Expire

by Danielle Girard

  Then, body pressed to the wall, she stretched her arm out as far as she could and balanced the glass on the beam. Shivering in the cold, she shut the window and watched with a measure of pride as snowflakes drifted into the cup.

  She returned to bed and told herself she would sleep until the glass was full. But lying on her back, staring at the track above the bed, her cord draped loosely like a hangman’s noose before the drop, all she could think about was Roy Butler.

  12

  Monday, 3:52 p.m. CST

  Telly pressed the intercom button, turning to speak into the mike. “You can bring in MacDonald.”

  Several moments later, the door opened, and Spencer MacDonald was escorted into the room by two men in charcoal gray suits that were a near match. Either one looked twice as qualified as Telly. Hal said nothing as he studied MacDonald’s face.

  MacDonald wore a comfortable smirk that Hal wanted to slap right off his face. That this man had ever been with Anna. That he had hurt her, then hunted and stalked her. He had killed her aunt, her aunt’s friend. As though by instinct, Hal’s fingers made their way to his belt.

  There was no weapon there. In Texas, he was a boyfriend, a friend—at best, a colleague. Outside of California, he was helpless. He felt the pressure of a hand on his arm and glanced down at the fingers, up at the face. Telly.

  Hal nodded, and Telly removed the hand. “Why don’t we all take a seat?” Telly pulled out a chair.

  Hal sat beside the agent.

  Again MacDonald smirked. “Here is fine.” He took a chair at the opposite end of the table and adjusted his seat at an angle to the door. Hal glanced behind him, wondering if he was expecting someone to join them.

  As though this were a chat among old friends, MacDonald crossed his legs and folded his hands together on one knee. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

  Even if he couldn’t participate in this interview, Hal refused to play MacDonald’s game. Somehow this man had Anna. But he was here in Dallas. In fact, the day Anna was taken, MacDonald had been in Greenville. Recorded at a bank ATM and on CCTV. Hal didn’t care. No cell in his body believed that Spencer MacDonald wasn’t ultimately behind this plan. He was.

  But his presence in Greenville during her disappearance in San Francisco meant someone was helping him. That was going to be Hal’s way in, the weak link in MacDonald’s plan. An accomplice was never foolproof. Whoever was helping MacDonald either had a financial interest in kidnapping Anna or an interest in Anna herself. The latter would mean that MacDonald had agreed to share her.

  Hal did not believe MacDonald had any intention of sharing Anna with another man.

  Which brought Hal to his next question. Would he have left someone alone with Anna, someone who might hurt or rape her without MacDonald’s knowledge or permission? No. So perhaps the accomplice was a woman. But once that woman realized what Anna was to MacDonald, she would be on the outside. Maintaining that balance would be difficult for MacDonald, and from what Hal knew of him, MacDonald was not a man who did nuance well.

  The second possibility was that the accomplice was in it for money or some sort of payment. MacDonald had hired someone. Hal hoped this was the case. People did insane things for love, and that made the situation less predictable. Money was powerful but, in Hal’s experience, not as prone to motivate people to the extremes that love did.

  With MacDonald, Hal knew he was dealing with love. Or perhaps love’s bedfellow, hate. But if Hal could locate the accomplice . . .

  Telly flipped open his notebook, the cover landing against his hand with a little slap that Hal had already tired of in their ninety-minute relationship. “When did you arrive in Dallas, Mr. MacDonald?”

  “Today. Just a few hours ago.”

  “You came from?”

  “Home.”

  Telly waited.

  “Greenville, South Carolina.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

  “Business meetings.”

  “Our records show that you booked several different destinations.”

  “I did. Five, to be exact.”

  “Why was that?”

  MacDonald glanced at Hal as though taking stock of his reaction. “I have business meetings.”

  “What kind of business meetings?” Telly asked.

  “Private ones.”

  Telly shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll need more than that.”

  “Why should I disclose anything about my meetings? You haven’t even told me why I’m here.”

