Again, she followed his instructions.
She felt a tug on her gag, as if he was testing whether she’d tied it tight. Then a dark blob dropped over the seat.
“Pull that over your head and cover your nose and mouth.”
She picked up the knitted object. It was a neck warmer, like Darcy’s.
So she wasn’t going to have her voice. But she had her arms and legs—and before she went into any building with this man, she intended to use both . . . even if Dev wasn’t around to help her.
A door opened behind her, and then Hamilton and Darcy appeared outside her window. He gestured her to exit.
When she opened the door, he spoke again. “Bring the keys.”
She pulled them out and wrapped her fist around them, maneuvering one key so the end with teeth was pointing out. It wasn’t as sharp as a knife, but it could do some serious damage to a face—or eyes.
“That way.” Hamilton unzipped Darcy’s coat and pulled her close beside him, indicating the narrow walkway between the empty structure and the house beside it, where a light shone in the upper window. “And remember . . . I have a knife aimed at your sister’s heart from below her rib cage. One wrong move, I shove it in.”
She started down the passage, walking as slow as she dared, buying herself every possible second to think. From what she’d been able to see, the knife blade wasn’t that long. Would it reach Darcy’s heart? Maybe not.
But she couldn’t take the chance.
As she emerged into an alley at the back of the buildings, Hamilton spoke again.
“Keep going. Straight ahead.”
She continued toward a two-story row house. Hamilton’s? If so, they were entering through the back door.
Out of Dev’s sight.
A suffocating wave of panic crashed over her. This was going to be up to her, after all. And she had to make her move out here. Once they went inside, they’d disappear from the eyes of the world.
Perhaps forever.
Her heart began to pound as she approached the small stoop.
Please, God . . . give me strength.
“Step up to the door.”
As she did so, he reached over and placed a single key on the wooden railing that rimmed the small space.
“Put it in the lock and turn it.”
Her fingers were trembling so badly it took her three tries, but at last she managed to insert it. One soft click, and the lock released.
“Now here’s what we’re going to do. There’s a door to your left when you enter. Open it slow and easy. Go down the steps. Make a left and walk to the door on the far wall. Is that clear?”
She angled toward him. Assessed the situation in one swift glance. Her best bet was to lunge off the stoop. Shove Darcy back. Kick Hamilton with her right leg.
But as her muscles tensed in preparation, he somehow read her intent.
Before she could move an inch, he shoved Darcy to the ground, leapt onto the stoop, and slammed a fist into her face.
Her chin jerked up as shafts of pain pierced her head. She staggered. Lost her balance. Felt herself falling backward. Heard a crack.
Then the world went dark.
As Laura crumpled in a heap on the stoop, Mark spat out a curse.
Everything had gone so well until now.
But he wasn’t surprised she’d tried a stunt like that. Darcy had too, and they were related. Similar traits often ran in families. He’d seen it in siblings at daycare. Thank goodness he’d been on alert.
Behind him, he heard Darcy scrambling to her feet. Or trying to. He turned. She still wasn’t steady, and she wouldn’t get far even if she did manage to stand without falling again. But she had a strong pair of lungs—and as her bound hands rose toward the gag, he shot toward her. A scream would carry in the silent night air, and there were lights on in the house they’d passed on the other side of the alley.
He grabbed for her hands, hauled her to her feet, and dragged her toward the back door. Once on the stoop, he got in her face and put the point of the knife an inch from her eyes.
“I told your sister I’d kill you if she didn’t do what I said.” He spoke through clenched teeth, keeping his voice low and menacing. “I’m telling you the same thing. You make one sound when we get inside, your sister dies. Got it?”
A tear spilled down her cheek, but she nodded.
He wasn’t certain she’d comply, but he couldn’t delay entry. Laura had knocked her head hard on the porch railing as she’d fallen, but unless she was seriously injured, she wouldn’t stay out long. He needed to dispose of Darcy and get back here fast.
Sliding the knife into the case he’d shoved inside his boot at Laura’s house, he once more hefted Darcy onto his shoulder.
She whimpered.
“Shut up.”
When she quieted, he twisted the knob on the back door and eased through. The lack of lights in the house was a positive sign. Faith must still be sleeping it off.
A quick look into the living room confirmed that conclusion. She was right where he’d left her, curled on the couch under the afghan.
That part of his plan had worked flawlessly, anyway.
He opened the basement door and started down the stairs. He could feel Darcy shaking, but she wasn’t making a sound. And going down was much easier than going up.
Once he reached her room, he dumped her on the bed and exited without looking back, locking the door behind him.
One down, one to go.
At the top of the stairs, he again checked on Faith.
No change.
Continuing to the back door, he pulled the knife out again—just in case. But when he emerged, Laura was slumped where he’d left her.
Was it possible the knock on the head had killed her, saving him the trouble?
But there’d be time to find out once he had her stowed in the basement, away from prying eyes.
He put the knife back in its case and knelt on one knee. It took some maneuvering, but he finally managed to hoist her over his shoulder. She groaned and stirred as he stood, and his lips flattened.
