Blind Spot

by Brenda Novak

  To escape his troubled conscience, he went out to check on the dogs. He had to do something besides think.

  The henhouse where he was keeping them was one of several long, rectangular buildings made of corrugated metal and filled with stacked wire cages. A damaged and rusty conveyor belt ran along each row to feed the birds that had once been inside, and the chicken shit dropped down and piled up underneath.

  This type of henhouse reminded him of prison. It didn’t look like any kind of life, even for a chicken. And it stunk worse than the defunct processing plant.

  The dogs were penned in one corner. When he’d cut the slot in the door of the cooler so he could provide Dr. Talbot with food and added a toilet and bed, he’d also scooped the chicken shit to one side and fenced off an area for the dogs in which he spread a ton of bagged mulch around so they wouldn’t get filthy.

  They barked and began to jump and whine when they saw him.

  Emmett took the time to pet and scratch each one before feeding them and making sure their numerous bowls had clean water. He liked dogs more than he did humans, so after bagging the poop and tossing the loaded bombs into the far corner he took his favorite dog out to walk the perimeter of the property.

  No one seemed to be snooping around.

  He didn’t feel as though he needed to worry about being discovered, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back into the processing plant quite yet. He needed a longer break. Although he was afraid Evelyn might go into labor while he was gone, that was part of the reason he couldn’t make himself stay. He couldn’t tolerate the constant threat.

  There was nothing he could do to help her even if she did have the baby early. He wasn’t about to incriminate himself and serve more time in prison, so he figured he might as well return the dog to the pen and go have a drink.

  9

  Anchorage, AK—Wednesday, 10:40 p.m. AKDT

  At least she knew where to strike. Evelyn had gone to med school. If she could sever one of her captor’s carotid arteries, it would cut off half the blood oxygenating his brain and render him unconscious in about sixty seconds. That sounded extreme, even to her, desperate as she felt, but if she had just one shot, she needed to make it good. That was the only way she’d be able to get out of her small prison.

  The only problem was the weapon she’d be working with. A sharpened wire had no width. It would be easy to miss the carotid, especially if they were struggling with each other or he suddenly put up his hand to block her.

  Even if she stabbed him in the perfect place and made a run for it, she’d have only ten minutes or so to get help before he bled out.

  Ten minutes wouldn’t be enough; she probably wouldn’t be able to save him.

  Could she live with that—add yet another nightmare to the collection in her brain?

  She’d have to; she didn’t see any other choice. She knew how Bishop felt toward her, what he would do. Her baby’s survival, and her own, depended on escaping before he arrived.

  But getting close enough to the man he’d hired wouldn’t be easy. She had to do more than moan and writhe to convince him she was in labor. She needed to make her Goliath of a captor believe she was on the verge of giving birth the second he saw her—believe it so strongly that he’d rush into the room without a moment’s hesitation. Only if he was completely unprepared and totally surprised would she be able to stab him, especially in such a targeted place.

  What would alarm him to that degree?

  Blood, she decided. If anything was going to draw him to her side that would be it.

  Fortunately, blood was one of the few things she still had access to. She also had a water bottle that was half-full. If she cut herself, squeezed the blood that oozed out into the water and poured the mixture onto the floor as well as the back of her beige dress, she could make it look as though her water had broken. Then she could curl into a ball facing away from the door. And when he brought her breakfast and she didn’t come to take the tray, he’d bend down to see what was going on and spot her “suffering” on the bed.

  She just had to be careful to put the bloody puddle in a place where it would look as natural as possible, she told herself, and the easiest way to do that would be to put the bottle between her legs before unscrewing the cap. Then the solution would fall naturally and she’d have bloodstains on her legs and feet, which would look even more authentic.

  The question now was … when should she make her move? She was so frightened it was tempting to delay, hoping against hope that something would change. That he’d hear and respond to her entreaties. That his conscience would finally get the better of him. That Amarok would find and free her.

  But Bishop could arrive at any moment. She’d be a fool to wait.…

  Now. The time was now.

  She took several deep breaths, seeking strength and clarity. Then she picked up the shiv.

  Steeling herself not to flinch or cry out, she cut one finger after another until there was enough blood in that bottle to make it a nice watery red.

  Hilltop, AK—Thursday, 12:30 a.m. AKDT

  It was finally growing dark, but it would stay dark for only four hours. Nights were short this time of year, and farther north shorter still. Not too far from Fairbanks, night never came, not in June, especially as they approached the summer solstice.

  Amarok hated to see the sun sink below the horizon. It reminded him that time was passing fast, too fast, and he hadn’t yet found Evelyn. The darkness also made it more difficult to stay awake while he drove.

  After speaking to Dax O’Leary, he’d gone to Roxanne’s. Fortunately, there’d been several dancers and a few patrons who remembered the “big guy with the scar.” The unknown man had stood out, not only because of the damage to his face but also because of his size and build.

  Amarok hadn’t had a chance to speak to the bouncer who’d been there the night the van was stolen, however. A different one was on duty, so the manager had provided Greg’s phone number.