  Telly flipped the notebook closed again. “Are you aware that your ex-wife, Annabelle Schwartzman, was abducted from her San Francisco home on Saturday?”

  This was the part Hal wanted to see.

  “I did not know that.” MacDonald turned to hold Hal’s gaze. He tipped his head ten or fifteen degrees to the side. “Are you a friend of Bella’s?”

  Hearing that nickname made Hal’s insides curl. The name that had haunted her. The reason she’d taken to introducing herself as Schwartzman—only Schwartzman. It was the one name that Spencer MacDonald hadn’t owned or manipulated. It also was the one name he’d despised—her Jewish surname.

  “How about we ask the questions?” Hal said.

  MacDonald smiled a full grin as though thrilled to hear Hal’s voice. “No.”

  Hal felt himself rise in the chair and had to focus all his energy on restraining himself.

  “Do I need to repeat the question, Mr. MacDonald?” Telly asked.

  MacDonald seemed amused.

  “Then I’d appreciate an answer before we start looking at obstruction of justice,” Telly said.

  MacDonald tittered, looking at Hal as though to share a moment of humor at little Telly’s big threats.

  Hal glared.

  MacDonald shook his head. “I have not seen my ex-wife since she attempted to frame me for murder.”

  “And that encounter occurred in Charlotte, North Carolina?” Telly asked.

  MacDonald opened his mouth to speak and then shook his head as though to say, “Nice try.” “No. That was in Greenville. I was not in Charlotte during that time.”

  Hal leaned back and interlaced his fingers behind his head. Every atom of him fought the desire to launch himself across the room.

  Telly leaned toward MacDonald, cutting off Hal’s view for a moment. Enough time to pull himself together.

  “You’re saying the attack in the garage belonging to Dr. Schwartzman’s aunt never happened?” Telly asked.

  “Never,” MacDonald repeated. “It was a figment of her imagination.” His gaze slipped to Hal. “She’s got a very active imagination.” He looked back at Telly. “I spent five months in jail for those accusations. The only time I’ve seen my ex-wife, Bella . . .” He drew out the nickname as though knowing exactly what it did to Hal. “. . . was when she broke into my home and planted evidence there.” MacDonald rocked back in his chair and then stood. “And I’m sure you are both aware that I have been totally cleared of all charges related to the deaths of those women in Charlotte.”

  Telly watched him, saying nothing.

  MacDonald straightened his suit jacket, pulling it down with both hands before brushing off the arms, as though he’d picked up dirt from the FBI’s office. “Is there anything else I can help with, Agent Azar? Detective Harris?”

  “Not at this time,” Telly said without rising.

  MacDonald rounded the table and headed for the door. When he reached it, he gripped the knob and turned back. “I’m a big believer in karma. I’m sure things will work out with Bella exactly as they should.”

  With that, MacDonald slipped from the room in a way that made Hal think of a snake.

  Hal burst out of his chair and charged at the closed door. He halted inches away. Fists raised, he trembled as he held himself from pounding on the door.

  “That went well,” Telly said, standing from the table and closing his notebook with a little slap.

  Hal swung back, staring at him.
“What?”

  “He’s cocky, self-assured.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Yes,” Telly said without flinching at Hal’s mounting fury. “It means he’s overly confident. He’ll make a mistake.”

  “He’s been stalking her for eight and a half years, and he hasn’t made a mistake yet.”

  “I’m sure he has. Just not one that anyone caught.”

  “And that’s different now? Because you’re involved?”

  Telly gave a curt nod. “Because we’re involved.”

  Hal wanted to feel the confidence Telly did. Or maybe it wasn’t confidence but the blind faith of youth. But Hal didn’t have either.

  He had seen Spencer MacDonald slip through their fingers too many times.