So much for his hope she might already be dead.
With one final scan to confirm no one was about, he moved to the door and slipped inside. The house remained dark. Faith was still out cold. And in sixty seconds, his two biggest problems would be locked away tight until he was ready to deal with them.
Once and for all.
As he started toward the basement stairs, Laura gave another muffled groan and began to writhe on his shoulder.
He picked up his pace.
Two steps down, something snagged, bringing him up short. He looked over his shoulder.
Laura had grabbed the door frame with one hand.
Taking a firm grip on the railing, he jerked her forward. Her hand pulled away with minimal resistance.
The fist in her face and the blow to the head had clearly weakened her, but she could work the gag loose if she tried—and that would be a disaster. The last thing he needed was for Faith to get wind of the drama playing out one floor below.
Descending the remaining stairs as fast as he dared, he pulled the key out of his pocket and half jogged toward Darcy’s room, Laura bouncing on his shoulder. A fast peek through the peephole confirmed the teen had remained where he’d dropped her on the bed.
The lock clicked and he pulled the door open. Three steps into the room, he dumped Laura onto the floor. Darcy gasped as her sister fell, but Laura lay unmoving except for the blood oozing out of her nose now that the neck warmer had slipped down.
With one last glance at the duo, he backed toward the door, the knot of tension in his stomach beginning to uncoil.
He’d pulled it off.
The hardest part was over.
As for the two women in his basement, he could take care of their final disposal at his leisure. Maybe he’d leave them down here for a few days without food. They’d be easier to manage then. Weaker. Less likely to struggle when he pre
ssed the pillow to their—
All at once, Darcy’s sister came to life. She rolled toward him, grabbed his leg, and tugged.
Thrown off balance, he fell backward, surprise giving way to anger even before he slammed onto the floor.
How could he have let himself be fooled a second time? Was he stupid after all, just like his mother used to say when drugs or alcohol stirred up the venom inside her and she spewed out hateful things?
No!
He had a college degree and a responsible, important job. People respected him. He was smart. Smart enough to fix this problem.
Besides, he had the advantage.
As his body absorbed the impact, he reached for the knife in his boot.
Coming slowly awake, Faith rubbed her eyes and stared into the darkness.
Where was she?
And what was that odd muffled, scuffling noise?
She forced herself upright, fighting back a wave of dizziness and an odd lethargy in her limbs.
Man. You’d think she’d downed half a bottle of wine instead of a mug of hot chocolate. She must have been a lot more tired than she’d thought to fall into such a deep sleep.
Closing her eyes, she gripped the edge of the couch until her head stopped swimming, then focused on getting the lay of the land.
She was still on the couch at Mark’s house. They’d been watching that old movie, the one with the chick from The Wizard of Oz, and she’d gotten sleepy. The last thing she remembered before drifting off was Mark draping an afghan over her.
Rotating her wrist toward the blank, illuminated screen, she peered at her watch. Was it really ten-forty? She’d been asleep for two hours?!
Warmth rose on her cheeks and she closed her eyes again. Talk about embarrassing. Falling asleep on a first date was the kiss of death. Mark would never ask her out again. Why, oh why, had she stayed up last night watching MTV?
The muted noise intruded on her thoughts again, and she looked toward the back of the house. It seemed to be coming from the basement—but what was it?
She rose, and the floor tilted.
Whoa!
She groped for the arm of the couch and held on tight until the room settled down. What in the world was going on?
Once she felt steady enough to walk, she carefully worked her way down the length of the couch in the dark. Had Mark gone to bed rather than disturb her? That would be like him. Everyone at work was impressed with his kindness and caring toward the children. Knowing him, he’d left a note by her purse telling her to wake him when she was ready to leave and he’d walk her back to her car.
Not a chance. After falling asleep on him, she’d rather slink out and hope he didn’t hold it against her tomorrow. Could she spin her faux pas in some positive way? Tell him she’d drifted off because she felt so relaxed and at home here, and that it was actually a compliment?
Lame . . . but it would have to do unless she came up with a better excuse.
Pausing at the dining table, she frowned and surveyed the empty top. She’d left her purse here, hadn’t she? Maybe Mark had moved it. If so, where had he put it?
She needed light.
Retracing her steps to the living room, she felt around the base of the lamp that had been on earlier, searching for the switch. Too bad her keys were inside her purse. Otherwise, she could leave it and let Mark bring it with him to work tomorrow.
Her fingers closed over the switch and she flipped it on. Soft light flooded the room—but her purse was nowhere to be seen.
Had he taken it to the kitchen, perhaps?
Still plagued with a weird unsteadiness, she concentrated on walking a straight line to the back of the house.
It wasn’t easy.
On the threshold of the kitchen, she stopped and gripped the door frame, searching the wall for a light switch. There. Over by the back door. Near where she’d left her boots when they arrived.
Stifling a yawn, she padded across the light-colored wood floor in her socks, groped for the switch, and flipped it on. Success. Her purse was front and center, smack in the middle of the bare counter.
