Cassandra unlocked the car and let the bag of snacks and drinks fall into the passenger seat. She peeked in the back and saw Hardy lying perfectly still. All she could make out clearly were his bright eyes, peering at her through the darkness.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” she said before closing the door once more.
Keeping her purse handy, she went to work, unscrewing the cap on her tank and selecting the standard unleaded grade fuel from the pump. She shivered in the slight morning chill as she held the pump handle in place, watching the numbers tick by on the digital screen. Cassandra took a deep breath as the last of the gas flowed into the tank. She shook the nozzle slightly to make sure she got every drop, replaced the pump handle, and screwed the cap back onto her tank before climbing back into her car.
“I got some snacks,” she said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a bottle of water and the pack of Pall Malls before handing the bag to Hardy. “Don’t drink both cans of espresso, unless you want me falling asleep at the wheel.”
Hardy chuckled from the back seat, and Cassandra turned the key in the ignition. She had to admit that part of her was a little thrilled at the adventure, even if it would prove to be a sham later on. It would be a hell of a story, she kept telling herself. As long as she kept the screwdriver in easy reach, and as long as she prepared herself for the possibility that she might have to use it, she could—she hoped—get out of almost any situation intact.
She made for the highway, pushing the bottle of water between her still-warm thighs and freeing one hand from the steering wheel to crack the seal on the cap. She had no idea how much longer they would have to drive to make it to their destination, but Cassandra was intrigued by what she might discover once they reached Riley’s house. Escaped Convict Leads Journalist on Wild Goose Chase, she thought, visualizing potential headlines in her mind. Murderer Attempts to Clear His Name. Journalist Kidnapped in Revenge Scheme by Escaped Felon.
Whatever the article ended up being about, Cassandra was going to insist that she be allowed to get some sleep before she wrote it. Keep your mind on the present, girl, she told herself firmly. Looking ahead too soon might end up being the thing gets you killed.
Chapter Seven
By the time Hardy directed her to take the next exit, dawn had just started to the east. Cassandra had reached the level of fatigue where everything felt vaguely unreal. She shifted over to the exit ramp lane and again felt Hardy’s intense gaze on the back of her head. Was he worried that she would stop obeying him at that point? If he is, then he’s an idiot. The time to cut and run was at the gas station. Or in my own damn apartment.
“Turn right at the light,” Hardy said behind her, his voice oddly quiet.
Cassandra did as she was told, pausing to make sure there was no oncoming traffic before she completed the right turn. She had done her research on Jack Hardy when the murder charge had first come up; she knew he came from Upstate New York, from one of those tiny townships that people could never name unless they’d lived in the area.
As the car pressed forward, leaving the highway behind and moving into the suburban neighborhoods, Cassandra was surprised at how picturesque and normal everything looked. Houses flashed past the window: green lawns, low picket fences, fresh paint jobs. Lot of house-proud people in this neck of the woods, she thought absently, listening for Hardy’s instructions as she followed the main street of the town.
“Turn left up here,” he said brusquely.
Cassandra had expected Hardy’s childhood hometown to be somewhere bleak—something like the parts of upstate New York where kids were cautioned against playing in the streets, or one of the hole-in-the-ground, almost-deserted places where the factory that formed the economic pulse of the city had died; something like a smaller version of the Bronx or old Brooklyn.
In fact, the neighborhoods she drove through looked almost frighteningly normal. She imagined that the people here probably all had grills in their back yards, that the people in the houses of Hardy’s hometown would throw block parties, the men working the keg until it was tapped out and then breaking the party up. In the winter, the kids would go caroming down the graded hills on folded-up boxes, tires or sleds.
“This place looks so normal,” Cassandra said, barely aware that she was speaking out loud.
“Did you think I’d come from some wasteland?”
Cassandra shifted in the driver’s seat, shrugging defensively.
“Kind of,” she said. “At least, I expected it would be more…”
“Bleak?” There was amusement in Hardy’s voice.
“Well, yeah.” Cassandra straightened. “I mean…” she shrugged.
“How does a guy who grew up in one of these neighborhoods end up accused of murder?” Hardy interjected.
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.” Cassandra felt her cheeks burning.
“He gets framed,” Hardy said firmly.
Cassandra couldn’t think of a counter for that particular comment.
“Turn right at the second light from here.”
They wound their way through the streets as the dawn started to develop, lightening the horizon and painting streaks of orange and red along the tree line.
Cassandra looked around, taking in the quiet, calm residential streets. The question still tugged at her mind: how had a beautiful, peaceful place like this spawned a murderer? If it wasn’t Hardy, then it could have been his friend Riley—but he had come from this same place. It didn’t add up to her.