  13

  Monday, 3:32 p.m. MST

  She woke with pangs of hunger and sandpaper in her mouth. The bedroom was quiet, the light waning. Maybe late afternoon, early evening. She listened to the silence as memories of Roy Butler assaulted her—the sound of his voice when he’d called her a kike, the smell of him in the back of the truck, his long nails pressed into her neck. His smells, his hate. The collar seemed to grow tighter on her neck. Why did he bring her here? What did he want with her?

  She pinched her eyes closed and forced him away.

  Turning in the bed, she stared at the square of gray sky through the window. Her throat closed at the sight of snow falling in the sky—relief and also longing. Snow was water, clean water. And it was Hal. Memories of Thanksgiving together, of walking through the streets of the suburb of Sacramento where his sister lived. It had been snowing, a rarity for that part of the country. She held herself, remembering Hal’s arms around her. His touch, his kiss.

  Forcing herself out of bed, she retrieved the cup from the ledge and made her way into the kitchen, where she dumped the fresh snow into her kitchen cup. She carried the empty cup back into the bedroom and returned it to the ledge. Moving through the cabin, edging the cord along the track, felt like an intense workout. Her legs and back ached. She was likely dehydrated, and without sufficient water, her body was unable to flush the toxins.

  What she needed was more snow. She scanned the ground below the window, the snow a deep blanket of white. If only she had something she could use to reach for it, to scoop it in through the window. She mentally sorted through all the items in the cabin, but there was no such tool.

  For several minutes, she watched the flakes of snow drift into the cup. Drug-free water. The snow fell at a steady rate, but it would be hours before the cup was full again. There was no way to collect more as the ledge was too narrow for anything larger than the single cup. She reminded herself that some snow was better than none. It would be enough to last her awhile. If the snow continued to fall, she would continue to flush the drugs from her system.

  She stopped herself from thinking too far ahead. One step at a time.

  Returning to the kitchen, she felt more energized. She took a yogurt from the refrigerator and removed the lid. She tested the edges of the plastic liner to be certain there were no gaps between it and the yogurt. After peeling off the plastic liner, she emptied the container into a bowl. Next, she washed the liner and the container and then returned to the table. Without touching the yogurt, she raised the liner to the light, peering at it. She shifted it in her hands, bit by bit, until she had examined it completely. No needle hole.

  She repeated the same for the container. Again no hole.

  The yogurt appeared drug-free.

  She ate the contents of the bowl, finishing it completely. Then she drank the melted snow. Now she would wait an hour before eating anything else. As a test.

  To pass the time, she organized the food in the refrigerator, taking note of which items were most likely to be drug-free. Yogurt, lunch meats, cheese. The rest was questionable. Certainly the liquids—milk, water, and orange juice—were drugged. How much work had he done? She did the same with the food on the counter. The bread, Cheerios, and peanut butter were probably fine. Apples. Oranges could be easily drugged, although she could examine them for needle marks as well.

  She lifted a plump orange to her nose, the smell making her stomach growl. But she set it down again, reminding herself to make one decision at a time. Treat the food like a case, like a body. One organ at a time. Measure the results and then move on.

  As she’d done before, she poured milk into the glass and dumped it down the sink. Did the same with the orange juice, then rinsed the glass and sat at the table to study her body. Her head felt clear. Her focus was good. She lifted a hand and made a fist, raising it and lowering it in front of her. No signs of trembling, no impact to her motor skills. At least not yet. Maybe the yogurt wasn’t drugged.

  She wanted another. Could she assume they were all drug-free?

  No. She would have to go through the process with each one, with everything.

  As though Hal’s voice was in her head, she thought, Your only job is to keep away from the drugged water and maintain your strength.

  And find a way to escape.

  For the first time, she studied the end of the track on the ceiling just beyond the oven. There, a small cap held the clip on the track. Both hands gripping the collar, she backed away, using her body weight to try to yank the cord free. But the track ended too close to the wall. She didn’t have the right angle to pull it out. She drew one of the flimsy plastic chairs to the wall past the oven and climbed on top of it. Leaning into the wall, she pulled with both hands, trying to pull the cord free. The end cap didn’t budge.