She started toward it . . . then froze midstride.
What were those red splotches on the otherwise spotless floor? The ones that began halfway across the room and led to the open basement door? They hadn’t been there earlier.
She moved close to the first one and bent down.
Was that . . . blood?
More muffled noises came from the basement—and one of them sounded like a moan. Followed by a grunt.
She straightened up and backed off a step, visually following the trail of spots that ended at the basement door.
She lifted her gaze.
Stopped breathing.
Were those bloody fingerprints on the white door frame?
A thump sounded below her and she jumped.
The vibes in the house were suddenly getting bad.
Very bad.
“No!” The faint, muted cry from below was female.
A door slammed.
She jumped, gripping her hands in front of her as she strained to listen for more sounds.
All was quiet for half a minute—until one of the stairs creaked.
Someone was coming up!
Mark?
An intruder?
An ax murderer?
Pulse surging, she dashed toward the back door. Maybe there was a simple explanation for what she’d seen and heard. The red stuff might be paint. The voice might not have been a voice at all, but a cat or a CD or . . . something. Mark might have a workshop in the basement, and maybe he’d been watching a spooky DVD while he waited for her to wake up.
But she wasn’t waiting around to find out.
Tomorrow, she’d make her apologies and listen to explanations.
Tonight, she was out of here.
Swinging around, she grabbed her boots, reached for the door handle, and prepared to bolt.
25
Mark stopped two steps up on the basement stairs and double-checked his hands in the light spilling down through the door to the kitchen.
No blood.
Good.
But there was plenty of it in the room. It would take him weeks to clean and restore the space for the next girl.
Not that he’d had any choice, once the floorboard squeaked overhead. Knocking Darcy’s sister around, like Lil used to do to him when he got out of line, would have taken too long with Faith wandering around. He couldn’t risk having his “date” hear noises, get curious, and come downstairs to investigate.
Funny thing, though. While he’d never been the violent sort, driving the blade into flesh had been much easier than he’d expected. Satisfying too. With every thrust, his anger had dissipated and he’d felt more energized and powerful.
Maybe he’d rethink his plans for finishing the two of them off. Forget about the pillow method. Shake things up a little—if he could stand the mess. And that was a big if. Blood was a bear to clean up.
But he could make that decision later. First, he needed to get rid of Faith.
Scratching the back of his hand, he continued up the steps.
Three seconds later, as his eyes came level with the floor, red spots appeared in his field of vision, neon-like against the pristine polished oak.
He froze.
Laura’s nose must have dripped on the floor.
Had Faith seen it?
He took the last steps two at a time, arriving at the top just as his date for the night disappeared out the back door.
A roar filled his head, rising to a crescendo.
She’d seen the blood. There was a trail of spots halfway across the floor. No wonder she’d freaked.
But he could explain it. There were lots of reasons for red splotches on a floor. He could say he cut his finger on a knife in the kitchen. Or had suffered a nosebleed himself. Or that he’d spilled some tomato soup while fixing himself a snack.
Those were all logical explanations. Any of them could b
e true. Plus, she liked him. Trusted him. Once he caught up with her, it would be an easy sell. And it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere until he spoke with her. He had her keys. The ones he’d wrestled from Laura after she’d tried to jab one of them into his eye.
He crossed the kitchen in several long strides, pulled the door open, and exited onto the stoop.
Voices next door caught his attention, and he paused in the shadows. One of the frat boys was in the alley, by the dumpster. Probably getting rid of another trash bag full of beer cans. His lips curled in disgust. No wonder they were in a drunken stupor every weekend.
The kid was listening to Faith, though, as she gestured behind her, toward his house. He couldn’t make out her words, but the hysterical pitch of her voice carried in the quiet air.
He needed to stop this before it went any further.
Rubbing his palms down his slacks, he stepped off the stoop and started toward them. Too bad he’d ditched his jacket, hat, and gloves on the basement floor before coming upstairs. It was freezing out here.
The kid looked his way as he approached, and Faith spun toward him. Her eyes widened, and she edged behind the guy, swaying slightly as she grabbed his arm.
“Faith . . . what’s wrong?” He tried for a solicitous tone. “Are you feeling okay?”
She just stared at him.
“She said there was blood in your house.” The muscular kid with the build of a quarterback hefted a bulging plastic bag into the dumpster and faced him.
“Yeah.” He managed a rueful laugh and went for the nosebleed explanation as he addressed Faith. “After you conked out on me, I went downstairs to fiddle around with the hot water heater. It’s been acting up the past few days. Sometimes if I bend over for too long, I get nosebleeds. It happens now and then. I’m sorry you got scared.”
Faith edged out a fraction from behind the guy, her expression shifting from fear to uncertainty.
She was buying his explanation.
“Why don’t you come back to the house and we’ll gather up your things? Then I’ll walk you to your car.”
Super Jock looked at her and decided to play Galahad. “I can walk you to your car if you’d rather.”
Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel Page 31