Plenty of serial killers lived in perfectly normal suburban neighborhoods. It’s not the place, it’s the person.
“We’re almost there,” Hardy said.
Cassandra shook herself out of her abstracted thoughts and looked at her kidnapper in the rearview mirror.
“This is the street. See the blue and white house up there?”
“I see it,” Cassandra said.
“Park in the driveway there.”
Cassandra’s heart beat faster as she approached the house. She pulled into the driveway and shifted the car into park, looking around. The garden in front of the house was a little straggly and sparse, but well maintained. There were a couple of toys scattered in the yard, rain-faded but obviously well loved.
“So what happens now?”
Cassandra turned around in the seat and looked at Hardy fully for the first time in a few hours. There was a look in his eyes like that of a caged animal, peering between bars.
“You’re going to go and knock at the door,” Hardy told her. “I’ll be behind you. Once we see who answers, I’ll take it from there.”
Cassandra thought about the screwdriver in her purse but was careful not to look at it.
“You’re sure you want to do this? We could still…I could drive you out of state or something. You could still get out of the country.” She already knew the answer, that he was way too invested in his mission to turn back; she just wanted to hear him say it.
“I have to do this,” Hardy said firmly. “I have to know who framed me.” He held her gaze for a long moment and Cassandra pressed her lips together, taking a slow, steadying breath.
“Okay then,” she said, pulling her keys from the ignition and slipping them into her pocket.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the driver’s side door, stepping out into the cool morning air. She heard one of the back doors of the car open, and as she walked around the hood, Cassandra spotted Hardy moving into place off to the side of the front porch. She shook her head to herself and continued on her way to the front door; it was painted a creamy white, and looked like it had been done fairly recently—there was a smudge of enamel on the brick pavers that made up the patio. Cassandra glanced at Hardy; he was half-crouched out of the view of the door.
Am I really doing this? What if someone other than Riley answers?
She pressed her lips together, thinking as quickly as her tired mind allowed. She wasn’t sure what Hardy would do to her if she didn’t go alo
ng with his plan, but instinct told her that she wouldn’t enjoy his reaction. She took a quick breath to steady her nerves and lifted her hand. Glancing one more time in Hardy’s direction, Cassandra knocked on the door with a quick tap-tap-tap of her knuckles. She took a step back and waited, straining her ears to hear any kind of reaction from inside. There was nothing. She looked around; there was an old, weathered SUV parked in front of the driveway; her Nissan was barely visible behind it.
Cassandra knocked again, a little harder this time. Her heart beat faster in her chest, but before her apprehension could descend into panic, she heard the lock in the door turn over, and the next moment, the door started to open.
She put a polite smile on her face as a man appeared. He was dressed in pajama pants and a washed-out tee shirt. Unlike Jack Hardy, the man at the door had started to go a little soft around the middle; he had the start of a beer gut and his arms were not as starkly defined, though there was still muscle there under the skin. He had dark hair that was starting to show signs of gray, cut into a high and tight, and thinning at the close-cropped temples. Where the sleeves of his tee shirt ended, tattoos covered the man’s arms, faded a little from time and sun. He frowned, looking at her in confusion.
“Can I help you?” The man’s frown deepened and then something like recognition came into his dark brown eyes. “Hey—I’ve seen you on the news, haven’t I? You’re that woman. The one…”
Before the man could get any further, Cassandra saw Hardy break cover, and before Cassandra’s stunned eyes, swiftly put the man into a chokehold.
“Jack?”
The man’s voice came out in a surprised gasp. He tried to bend forward and throw Hardy off—he was maybe three inches taller than Hardy, but Cassandra saw immediately that he wasn’t in the same kind of shape. She watched in mute shock as the two men struggled. Finally, Hardy raised a fist up and over his head. The fist descended and Cassandra heard a grunt—she wasn’t sure if it was from Riley or from Hardy—and the dark-haired man went still on the floor of the patio.
Looking around with a darting gaze, Hardy closed the door behind them and stood up. Cassandra bit back a scream as panic worked its way up her throat. Hardy reached down, lifting the prone man off of the floor and maneuvering him into a fireman’s hold.
“Come on!” Hardy’s voice left his lips in a hiss.
Numb, and shocked beyond reason, Cassandra followed in her kidnapper’s wake. Hardy hauled the back door of the car open and lowered Riley onto the seat, securing him with a seatbelt. Cassandra almost laughed at the precaution, thinking how bizarre it was in that particular moment.
“Get in the car, Cassandra,” Hardy told her firmly.