  Down from the chair, she jerked the cord across the kitchen and checked the drawers for something to pry it off. Nothing but a few pieces of plastic cutlery. Although she already knew the contents of every corner of the cabin by heart, she checked each cupboard again, standing up on the counters, her fingers scouring with the hope of the desperate.

  There was nothing.

  She opened the freezer and pulled out two trays of ice. Threw them across the room and listened to the plastic trays clatter against the floor. They did not break.

  She fisted her hands and slammed the freezer door shut, over and over. Suddenly, the slack on the cord reversed into the track, jerking her backward. She let out a cry as it dragged her across the floor. Both hands gripped the collar that choked her. Up on her tiptoes, she fought with the cable that threatened to hang her. Her throat burned. Her eyes felt as though they would burst.

  With one foot, she hooked the leg of a chair and dragged it across the floor. It tipped, and she let out a sob, stretching her fingertips to right it as black holes ate into her field of vision. Moving by feel, she yanked the chair close. The black was almost complete as she clambered up onto the chair, creating slack in the cord. Bits of her sight returned.

  She could breathe. Tears streamed down her face. She gripped the cord in both hands, terrified to let go.

  Her throat was raw. Her chest burned. Shaking, she remained on the chair, drawing slow, deep breaths. She tested the cord and felt it give. Drew out the slack until she had several feet of it loose at her side. Slowly, she sank to her knees on the chair.

  Then put a foot tentatively on the floor.

  She studied the clip in the ceiling, the cord. Had the cord simply retracted because she had pulled too hard, too far?

  Or was someone watching her, playing some cruel game?

  Huddled on the chair, Schwartzman tucked her knees to her chest and listened to the silence, afraid to know the answer.

  14

  Monday, 4:28 p.m. CST

  After the interview, Hal had gone outside to watch MacDonald exit the building and make his way down the street. There was no question MacDonald was taunting him, and Hal had felt himself rise to the bait. Only Telly’s presence had prevented him from going after MacDonald physically. “We’ll get him,” Telly kept promising. “But we’ve got to get him the right way, so we can make it stick.”

  It all sounded good to Hal. But slo
w. There wasn’t time for slow.

  Hal had to give it to Telly. For a young guy, he was remarkably focused. Unfortunately for Hal, Telly’s focus was paperwork. After their brief meeting with MacDonald, Telly dug into the data—background reports, cell phone records, financial transactions. He had reports spread across his desk like he was making a collage to hang on the wall.

  In the bureau bullpen around them, agents shouted across the room and phones rang, but Telly appeared oblivious to the noise. With a small spiral-bound book tucked under his right arm, he read and jotted notes, filling page after page. Hal understood that Telly needed to get caught up on Spencer MacDonald, but Hal already knew everything he needed to know.

  MacDonald had Anna, and they needed to find out where.

  “Telly, he has to be communicating with someone about Anna.”

  The agent didn’t look up.

  “Telly!”

  Telly put his finger on his place and lifted his face to look at Hal. “Did you know that MacDonald’s mother died?”

  Hal exhaled. “I couldn’t care less about his mother.”

  Telly shook his head, frowning. “It just happened. Right after Thanksgiving. A local Florida law firm has filed an application for probate.”

  Hal tried to imagine what MacDonald’s mother had to do with Anna. “And?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Telly admitted, scanning the page with one finger. “She was living in a retirement home. Death certificate was issued by a local coroner. Cause of death is listed as natural—atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease. She was eighty-two.”

  Hal put both palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Where is he right now?”

  “Still in town.” Telly returned his attention to the report.

  “Who is watching him?”

  “A couple of agents.”

  “What’s he doing?” Hal asked.

  “Meeting with clients, from what we can tell,” Telly said, pointing impatiently back at the report.

  “Are you running background checks on the clients?”

  “We’re collecting names and identities, watching for anything unusual.”