The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  Kelsey leaned out the door, peering along the landing, when Holly said, “Go poddy.”

  “What …?” Kelsey whispered. “Oh, shit.” She was about to tell her she’d have to wait but Holly was clutching herself and jiggling. “Yeah, yeah, okay, but shh.” She gently placed her shoes down, checked the stairs below, then led Holly to the bathroom where she quietly closed the door and lifted Holly onto the toilet. When she’d finished, Kelsey pulled up her panties, straightened her clothing, and cautiously cracked the door. From somewhere in the darkness downstairs she could hear Lionel’s soft snoring. He must have fallen asleep in the chair while Matt had retired to the bedroom at the rear of the house.

  Her heart picked up a beat. Dammit,” she whispered. She thought they were both sleeping in the rear bedroom. This was never going to be easy. But Lionel was one more element she hadn’t counted on. She reached for Holly’s hand, and turned just in time to see her reaching for the flush.

  “No,” she whispered and pulled her back. Heart pounding, and holding Holly’s hand in hers, Kelsey turned back to the doorway again.

  Downstairs, the sounds had turned from snoring to deep breathing. Kelsey hoisted Holly into her arms. Clutching her shoes in one hand, she moved warily to the top step, and waited. The party across the road had died down. The silence left behind filled the house like something tangible. She put a tentative toe on the second step, then started down the stairs. On the third one down, the creak of wood cut the air and Lionel sucked in a deep breath. Kelsey froze. He smacked his lips a couple of times, moved in the chair, and let it out. She leaned close to Holly’s ear, and said, “Shhh.” For some moments, they clung together in the dark, waiting. When Lionel’s breathing returned to a soft snore again, Kelsey took the next step, then the next, moving quickly and quietly to the bottom. At the foot of the stairs, she paused again, listening for movement. There was nothing but Lionel’s snores. Hugging the child close, she crept to the front door, placed her hand on the knob, and gently turned it. Without the slightest noise, the door eased open and a shaft of moonlight sliced into the room.

  Holly’s arms clung tight around her neck, legs locked around her. Kelsey checked behind her once more, then stepped across the threshold and spotted the car. That’s when it hit her. She’d forgotten the damned car keys.

  Cursing under her breath, she placed Holly on the front porch. “Wait here.” She placed her shoes by the open door, turned and stepped quietly back into the room.

  The last place she’d seen the keys was where she had dropped them on the coffee table the night before. They were still there when she went upstairs earlier that night. Narrow blades of moonlight cut through the gaps in the curtains, picking out shapes in the darkness—the sofa, the coffee table, the TV. Barefoot, she moved six careful steps across the living room.

  Not three feet away Lionel lay back in the chair, hands dangling, feet still up on the coffee table, still asleep. Kelsey turned briefly to where Holly was silhouetted in the doorway, quietly peering into the darkened room.

  Kelsey reached down and tamped the flat of her hand across the table top, searching for the keys. Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could make out a glass and the ashtray. She found the keys just beyond. She lifted them with a faint clink, and Lionel shifted. She waited with her heart in her mouth. After a few moments, the long, slow breathing resumed and he lay motionless. Gripping the keys in her palm to prevent them jingling, Kelsey backtracked to the door.

  As soon as she had eased the door closed again, Kelsey let out a breath. Tension had tightened the muscles across the back of her neck into stiff cords. She rolled her shoulders briefly, then took Holly’s hand and walked to the car. With one eye on the house, she eased open the passenger door, lifted Holly into the seat, and buckled her in. Instead of closing the door, she eased it back to the point where it touched the frame. Closing it, no matter how carefully, would echo around the neighborhood. This way Holly would be secure in the safety belt until they got around the corner into the next street. Then she’d close the door properly.

