Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  As the key rattled in the lock, Darcy jerked and raised her head from her drawn-up knees. For a moment the room swam. No surprise there in light of her meager menu over the past two days, since Mark had begun feeding her again. A scrambled egg, slice of toast, apple, bowl of soup, half a turkey sandwich, and two Gatorades might be enough for one day, but spread out over almost five? They’d barely put a dent in her hunger.

  On the other hand, if he was trying to starve her to death, why was he feeding her at all?

  The door opened and he crossed the room, a plate in his hand. On his previous visits, he’d neither looked at her nor spoken. This one was no different. He set the food on the floor at the outer limits of her reach and retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.

  As the lock clicked into place and the room fell silent, Darcy stared at the plate.

  Was that a cheeseburger?

  Despite the weakness in her legs and a relentless pounding in her temples, she crawled toward it, extended her hand to grasp the edge of the plate, and pulled it toward her.

  It wasn’t a mirage. The savory aroma wafting up to her nose confirmed the burger was real.

  Yet as her salivary glands kicked into overdrive, so did her apprehension.

  Why this sudden feast after her sparse diet of the previous five days?

  The answer eluded her—but her brain hadn’t been working at 100 percent for the past two or three days. Putting some substantial food in her stomach would kick it back into gear. At least her worries about being poisoned had diminished. He’d had plenty of chances to spike her food with some lethal toxin if that had been his plan.

  She picked up the burger, took a bite—and closed her eyes.

  Nirvana.

  Her survival instincts clamored for her to scarf it down, but she forced herself to eat slowly. Hadn’t she read somewhere once that if you’d been on a fast, a heavy meal was a no-no? And a burger qualified as heavy. It might shock her stomach.

  Not eating it, however, wasn’t an option.

  As she devoured it one tiny bite at a time, Darcy felt strength seeping back into her limbs—and the clarity of her thinking also began to improve.

  But that had a downside.

  Because as she washed the last bite down with some slurps of water from the bathroom sink, a terrifying explanation for the hearty dinner suddenly occurred to her.

  Perhaps, like a prisoner on death row, she’d just been served her last meal.

  If she swallowed more than another mouthful or two of Mark’s famous hot chocolate, Faith was going to lose her dinner.

  “Do you like it?”

  She pretended to take another sip as she debated how to answer her host’s question. If she lied and said yes, he might offer her more. But if she told the truth, she might jinx their very first date. Better to go with noncommittal.

  Cradling the oversized mug in her hands, she leaned back on the couch. “I’ve never had anything quite like it. Do I detect a slight cherry flavor?”

  His eyes widened slightly. “You must have amazing taste buds to pick that up. The cherry-flavored syrup I use is very subtle.”

  The words were complimentary . . . but he didn’t look pleased she’d identified his secret ingredient. Most people probably wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint it. But overindulging on chocolate-covered cherries the Christmas Eve when she was ten—and puking all night—had left her with an acute ability to detect even a drop of the detested flavor. And it never failed to turn her stomach.

  No way did she intend to share that piece of her history, however.

  “I’ve been able to pick up cherry flavor ever since I was a kid. One of those freaky idiosyncrasies, I guess. I can see why this is famous in the neighborhood.” She lifted the mug to her lips and faked another sip, trying not to gag.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  She wished.

  The question was, how could she get rid of the rest of it before she repeated her performance at age ten?

  She scanned the living room, searching for possible spots to dump the hot chocolate. “This is a really nice house.” What about the fireplace? No; that would only work if it was real rather than gas. She kept looking. “Did it need a lot of rehabbing?” A plant beside the entertainment center caught her eye. Was it real? If so, the soil in the decorative pot would be a perfect disposal medium.

  “Yes. It’s been a lot of work, but the end result was worth it.”

  She held her breath so she wouldn’t have to smell the cherry aroma and pretended to sip again. “You know, hot chocolate always makes me thirsty. Could I have a glass of water?”

  A flash of . . . irritation? . . . streaked across his face, but he rose from the upholstered chair he’d chosen, his own hot chocolate in hand. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As he walked toward the kitchen, she stood and crossed the room. While he retrieved a glass from the cabinet, she pretended to study the titles of his DVDs, keeping watch on him out of the corner of her eye. The instant he turned his back to stick the glass under the ice maker, she verified that the pot contained real dirt, then dumped the remainder of the hot chocolate in the soil.

  Whew. That had been close.

  When Mark started back, she tipped up the mug and pretended to drain it as he approached.

  “All done?” He handed over the water and a paper napkin, then took the mug from her.

  “Yes. Thanks again.” She gulped the water, trying to wash away the lingering cherry flavor in her mouth.

  “So . . . would you like to watch an old movie? I have quite a collection.”

  “Sure.” She wandered back to the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her. It wasn’t going to be much of an evening if he stayed a coffee table away in that chair.

  “Give me a sec to get rid of this in the kitchen”—he lifted the mug—“and I’ll pull a few titles for you to choose from.”

  Faith settled on the sofa, set the glass on the paper napkin on the coffee table, and scooted toward the corner to open up even more space.

