by L. T. Ryan
His thoughts turned to Cassie. Why was it so difficult to keep his composure around her? She was the anti-Alice. Tough, dominant, and she’d just as soon kill him, or perhaps herself, than give in to him. That made him want her even more. In the end, she’d have no choice.
Novak finished his work in the greenhouse. After rinsing all his tools and putting them back in their storage space, he lifted the hatch and descended the rusted metal ladder bolted to the brick wall with a small flashlight clenched between his teeth. As was customary, he dropped to the ground with a few rungs left. Getting Cassie down the ladder had been no easy task. He didn’t care if most of his visitors enjoyed a spill to the ground. Cassie had been no different in that regard.
The tunnel was ten feet underground, sealed in by bricks. It was there when he first came across the property almost two decades ago. Over the years several of the bricks had fallen out of place. Novak had been diligent in replacing them, but his time away in prison had led to more and more damage. Water dripped in many sections now, pooling in several spots. This was expected, considering they weren’t that far above sea level. He couldn’t believe it when he found the property. It had been a steal. He bought it off an old man who had no idea what he was sitting on. The old coot had inherited it from his grandfather, who had grown up on the property. Apparently, the old guy hadn’t known about the tunnel between the guesthouse and the greenhouse.
Novak did nothing for upkeep to the property. From outside, the house looked abandoned. Grass stood waist-high. Weeds littered every acre of the lot. The cycle of the seasons took care of killing it all off and exploding it into growth again. The house, guesthouse, barn, and other structures on the property were in such disrepair he doubted teenagers looking for a place to make out would even bother going inside. Old wood siding adorned with chips of paint hung from rusted nails.
In a word, the place was perfect. No one would ever come looking for Novak there. And so long as they couldn’t find him, they couldn’t find his guests. Dead and alive, they could stay with him there for eternity. So long as he remained in place and stopped looking for new friends. Every time he added another to his collection, he put it all at risk.
He panned the flashlight across the floor twenty feet ahead. There had been a puddle of water there earlier that he would have to keep tabs on. God forbid the tunnel collapse. There’d be no way of repairing it, and the thought of crossing a hundred yards in the wide-open fields between the house and greenhouse was not a welcome one. The puddle had drained through the cracks in the floor. He ran his hand along the ceiling. Aside from the lingering condensation, the bricks felt solidly in place.
Another ladder identical to the first waited for him at the other end of the tunnel. He climbed up, hooked his left arm through a rung and unlatched the trap door with his free hand. There was no point in locking it. The end points were hidden from view.
The trap door swung up and over and collided on the ground with a loud thud that shook dust loose from the floor and ceiling. Novak held his breath as he pulled himself out of the tunnel to avoid breathing in the mold spores. He made his way to the kitchen, which was positioned in the center of the house with a window overlooking a field of cattails. There were two entrances to the room, both equipped with solid-core doors. This was the only room on the main or upper levels that he ever allowed light to be used. With the blinds and shades drawn, no one could see the light from the outside.
He lifted the ice chest lid and pulled out a couple of frozen water bottles. On the table was a bushel of bananas. He grabbed two. And from the small fridge he retrieved a turkey, ham and cheese sub, already cut in two equal pieces.
Feeding time was his favorite time. It was the only time he was certain his friends were appreciative of him.
Novak made his way to the cellar door. He flipped the switch on the wall and a single light over the stairs cut on, casting a dull yellow wash over the worn wood. A few of the stairs had bloods stains. He felt the side of his forehead, where he’d been cut earlier during the accident. Some of that blood on the floor was his. Some had come from Cassie. He ought to make her clean it up. She’d relish that job, though. A woman like her, she’d use it as a chance to get away.
As he descended into the cellar, it crossed his mind that he could put a choke collar on her. He still had one from Brutus, his Rottweiler they’d unceremoniously put to sleep when he’d been sent off to prison.
“Put to sleep,” he muttered. He’d like to put those bastards to sleep, starting with the piss-ant judge and his horrible excuse for a public defender. Not to mention all the damn detectives who had been involved.
He flipped two switches at the bottom of the stairs. As the stairwell light dissipated, another came on and lit up the room at the bottom. The low ceilings and concrete walls and floor absorbed light. It was cool and dry. There were no windows. A square iron light fixture hung from the ceiling over a long rectangular dining table. There were eight chairs around the table. He’d never managed to fill all of them. At most, he’d had a special dinner with four women and a friend.
Novak set a bottle of water, one half of the ham and turkey sub, and a banana on the table. He carried the rest over to Cassie’s room. He reached for the handle, paused, then rapped his knuckles against the door. Why not try to get things back on the right track? Perhaps if he showed a little kindness, she’d return the favor. His smile faded with every passing second the bitch didn’t bother to respond. He’d even been nice enough to untie her earlier!
He cleared his throat, and knocked again.
And again, there was no response.
Novak grabbed the knob and flung the door open. Cassie lay on her back in the middle of the bed. Her hands were folded over her stomach. Her legs were crossed at her ankles. She opened her eyes, but did not look at him, instead choosing to stare up at the ceiling.