  Kelsey quickly rounded the car and opened the driver’s door. For the briefest while, she paused to give the house one last look. Now, for the first time, she realized just how far she had come. She had set one foot across an invisible line. When Matt realized what she’d done, there would be no turning back. Some small part of her was urging her to run back—to fall into his arms and cling to the safety she’d always known. She wanted to tell him she was sorry and that she would never betray him. But something stronger had emerged—a curiosity, a hunger, a need to find her own blue skies and crystal clear waters. And stranger still, it was only now that she realized it had been the photographs of Maria Puentez and Matt that had given her the strength to break out; to take the child and leave.

  Kelsey hoisted herself into the driver’s seat and pulled the door towards her without closing it. Holly sat next to her, watching her every move. Kelsey smiled down at her, touched her on the nose, then slipped the key into the ignition and twisted it.

  It clicked.

  She turned it again. No ignition, no spark; just a click, and the car remained lifeless. She tried again and again, each time easing her foot on the gas, but each time the result was the same hollow click.

  “Fuck.”

  Dropping her head in frustration, she pulled on the hood release which activated with a faint thunk. She pushed her door open once more, got out, and went around the car to lift the hood. In the faint moonlight, she could clearly see the battery lead dangling free of the terminal. “Oh, shit …”

  “Having battery problems?” said a voice behind her.

  She caught a glimpse of Matt, saw his fist …

  … then nothing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DAY TWO: …

  The throbbing in Kelsey’s face hit her even before she reached full consciousness. It echoed through her head like a gong, dragging her through a fog of oblivion and back to reality. At last, she realized she was sitting on a chair. The edge of the wooden seat bit into the backs of her knees. Her hands were secured to the back. She figured the restraints were cable ties because the bindings were thin plastic strips, rigid and sharp enough to cut into her skin. She also knew her face was a mess because her eyes refused to open. After some moments of lifting her head and raising her eyebrows to force her eyelids apart, she eventually stretched her mouth wide, leaned her head right back and her right eye cracked open. Then the left. The instant they split apart, she looked down. Cords of sticky blood and saliva had trailed from her nose and mouth and pooled in her lap where it had partially dried.

  She didn’t know how many times Matt had hit her. She went down on the first and never even saw the rest. Now, here she was in this dingy kitchen of the house, tied to a chair, hands behind her back, shins bound to the legs, and no idea of the time.

  “Matt,” she called out. Her voice was a dry croak. “Matt!”

  Nothing.

  She was alone in the house. She suspected as much. They’d be long gone.

  How dumb was she? How could she have possibly thought she’d outsmart Matt? He was the one with the brains. He was the one who looked after her—looked after everyone. Goddamn it, she hadn’t even taken her shoes with her. From where she sat she could see them still sitting over by the front door where she had left them. A sudden and overwhelming feeling of worthlessness and stupidity washed over her—a feeling of such despair that a sob welled up from her very core, and burst from her throat. Her face tightened and throbbed as wave after wave of anguish hit her. But just as she was about to give herself up to it, to let the tide of desolation crash over her and wash her away, her eye caught something glinting on the living room floor. She blinked back the tears and realized what it was. It was the single button eye of Holly’s Lilly Lion. She had picked it up after it was torn from the toy and cast aside. She must have dropped it when Matt slapped her.

  Kelsey had let Holly down. She had let them take her
.

  But she had made a promise. She had told Holly that if they were parted, Kelsey would find her. And that was one promise she wasn’t going to break.

  Slivers of pre-dawn light were slicing between the kitchen curtains. She figured it must have been around five a.m. That meant she still had ten hours. She had no idea where they would have gone, but she knew exactly where to start looking.

  The kitchen contained nothing obvious that she might cut her bonds on. But the kitchen utensil drawer might. First she had to get to it. She tried leaning forward and duck-walking, but instead of moving, the chair wobbled and threatened to fall over. So she sat down again and began rocking it, creating enough momentum to inch her toward the drawer. As soon as she was almost within reach of it, she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for impact. She threw her weight back and forth until her center of gravity moved to the rear legs … teetered … then toppled backwards. She landed on her back with both hands jammed beneath her. Easing herself up on her hands, she moved around until the toes of her right foot were level with the handle of the second drawer down. Inching forward, she hooked her toe up under the handle, then she hand-walked herself backwards, slowly pulling the drawer out.