  A minute later, Mark detoured toward the entertainment center as he returned, quickly selecting three DVDs. He handed them over with a smile. If he’d been miffed at her discovery of his secret ingredient, he seemed over it now.

  She read the titles, examined the dated hairstyles and cover photos on the jackets. These weren’t just old, they were antique. Only one title rang any bells—distant ones, at that—but it was clear these were very old-fashioned stories.

  Different.

  But kind of cute.

  And truth be told, they looked better than the violence-drenched flicks her past dates had typically taken her to.

  “How about this one?” She held up Meet Me in St. Louis. At least she recognized the name of one of the stars. She was pretty certain Judy Garland had been the chick in The Wizard of Oz—another oldie but goodie.

  “Nice choice.” Mark took the DVDs from her, popped in the disc she’d chosen, and picked up the remote. Then he joined her on the sofa, sitting mere inches away.

  Yes!

  As the opening credits began to roll, she glanced at the fire in the hearth, let out a soft, contented sigh, and settled in.

  This was going to be a great evening.

  23

  Faith was asleep.

  Finally.

  Easing off the couch, Mark watched the even rise and fall of the afghan he’d draped over her when she’d grown sleepy. Odd that it had taken an hour for the double dose of Benadryl to kick in—especially since he’d also added some pulverized Ambien from the stockpile he kept on hand for the nights when sleep wouldn’t come. Then again, Faith had stretched out the drink as long as possible. She might also have a high tolerance for sleep aids.

  Whatever.

  She was out now, that was all that mattered. And, she should stay that way for several hours, though two would suffice if all went well.

  In any case, by the time she woke up and he sent her on
her way, everything would be in place for the final act.

  He turned off the lamp and the fireplace, leaving the room in darkness. The crepe soles of his shoes were silent on the floor as he walked toward the kitchen, snagging her bulging purse from the dining table as he passed.

  Once at the counter next to the sink, he zipped it open—too fast. Her keys, lipstick, hand mirror, comb, and a tube of mascara spilled out, clattering onto the hard surface.

  Pulse surging, he muttered an oath and backed up until she was in sight. Still out cold. He exhaled. The drugs might have taken awhile to kick in, but they seemed to be doing their job now.

  He returned to the counter and surveyed the personal items, his lips curling in disgust at the evidence of her last-minute primping before she’d called him from the next street. Like it mattered.

  After retrieving a pair of rubber gloves from beneath the sink, he picked the items up one by one and shoved them back into the purse, leaving only her keys on the counter.

  His fingers started to itch as he removed the gloves, and he eyed the sink, fighting the urge to wash his hands. There wasn’t time. Every minute had to count, in case Faith didn’t stay out for as long as he expected.

  But he’d make up for it later, after everything was over, by taking a long, hot shower—an appropriate symbol for a fresh, clean start.

  With one more glance at his guest, he slid his arms into the sleeves of his black jacket, pulled a dark knit cap over his head, and tugged on a pair of wool gloves. Pocketing Faith’s keys, he moved beside the knife rack on the counter, running his fingers across the handles. Which would work best?

  In the end, he chose a sharp, thin-bladed paring knife. It wasn’t as impressive as the bigger knives, but it would be easy to hold . . . and the four-inch blade would be more than adequate.

  After retrieving the case from a drawer, he slid the blade inside, tucked the knife inside his jacket, and crossed to the basement door. Checking on Faith once more over his shoulder, he turned the handle slow and easy, pulled open the door, and descended the stairs.

  At the bottom he paused, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim light before approaching the soundproof room. Once he reached the door, he bent and retrieved Darcy’s jacket, a neck warmer, and a hat from the floor where he’d dropped them earlier in preparation for this moment. He shoved a second neck warmer and the extra pair of gloves into the pockets of his jacket.

  Planning was everything.

  As he pulled out the key, he fitted his eye to the peephole.

  The plate with the burger was empty. She’d probably scarfed it down in three minutes flat after the subsistence diet he’d fed her for the past few days. Hunger had surely dulled her senses, but even if she’d been more alert, she would never have tasted the crushed Ambien in the meat. The extra seasonings he’d added would have masked the flavor.

  And it appeared the drug had kicked in. She was lying on the floor, her back to him, unmoving. Asleep but not comatose, if his guess on dosage had been correct. He needed her awake but groggy.

  With a twist of the key in the lock, he entered, shut the door behind him, and approached her carefully. She’d fooled him once; he wasn’t about to take another chance.

  Staying on guard, he dumped the clothing items on her bed and moved close enough to nudge her in the back with the toe of his shoe.

  No response.

  He prodded her harder.

  She moaned and curled into a protective tuck.

  Unless she was a better actress than he thought, she was in the exact state he wanted her.

  Poised to react in case he was wrong, he extracted another key from his pocket and unlocked the shackle. Once her leg was free, he positioned himself behind her, bent down to grab her under the arms, and lifted her to her feet.

  She wobbled and collapsed against him.

  Grunting, he absorbed her full weight. “Darcy . . . stand up.”