“I brought you lunch,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb.
She blinked.
“Care to say anything?” he asked.
If she did, she opted not to.
He bit back his anger. That would only lead to him making a rash decision, and those kinds of decisions were often permanent. He didn’t want to take any action against Cassie that would result in her foregoing the pleasure of his company. He set the food on the bed and left the room without another word.
He thought about leaving the door open a little, just so she could hear everything that was about to happen. But he thought better of it as he exited. It was too soon for such gestures. She’d take advantage of it. Besides, she’d hear it anyway.
He picked up the next meal and walked to Alice’s room. Alice was not one to take advantage of his kindness. That was why her door was left cracked open an inch. And it hadn’t moved since he left. He extended his foot and nudged the door open wider.
“Hello, Alice.”
The woman huddled in the corner, naked, her knees drawn to her chest. Dark bags under her eyes made it look as though she hadn’t slept since she had arrived. Novak reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of crushed valium. He’d sprinkle it onto her sandwich.
She got up and went to the bed after he set her food down. Apparently satisfying her hunger was more important than hiding her body from him. She gnawed on the sub and took a healthy gulp of water.
“That’s a girl,” he said. “Eat it all. You’re gonna need your strength in a couple of minutes.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Cervantes sped down the road toward us and slammed the brakes a few seconds too late. The car screeched past, leaving a wave of burnt rubber in its wake. I scrunched my nose against the odor as I climbed into the backseat of the sedan. The vehicle had been on long enough that it had sufficiently cooled down. I pulled my sweat-soaked collar away from my neck while leaning back against the seat.
The two detectives held a hushed conversation that I didn’t bother to lean in closer to hear. By this point I realized if they wanted my input, they’d
tell me what I should say. Cervantes nodded at Pennington, then shifted into drive and pulled away from the skid marks.
“The witness says she never saw a van or a truck drive by,” Pennington said.
“Where’s this road come out?” I asked.
Cervantes glanced up in the rearview. “Pretty close to where she was stranded. She would’ve noticed if Cassie was taken back that way, especially with how wound up the lady was after hearing the accident.”
“Or she might’ve missed it for that very reason,” I said. “Or forgot, what with all the other thoughts going through her mind at that time. We sure she wasn’t cowering in her back seat, afraid she heard a gunshot and someone was coming for her next?”
Cervantes shook his head and turned his gaze back toward the road. His death grip on the steering wheel told me he didn’t care for my assessment.
“I’m not trying to be contrary for the sake of it,” I said. “But we gotta consider these things.”
Pennington intervened yet again. “Hey, now, we get where you’re coming from. But if Novak took her that way—,” he aimed his finger over my shoulder, “—then they could be anywhere right now.”
“They already are anywhere right now,” I said.
“We know what’s back there, Tanner.” Pennington faced forward in his seat. “We’re gonna see what’s up ahead. Hell, maybe they ran off the road.”
“I don’t doubt that possibility.” I pictured Cassie in my mind, never giving up. “That girl’s a fighter.”
“She is,” Pennington said. “Any of us went through what she did, forget about it. We’re not coming through it like her. She’ll hang in there long enough for us to get to her. Bank on that.”
The sky grew overcast in a matter of minutes while we raced down the winding country road. The woods gave way to pastureland. Dozens of cows lined up along a splintered wooden fence as if a passing car was a big event.
Pennington had his phone held up. He was manipulating a map on the screen. “Couple of miles, we’re gonna come across a gas station.”
“I’ll stop there,” Cervantes said. “Maybe someone saw something.”
“How likely is it Novak would stop five minutes after leaving the woods?” I said.
“How likely is it the guy would abduct the woman who was responsible for putting him away? The guy’s crazy, so maybe we need to think a little crazy ourselves.” Pennington rolled down his window and let the wind rush overtake the conversation.
A couple of minutes later the gas station crept into view. A rusted roof over the pump island stood out in the deserted parking lot. If not for a neon open sign next to the front door, I would’ve thought the place had long since been deserted.
Cervantes pulled up next to a pump and cut the engine. We sat there for a moment. The heat quickly penetrated the cabin through Pennington’s open window. The cicadas ended their momentary silence and sang their shrill song from behind rows of palmettos.
Behind the front window a man looked out at us as we exited the car and approached the store. Anyone with half a brain could tell we were cops. So the question was did this guy have something to fear from us? If so, it wouldn’t be as easy to get any information out of him. He’d be too afraid of uncovering his own tracks.
The door jingled as Pennington pulled it open. He remained in place and held it for me and Cervantes. It seemed they wanted to keep me between them. And I had no doubt they wanted me to keep my mouth shut while inside the store. I’d oblige, for a minute or two. If I didn’t like the way the questioning was heading, I’d make my mark.
The guy behind the counter pegged us for cops right away. His lips drew tight and his eyes danced around the store. Drugs? Guns? He was giving away something, but not what we were there for.