  Three times her foot slipped. Three times she cursed and tried again. All she thought about was Holly. She kept telling herself they’d be dumb to kill her before the money was transferred, that the parents would want to know their child was alive before they handed over the money. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t hurt Holly. And it didn’t mean they’d give her back alive.

  Knowing it only made Kelsey more determined.

  Finally, she dragged the drawer out far enough to feel the weight of the contents shift. With one last pull, it fell on the floor with a crash of steel and knives and forks and God only knew what else. Among it all she spotted a carving knife. She swiveled around on the chair, rocking until she tipped sideways onto an assortment of sharpening steels, soup ladles and can-openers. Straining against the ties, her fingers found the knife. She turned it, angling it around until she felt the handle in her palm. Slipping the blade under the tie, she sawed back and forth until the plastic strip snapped apart. Using her free hand she collected the knife and slashed the ties on her other wrist and ankles.

  At last, she dragged herself to her feet, wincing at the bruising to her ribs, the stiffness in her shoulders. She rolled her neck. Her entire body was stiff and sore.

  The bathroom cabinet contained several tubes of ointment, some baby talc and a blister pack of Tylenol. She threw three tablets down, washing them back with a couple handfuls of water, then splashed water on her face. A brief assessment in the mirror told her that her right eye was bulging and turning black, her nose a swollen, bloodied mess. When blood began snaking down her upper lip she tore off a strip of toilet tissue and rammed a wad of paper up each nostril. Then she limped to the front door, put on her shoes and left.

  Outside twenty or so cars still lined the street. Their owners were probably lying in a drug and alcohol-induced stupor inside the house. She walked from car to car, ducking her head to look into each until she crossed the street and came to a black ’67 four-door Chevy Impala in pristine condition. The chrome-work shone like it had just come out of the shop, and the rims on the tires practically sparkled. Dangling on a chain from the rearview mirror was a tiny Saint Christopher.

  On the downside, the Saint Christopher spelled trouble. That minor adornment marked it as a gang car. On the upside, the thing was parked three doors from the party house and some idiot had left the right rear passenger door unlocked. She pulled the door open, released the lock on the driver’s door, and got in.

  “Hey!” some guy yelled from the front steps of the party house. Before she knew it, he was coming at her like a bull with its ass on fire. “Hey, chola muthafuckin’ bitch, get outta that car. Hey, Frankie, someone’s stealin’ your ride,” he yelled over his shoulder, and next thing, guys were pouring out of the house, pulling on pants and jackets, and running towards her.

  “Shit.” She ran her fingers back and forth under the dash searching for the ignition wires but she wouldn’t have time.

  She heard someone yell, “Hey, bitch, that’s my car,” and figured it was Frankie.

  “Oh, no.” She slapped down the driver’s visor to find nothing. “Oh, no, no.” She hit the door lock with the side of her fist just as a bunch of pissed-off Latino guys in gang colors surrounded the car like a nest of angry hornets. They wrenched on the doors, slapped at the windshield, and yelled at the windows with faces twisted in rage. Now the car was rocking and swaying. Any second someone would smash a window.

  In desperation she slapped down the passenger’s visor and a key slid into the passenger’s seat along with the registration papers. She plunged the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine grumbled into life just as a fist came through the driver’s window in a shower of glass and reached for her. She dodged the hand, threw the car into drive and hit the gas. A big guy who’d climbed up on the hood bounced off and rolled into the road while others kicked and punched the panels, swearing and yelling threats as the car lurched forward. She cut a path through twenty or so guys with scarlet faces and the rage meter set on “Overload.”