  Her eyelids flickered open at his terse command, and she managed to regain her footing, though she was swaying so much she’d have fallen again if he wasn’t supporting her.

  He half dragged, half guided her to the bed and lowered her to the side. Even sitting, she had difficulty staying upright.

  Holding on to her shoulder with one hand, he maneuvered the jacket onto first one arm, then the other. As he leaned down to zip it up, she gaped at him through dilated pupils.

  “Ish not cole in here.”

  “We’re taking a little trip.”

  He rummaged through the pocket of his own jacket and pulled out the strip of cloth he’d prepared. “Open your mouth.”

  She looked up at him dully, her eyes uncomprehending.

  “Darcy . . . open your mouth.” He enunciated each word.

  “Why?”

  The instant she spoke, he whipped the strip of cloth between her teeth and tugged it taut as she weakly flailed against him.

  Once it was tied behind her head, he grasped her shoulders and shook her. Hard.

  “Stop struggling. Do you hear me? Stop struggling!”

  When she continued to writhe, he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back.

  She took a sharp breath and went still.

  Better.

  “Do what I tell you, or you’ll be hurting a lot worse than this.” He increased the upward pressure on her arm to reinforce his message, letting her moan for a moment before releasing her.

  He worked the gloves onto her fingers, then yanked the neck warmer over her head, covering her nose and mouth, hiding the gag from view. Finally, he pulled the hat over her hair, tugging it down over her ears.

  Stepping back, he gave her a swift perusal. Excellent. She looked like someone bundled up for the cold.

  “Stand up.”

  She whimpered and tried to follow his instruction, but her legs folded under her and she dropped back to the bed.

  No problem. He was prepared for this contingency.

  After pulling her back to her feet, he bent down and hefted her over his shoulder. Once they were outside, the cold air should wake her up enough to let her get to the car on her own, with some assistance.

  Shrugging her into a more comfortable position, he exited, shutting the door behind him before he started up the steps.

  He took it slow, but by the time he reached the top, his heart was pounding. He’d never have made it without his diligent workouts and regular weight lifting.

  Again, it all came down to planning. To being ready for every possible outcome. To covering all the bases. And he was a master at that.

  He stopped to catch his breath on the top step, then peeked around the door. As near as he could tell, Faith hadn’t budged from her spot on the couch.

  So far, so good.

  He closed the basement door behind him and crossed the kitchen to the back door. Gently he turned the knob and exited onto the small, covered stoop, the salt he’d strewn on the wooden decking crunching under his feet as he emerged.

  A quick sweep of the area confirmed his expectations. The alley was deserted on this dark, cold, Tuesday night—and it should be even quieter around ten-thirty, when he returned.

  Lowering Darcy to her feet, he waited while she regained her equilibrium. As he’d hoped, the cold air was bringing her around, and she was able to stand on her own with minimal assistance.

  Nevertheless, he wrapped one arm around her waist, pressed close beside her, and took her arm in a firm grip.

  “Walk with me.” He spoke the quiet but firm words into her ear and urged her forward.

  She complied, her gait halting. Looking like someone who’d had one too many hot toddies on a cold winter night—his very story on the off chance they encountered anyone or were stopped for some reason.

  Tucking his chin into the collar of his coat, he struck out for the narrow passageway between the row houses on the other side of the alley, heading for Faith’s car. In less than five minutes, they’d be inside, Darcy’s hands would be bound, and he’d be on hi
s way to step two.

  When they got back, he’d send Faith home and complete the third and final step of his plan.

  The ice-crusted snow crackled under their feet as they walked, and a shiver passed through him. From cold, not anxiety.

  Well . . . maybe a little anxiety.

  This was the most ambitious and intricate plan he’d ever developed. But everything would work out. He was thorough and meticulous and careful. That’s why no one had ever discovered the truth about Lil’s death. Or Angela’s. Or Denise’s. Star would never be missed, either.

  Too bad Darcy had complicated things. She’d been nothing but trouble from day one. Choosing her had been a mistake, and he regretted it.

  But he wouldn’t make a mistake disposing of her—and her sister. Nor would he harbor one iota of regret over their demise. They’d brought it on themselves by misleading and hounding him. Transgressions like that had to be punished.

  And before this night was over, they would be.

  Dev finished off the last cupful of chicken noodle soup from his thermos, replaced the cap, and did another sweep of Hamilton’s neighborhood. Talk about dead. Only four cars had rolled down the street since he’d relieved Cal two and a half hours ago, and none had pulled in or out of the alley. Nor had he seen a single person wandering around.

  Looked like it was going to be another boring, unproductive night.

  A call to Laura would liven things up, though. And updating her was the professional thing to do—even if he didn’t brief most clients every day.

  He plugged the small fan unit into his lighter and flipped it on, along with the optional heat element, and aimed it at the front window. It did a better job defogging his sight line than keeping him warm, but if the cold got too bad, he could always plug in the electric blanket for a while.

  Meanwhile, he’d find another way to add some warmth to his life.

  Settling back into his seat, he pulled his cell from his belt and tapped in Laura’s speed dial number. It rang three times before she answered, and when she greeted him, she sounded breathless.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”