“How ya doing, buddy?” Pennington strode up to the counter, hands in his pockets. Seemed a stupid move to me. No telling what the clerk had hidden behind the counter. The guy could pull out a .357 and that’d be all she wrote for Pennington.
The clerk nodded and glanced over Pennington’s shoulder at me and Cervantes.
“Can I get a pack of Camels and some matches?” Pennington said.
The clerk turned to the wall of cigarettes and reached for the Camels. Pennington leaned across and took a look around.
“What are you doing?” The clerk drew his hands tight to his chest as though the pack of smokes would protect him.
“You got surveillance in here?” Pennington said.
“Wha—why?” If the guy could’ve retreated into the wall, he would’ve at that point.
Pennington spread his arms, placed his hands wide on the counter, making himself look larger and more intimidating. “You see a van come through here in the past two or three hours?”
The clerk’s tight face relaxed for a beat as he realized we weren’t there to shake him down. “You-you guys are-are cops?” He must’ve been a thespian in a past life with the way he pulled that line off.
Cervantes and I moved in closer. The label on the clerk’s shirt said his name was Craig. I decided to break rank and say something.
“You know we are, Craig. Now at the moment, we aren’t here to look into what you’ve been doing during your downtime.”
Craig’s eyes darted to his laptop and his hand slowly moved toward it.
“Just leave that where it is,” Pennington said.
“Craig, just answer the questions as they are asked and we’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes,” I said.
Cervantes leaned in and bumped my shoulder. A subtle gesture telling me I better shut the hell up. Now.
“Back to the van,” Pennington said. “You seen one?”
We weren’t one hundred percent sure it was a van. The forensics team would need to gather all the evidence from the tire imprints, match the tread to specific tires, measure the distances between the impressions, and so on. From that, they could make a determination on types of vehicles and in some cases, provide specific models. But eyeballing and spitballing, I’d call it a van.
“Couple hours ago,” Craig said. “An old Dodge or Ford, primer gray, a panel van.”
“A family? Man and a woman? Hunting dogs? Migrant workers? A load of illegals?”
Craig furrowed his brow and stared out the window at the vacant gas pumps. “It was a guy. He pumped some gas then came in for some coffee, water, few other things. He kept, um, glancing out at the van.”
“That seem strange to you?”
Craig shrugged at the suggestion and smiled. “I mean, what’s strange, right? Maybe he loves his van.” His gaze darted toward his laptop screen. The guy folded his arms over his chest as his face grew serious. “What was strange was the cut on his head. He kept dabbing at it with an oil-stained rag.”
“Which pump were they at?”
“They?” The clerk looked confused.
“Him.”
“Three.”
Pennington looked back at Cervantes and nodded. Cervantes tugged on my sleeve and we exited the store.
“What are we doing out here?” I said.
“Trash digging.” The man headed right for the trash barrel next to the pump. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You know that ain’t gonna happen today.”
“A man can hope, can’t he?”
Cervantes rifled through the trash without even donning a pair of gloves. It was enough to make someone with a lesser stomach sick on the spot.
“You look like a natural at that,” I said.
“Eat me.” After a couple of minutes, he stopped, looked up at me and shook his head.
“Not a damn thing,” I said.
He nodded, wiped his hands on his pants.
The door flung open and Pennington ran over to us.
“What’s up?” Cervantes said. “You got something?”
Pennington smiled as he hid something behind his back.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Craig the clerk stared out the window at the three of us
huddled by the trash can. For some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy. Maybe it was the way his mouth hung open. I broke off my stare. Standing in front of me, Pennington looked like a kid who’d found his daddy’s porn collection. His ear-to-ear grin made me think he had Novak’s location printed out.
“What is it?” Cervantes said.
“We’ve got surveillance footage.” Pennington produced a VHS tape.
“Really?” I said. “VHS?”
Pennington shrugged. “Not everyone’s up to speed on the latest technology here in the backwards south, Yankee.”
Yankee? Where the hell had that come from?
“Tapes still work. The footage is still admissible by law.” He held it up in front of my face. “And this is pulling from four different feeds.” Pennington pointed at the corner of the building. “There, the main store area, the office, and out back. We might not only get Novak’s face on camera, but the van, license plate—”
“And maybe proof Cassie is still alive,” I said, blinking him back in focus. “You guys got a VCR at the office?”
Cervantes nodded as he pulled his keys from his pocket. “Sure do.”
Pennington called in to have a forensics unit sent to the gas station. It was doubtful anything had been left behind, but if they turned up even one small piece of evidence, it’d be worth it.
We hung around until one of the uniformed officers from the crash site showed up. While waiting, Pennington taped up the gas pump where the van had been, but left the store open. The clerk had told him at least a dozen other patrons had been inside since he had seen the van. It was as contaminated a scene as you could find.
The drive back to Savannah took half as long as the ride out of town. Maybe that was because I knew where we were going and the tension we felt toward each other had shifted to a mix of anxiety and hope over what the security footage contained. It helped that Cervantes pushed the needle past one hundred miles per hour and left it there the entire time we were on the highway. It was driving I could respect.