  She pulled away, feeling the car speed up as they released their grip one by one. In the rearview mirror she could see them scrambling, running to cars and jumping in, and in a chorus of screeching tires they started after her.

  She hit the first corner, laying the car hard into it but the suspension was spongy, the steering rangy. The car fishtailed on the first bend and she almost lost the back end into a stationary truck on her right. She straightened, checked the mirror. All she could see was a train of cars right behind her.

  She hit the gas and took the next bend, heading straight out onto the turnpike with the car swaying side to side like a fairground ride. She hit the Ohio Turnpike Connector and barreled down I-80. Behind her, Frankie and half the local gang, the L21s, were trailing her. A Ford Explorer pulled up on her left and a gun came up over the sill. She stamped her foot on the brake, heard the pop of the gun and the tink of the bullet hitting the car on her right. She slowed then sped up, trying to maneuver away, but the Explorer swerved, crunching into her and grinding the two cars together like a pair of angry bison wrestling for position. Again, she stamped on the brake and the cars on either side shot forward. She spun the wheel into a right-hand turn and rocketed up the next off-ramp to the tink, tink of bullets hitting the trunk.

  The rear window shattered and she ducked. Barely able to see the road ahead, she hit the gas and slalomed left and right to keep them from pulling alongside her but the suspension was shot and the car swayed like a hula girl and the rear end kept drifting. She veered left, saw a Chevy lose it and one-eighty into a tree. She swung onto East 31st, straightened and hit the gas again.

  That’s when she heard the distant whine of police sirens. She threw a right, then a left to find two police units angling in across the road up ahead to form a block.

  Decision time: She could run it, or she could stop. If she stopped, they would take her in. She’d be locked up in a cell for the next ten hours while they printed out her rap sheet and questioned her. By that time, Holly could be dead.

  But this car would never outrun the cops or the L21s. She didn’t even know how she’d gotten this far.

  Decision time.

  She slowed. Think, think. If this was Matt …

  … it wasn’t. This was her decision.

  She slowed to a crawl. Flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror, lights flashing up ahead.

  One by one she could see the L21s pulling over behind her, cops getting out of their cars and running over to them as they stopped. She rolled to within a few feet of the block and hit the brake. She cursed the L21s, cursed the cops, cursed Matt. Most of all, she cursed herself. How dumb could she be?

  She cut the ignition and sat with her head down, staring into the dried blood cruste
d in the lap of her jeans while a cop ambled over. He knocked on the driver’s window with the knuckle of his forefinger and called, “Ma’am, would you mind stepping out of the car?”

  She released the door, pushed it open, eyes pinned to the dash, hand to the tattoo on her neck.

  He leaned down and said, “I said, would you mind …” but paused when he spotted the bruising to her face. Then he said, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stay there. Is this your car?”

  “No.”

  “Whose car is it?”

  Face down, tear-filled eyes not meeting his eyes. “My boyfriend’s.”

  The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is that him?”

  Kelsey lifted her head, blinked away tears. In the rearview mirror she could see the L21s surrounded by cops. They were jabbing fingers in her direction and yelling threats about how she’d never get away because they’d find her and they’d fuckin’ kill her. Out in front was the owner of the car, Frankie. A cop cuffed him, then dragged him away to a waiting police car. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got registration papers for the car?”

  She reached across, handed the papers to him. He took a few seconds to go over them, turning them, turning them again. “And this is Francis Rodrigo Duarte’s car?”

  “Yeah, the asshole.”

  “You mind telling me where you were headed to?”

  Kelsey hesitated. This could go two ways. “A shelter. For battered women,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “A shelter?”

  “Yeah.”

  A second cop walked over and joined the first. “What have you got here?”

  “Girlfriend taken a beating. She’s on her way to a shelter.”

  The second cop also bent to look into the car. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “I’m … I’m okay. I just need to get to the shelter. I called them. They’re expecting me.”