  Amarok had already tried to call him. It’d been after eleven by then, but sheer desperation overruled any qualms about disturbing someone in the middle of the night.

  Greg had finally answered but only to say he remembered seeing the guy but didn’t know who he was or where he was from.

  After leaving the club, Amarok had gone to the Anchorage Police Department to see if they’d been able to learn anything about the carpet-cleaning van. He’d been hoping they’d found it, that something about where it had been dumped would arm him with new information. If it was possible to glean DNA evidence or fingerprints from the vehicle, he could probably find out the man’s name and track him via his mobile phone or credit cards or, barring that, his friends and associates.

  It could make a big difference in finding Evelyn.

  But the stolen van hadn’t been located. The only thing Amarok learned was what the investigating detective—there was only one specializing in car thefts—could tell him when he called her at home. She’d said she believed the van was taken while the bouncer was inside, handling a minor disturbance in which a guy got drunk, tried to start a fight and had to be escorted off the premises. No one saw the man with the scar after that, and when Dax walked out of the joint over an hour later the van was gone.

  Amarok could only hope it would be found. He’d tried driving through the neighborhoods surrounding Roxanne’s, looking for it. But stumbling across it like that, in a completely random way, was highly unlikely.

  Instead of wasting more time, he’d headed home. He’d already checked his answering machine remotely—there weren’t any messages from Evelyn or whoever had abducted her. He needed a fresh lead and planned to search through the boxes she had archived above their garage to review the files of her previous patients to see if details he’d found so far lined up with anyone she’d worked with in Boston.

  Later, when it wasn’t quite so early in Boston, he had some calls to make, too. The first one needed to be to her family. He had to tell them wha
t was going on before they heard about it in the news.

  As he started the descent into Hilltop, his radio crackled to life.

  “Amarok, you copy?”

  Suddenly realizing that he’d been driving while half-asleep, he blinked as Makita barked, and, with a fresh jolt of adrenaline, snatched up the handpiece. “Right here, Phil. What’s up?”

  It was getting late, but Phil had stayed at the trooper post in case Evelyn tried to call—or someone else tried to contact him with information. “Maybe nothing.”

  Amarok was almost as relieved by those two words as he was disappointed. Although he craved a break in the case, he’d been terrified that Phil was about to tell him Evelyn’s body had been discovered—and it showed signs of torture and mutilation, which would be even worse than simply finding her dead. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I just received a call from someone named Dax O’Leary.”

  “That’s the owner of the carpet-cleaning van that was stolen. I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. Why’d he call?”

  “He was so drunk he was slurring his words. It was tough to understand him, but I’m pretty sure he said to tell you that the ‘gladiator’ you were talking about has shown up at a place called The Landing Strip.”

  Amarok’s heart leapt into his throat. The gladiator? “You said Dax just called?”

  “That’s right. We barely hung up.”

  “What’s the address of The Landing Strip?”

  “As you might guess, it’s near the airport. He told me that much. Let me look it up.”

  By the time Amarok had memorized the address, he’d already turned around and was racing back to Anchorage.

  Too bad Dax hadn’t spotted the guy earlier. Then he wouldn’t have an hour’s drive ahead of him. Given the opportunity Dax had just handed him, that sounded like an eternity. He prayed it wouldn’t be too late by the time he arrived.

  “Call Anchorage PD,” he told Phil. “Explain to them what’s going on and have them send someone to the club right away.”

  “I’m on it,” he said.

  Minneapolis, MN—Thursday, 4:30 a.m. CST

  Escaping was far easier than Lyman had expected. But planning made the difference between success and failure on almost everything. He’d spent months befriending Terry, listening to his marriage troubles, his financial woes, his complaints about his job and so on. Making him feel important was what made it possible to pull this off. He could never have done it alone. He’d known that from the beginning. And, tonight, everything was falling neatly into place.

  It helped that he’d dressed quietly and put his burner phone, fake ID and several twenties into his pocket while everyone else was sleeping, except for the security guard and the two nurses who worked the closest station this time of night. The security guard who roamed the halls was vigilant about monitoring all activity, especially after bed check, but she adhered to routine a bit too strictly. She always ate her lunch at the same time, which took her out of circulation at a predictable point in her shift. She also sat and talked to the two nurses while she ate, which distracted them.

  Why wouldn’t she feel safe to do that? Lyman asked himself. All was quiet. Nothing had happened around the wards to indicate that this night would be different from any other.

  Ironically, the only person who saw him go was Terry. Terry was mopping the hall down the way and happened to glance up as Lyman stepped out of his room. His eyes widened, but he quickly put his head back down. He’d already warned Lyman where all the security cameras were located and told him how to navigate the blind spots in the building so he could reach the door without being picked up on video.

  Lyman didn’t need him to do anything else.

  Normally, opening the back door would set off the emergency alarm, but thanks to Terry hacking into the main security system, the only thing Lyman heard was the quiet whoosh of air as it closed behind him.

