. She stood her ground for what seemed an eternity but was really only a matter of seconds. Fight or flight kicked in big-time as adrenaline coursed along Cait’s veins. It was rushing through her like a floodgate had been opened as her world narrowed and focused on an intimidating tattoo of a large cobra wound around the forearm hanging out of the passenger’s side window beside her.
The window of . . . Oh my God, it’s the same white van!
Cait panicked.
She took a step backward, edging against the fence behind her. The snake assumed a threatening appearance, as if it was about to strike. Her world stopped turning for a millisecond as she followed the cobra’s body up a heavily muscled forearm, watching it disappear underneath a tightly stretched T-shirt. She ended up staring at an ugly shaved head atop a pair of broad shoulders, and a menacing smile missing more than a few teeth, grinning threateningly back at her.
But it wasn’t the presence of the person who owned the tattoo that was causing Cait the most concern; it was the latex gloves he was wearing.
Why’s he wearing gloves?
Then as if struck by a lightning bolt from the heavens, the gravity of the moment suddenly hit home.
Oh shit, this is bad . . . this guy means business.
Cait freaked out, urgently glancing up and down the lane. No one to be seen. Voiding involuntarily, she soiled her jeans, a warm trickle running down the inside of her leg. With her heart in her mouth, Cait started running. The van roared forward at the same time, turning in at an angle toward the fence to her left.
She was blocked in.
Cait tumbled onto the warm car hood, sliding across it as she lost her footing.
She desperately picked herself up and turned to run back the way she had just come. The side door unexpectedly slid open. Two men burst out, startling her with their speed as they jumped in front of her, obstructing her escape route.
“Grab the bitch! Come on, let’s go,” half yelled the tattooed one in the front seat to his two accomplices.
“Sure thing, Boss,” said the one closest to Cait, pronouncing “thing” as “fing.”
He flashed her a smarmy grin then grabbed Cait roughly, throwing her around as if she weighed nothing. Cait may have been fit, tall, and slim, but her lithe body was no match for her opponent. As he grabbed her from behind, she noticed he reeked of acrid body odor and the stale smell of a heavy smoker.
Cait screamed, but a rough hand was already squeezing so tightly across her mouth that only a muffled sound came out. Another arm grabbed her around the waist, too high for comfort as it nudged up toward her left breast, dragging her in tightly against the muscled body of her assailant.
She was finding it difficult to breathe and instinctively bit down hard on the hand invading her mouth.
“Fucking bitch!” her attacker hissed, kneeing her so hard from behind that she lifted off the ground.
Cait tasted the warm, coppery tinge of blood in her mouth, but the injury to her attacker’s hand only incensed him more and he retaliated by squeezing so hard that Cait felt like her ribs would cave in. Roughly dragging Cait backward, he then threw her into the rear of the van, her legs kicking and flailing around like a windmill in a useless attempt to gain purchase or land a blow.
“Don’t just stand there, dickhead. Grab the bitch’s legs! She almost kneed me in the nuts,” said the assailant to his partner, who had already jumped back into the van.
The door slammed shut and then a second set of hands were upon her, hitting her hard in the left temple.
“That’ll shut the bitch up.”
Cait’s head jerked sideways, the blow catching her totally unawares. She anticipated pain but was rewarded only with slight dizziness and an aching heat radiating across her temple.
Cait went limp and became lost in a fuzzy world of nothingness. Her attacker loosened his grip around her head as the other pair of hands immediately stuffed something into her mouth and then bound gray duct tape across her mouth and around her head, wrap after wrap after wrap.
I can’t breathe . . .
Cait began drifting in and out of a world as black as the angel of death until finally the lights went out, just as a shopping bag was forced over her head. She heard—no, subconsciously felt—the ripping of more duct tape as the mouth of the bag was tightened around her neck.
Cait became vaguely aware of being shoved onto the hard, cold metal floor of the van, a heavy knee violently pushing into her back, forcing the air out of her lungs one more time.
The stale air trapped inside the polypropylene shopping bag covering her head became nauseating.
Celery, fish, meat that smells like it’s gone off, and an awful synthetic smell.
“Get off me,” Cait yelled, but the words refused to pass her lips.
Feeling as if there were a hundred groping hands upon her, her arms and legs were forcefully wrenched behind her back.
Zippp. Zippp.
Cait heard, rather than felt the cable ties tighten. In one quick movement she was hog-tied, her wrists and ankles painfully bound together behind her back.
“Boss, she’s tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Good enough to eat, eh?”
They all sniggered as lewd discussion of what lay between Cait’s thighs took over the moment.
Rolling around the floor of the van as it took off at what seemed like breakneck speed, Cait felt a stabilizing boot pressing heavily into the middle of her back, forcing her uncomfortably down onto the floor. Cait’s head was now burning from the punch that had been meant to subdue her.
I can’t breathe . . .
Cait began hyperventilating inside the bag over her head. Gasping for air through her clogged nose, saliva dribbled out of the sides of her mouth, oozing out from under the duct tape. Her hands and feet were simultaneously burning, aching, and cramping as the circulation was progressively cut off.
I’m going to die . . . Oh, God . . . help me, please . . .
No, I’m not . . . I’m going to survive. . .
The urgency of the moment fogged her brain. Confused thoughts were darting around inside her head, rushing, looking for a place to settle, then deflected off in a thousand directions as if she was in a hall of mirrors, trying to find a point of focus.
“Oh my God, what’s happening to me?” Cait screamed to herself.
But no one heard. Or cared.
Cait’s kidnapping had taken sixt
y seconds, start to finish.
She was too shocked to cry. Too scared to think straight. In too much pain to relax.
But Cait was sufficiently hyped to realize that this was sink or swim time. The deep recesses of her psyche began screaming at her, forcing her to take notice; insisting she turn inward and reach down into the depths of her subconscious and find the strength to survive.
Was it Rishi calling her from the other side? Maybe.
“Use The Gift, Cait,” he seemed to be yelling at her, demanding that she act.
“Come on, you can do it. Use it, Cait!”
The adrenaline was pumping so hard that Cait’s remaining senses heightened. Her hearing sharpened, and she became aware of the heavy breathing of her assailants in the back of the van with her. She smelled smoke as someone lit a cigarette.
God, I hope they’re not going to burn me with the butt, she thought, her mind taking her places that were best avoided.
No! Be positive. Listen, smell, recall . . . this is survival time.
What’s that strange smell? Cloves?
Cait gave up trying to figure out which direction they were heading, instead noticing that the van had slowed down and now appeared to be moving in a steady stream of traffic.
Maybe St Kilda Road? Or Beach Road?
She realized the bag over her head must have had a hole in it as she was able to now clearly smell that strange smoke floating around inside the cabin.
Cait relaxed slightly and stopped fighting her bindings. She immediately noticed the cable ties around her wrists and ankles loosen slightly, and she felt an uncomfortable tingling sensation as circulation began to return to her trussed-up limbs.
“So now we’ve got the bitch, what’re we goin’ to do with her, Boss? I’ll put my hand up to go first . . . ah, after you, of course.”
Cait felt a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
They’re going to rape me! Oh God, it can’t be. No, not like this, she wanted to yell, the echoes of her pleas running around silently inside her head.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 30