  He turned to make sure it latched tightly before hurrying away. Worst-case scenario, he’d call for a taxi. He just didn’t want to do that anywhere near Beacon Point Mental Hospital. Although he was afraid this would be the most difficult part of his plan—he had to drag his left leg these days, had such an awkward gait that it took forever to get anywhere—he felt it was more important to leave without a trace than to move quickly. He couldn’t go too far until after the banks opened in the morning, anyway.

  Fortunately, the embrace of the cool night air and the thrill of freedom made it possible for him to walk almost three miles. At that point, he called a taxi and pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt he was wearing so the driver wouldn’t be able to see that part of his face was paralyzed.

  He had a couple of things he had to do before he left for Alaska. He had to go to his safety-deposit box and get his ATM card so he could withdraw the last of the money he had in savings. Then he had to visit a store where he could purchase a Visa card with which to charge his flight. But once the bank opened, that wouldn’t take long, and, after he reached the airport and boarded his plane, he’d be looking at a five-hour flight.

  Only those small hurdles now stood between him and Evelyn.

  Normal people took for granted the ease with which such mundane things were handled, day in and day out.

  But Lyman wasn’t normal.

  Stroke or no stroke, he never had been.

  Anchorage, AK—Thursday, 1:30 a.m. AKDT

  When Amarok found three cop cars idling at various angles in the parking lot of The Landing Strip, lights flashing, he came to a skidding stop close by and jumped out, leaving the door open for Makita to follow him. “Did you get him?” he asked the cop who rolled down his window.

  His heart was pumping like the pistons of an engine. As tired as he’d been before, he was wide-awake now, hadn’t felt a moment’s fatigue during the entire rush to return. He had only one thought in mind: Get Evelyn back.

  Maybe that was why the blow was especially severe when the officer looked up at him and shook his head. “’Fraid not.”

  The pain in Amarok’s injured hand, which he’d scarcely felt since Phil’s call, began to throb so badly it made him slightly nauseous. “What do you mean? I had someone, Phil Robbins, call you an hour ago. Don’t tell me you just got here.”

  “We got here about thirty minutes ago, but by then he was already gone.”

  Amarok could’ve sworn someone had just dropped an anvil on his chest. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. He just wasn’t here.”

  An officer walked out of the building with Dax O’Leary.

  “There you are!” Dax exclaimed, and, staggering slightly, walked over. “Wow, that’s a big malamute. How is he with strangers?”

  Amarok was so used to having Makita with him in Hilltop the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind that the dog’s presence might make anyone nervous. “He doesn’t do anything I tell him not to.”

  “That’s good. But what the hell took you so long?”

  “I was almost an hour away. I came as soon as I could.” He motioned to the other police officers. “They got here sooner.”

  “Yeah, but not soon enough. After I called you and walked back into the club, that dude spotted me, and the jig was up. He made a beeline for the door.”

  “Did you follow him? Catch a glimpse of the vehicle he was driving? Was it your van?”

  “I don’t know,” Dax said. “I only followed as far as the door. I was afraid to step outside. I thought he might be waiting to ambush me, and I didn’t want to get into a fight.”

  Amarok squeezed his eyes closed. No way could this be happening. The abduction suspect had been right within their grasp and they’d let him slip away? What little chance Evelyn had could’ve slipped away with him! “Please tell me someone here recognized him, knows who he is and where he might live.”

  “No.” The officer who’d been walking with Dax spoke up. “I just went through the whole place, asking everyone. There wasn’t one person who recognized him, except this
guy.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder at Dax.

  “What are the chances?” Amarok mumbled to himself, more dispirited than he’d ever been in his life.

  “That’s what I had to ask myself!” Dax’s voice was unnecessarily loud. “I mean, talk about a coincidence, right? I was in the middle of taking a drink when I spotted him and just about spewed it on the table.”

  Dax couldn’t have made the call and left discreetly? Why did he have to go back in? Amarok wondered. Dax had to know that if the guy saw him he’d get spooked, especially if he was the one who’d stolen the van.

  But Amarok didn’t ask. What was the point? The damage was done. Obviously, Dax, who wasn’t the smartest guy in the world to begin with, was drunk. He also didn’t have as much at stake. Sure, he’d lost an old van and his only mode of transportation, but he didn’t seem overly concerned about it. He hadn’t had to pay for it in the first place.

  “I’m thinking we should head to the other clubs in town, maybe hit a few of the bars, too,” an officer by the name of K. McGowen said. “See if he went somewhere else.”

  Amarok kept picturing Evelyn as he’d seen her when he kissed her good-bye before leaving for work two days ago. If her abductor was out and about, what did that mean for her? Had he already killed her and disposed of her body? Was he now looking for someone else? “He won’t be at any of those places,” he said dully.

  Officer McGowen blinked several times. “How do you know?”

  “He’d be stupid to take the risk.”

  “He took the risk of coming here,” Dax pointed out, obviously feeling important since he’d had the power to evoke such an immediate and keen response from the police.