She walked as quickly as her rubbery knees would allow, picking her way around the front of the car. Almost without knowing what she was doing, she opened the driver’s side door and climbed in, slipping her keys out of her pocket. At that point, her shock took over again, and she simply stared at the shiny look of the metal in her hands, momentarily unable to comprehend what she needed to do with them.
“Drive! Drive, for crying out loud.”
Hardy’s voice jolted her out of her shock and Cassandra put the key in the ignition. She started the car up and, in a series of automatic movements, reversed out of the driveway and turned onto the street.
“What are we doing?” she asked. She felt the car shifting as Hardy did something in the back seat, and Cassandra found she didn’t exactly want to know what he was doing to the other man. “That’s Riley?” She glanced in the rearview mirror hesitantly.
“Yeah,” Hardy said, breathless from the effort of his second kidnapping of the day. “Get the hell out of this neighborhood. I don’t need someone seeing us and taking down your plate number or something.”
Cassandra focused on the road in front of her as she navigated her way out of the neighborhood. In the back of her mind, she realized that—unwillingly or not—she was now an accessory to a kidnapping. Can a kidnap victim also be a kidnapper? The questioned teased her frozen brain for a few moments until Cassandra decided that she would have to work out the ethics and morals of her situation later.
She drove for what felt like an hour, though the clock informed her that it had only been about fifteen minutes.
“Pull over here,” Hardy said from the back.
It was a deserted home lot on a seedy-looking residential street, the grass full of weeds. Cassandra pulled onto the lot and Hardy sprang into action. In the rearview mirror, she saw him unbuckle Riley’s seatbelt and maneuvered him out of the back seat. For a moment, Cassandra wondered if Hardy had somehow not just knocked the other man out but instead killed him outright. Am I an accessory to a murder now? The thought chilled her.
“Open the trunk,” Hardy called through the back door of the car.
Cassandra obeyed without even thinking about it. Hardy opened up the trunk the rest of the way, and Cassandra watched as he gathered up the larger man and lowered him into the trunk of the car. Hardy slammed down the lid of the trunk and hurried back to the back door of the car, throwing himself across the seat.
“Oh my God, I have a body in my trunk,” Cassandra said, cold fingers dancing down her spine. Her stomach lurched inside of her, and she thought she might be sick.
“Not a body, a person,” Hardy told her firmly. “He might have to become a body later.” Cassandra shuddered. “Get moving. If we hang around here too long someone might decide to investigate.”
Cassandra got the car turned around and back onto the road, her hands trembling on the wheel. While her fear of Hardy had become mixed with confusion about his motives during their long drive to his former best friend’s house, Cassandra now felt more frightened of the man in her back seat than she had been at any other point in the short time she’d known him.
Cassandra drove up the street until she came to a stop sign. Hardy’s head popped up in her rearview mirror.
“Okay,” he said, his voice sharp and tense. “Turn right up here.”
Cassandra felt as if she had somehow managed to suffer frostbite in her brain; her hands and feet moved in a kind of automatic reaction to the words that Hardy barked at her.
The residential neighborhoods began to fade away, replaced by longer and longer stretches of empty lots and almost-rural patches, cordoned off with industrial fences, as Cassandra followed the directions she was given. She never knew how long the drive was, but by the time she could sense that they were reaching the end of their journey, it felt as though they’d lost almost an hour.
“Turn in here,” Hardy said. His demeanor had relaxed somewhat as the space between them and Riley’s house had increased.
Cassandra reached the gate that Hardy wanted her to turn in at; a low complex of concrete and metal buildings lay behind a chain link fence. At the gate there was a metal box with a keypad.
“Okay…” Cassandra glanced back at Hardy. He frowned, hesitating a moment.
“Three-one-seven-five-two-nine,” he said quickly. Cassandra rolled down the window and punched in the numbers. The box beeped, and then the gate rolled aside with a metallic squeal. Cassandra pulled through, and then she was inside of the compound.
“Turn right,” Hardy said.
Shaking her head at the cryptic instructions, Cassandra did as she was told, turning right as soon as she fully cleared the entrance.
“Where are we going? What is this place?”
Hardy didn’t answer. Cassandra looked around; taking in the concrete walls, the pull-down doors, she realized it was some kind of storage facility. Isolated and anonymous, it was exactly the sort of place Cassandra would have expected a bounty hunter like Jack Hardy to know about.
“Follow the road down to the end and then turn left,” Hardy said.
Cassandra kept the car moving forward, watching row after row of austere units file past her windows.
“At the second intersection, turn right.”
Following Hardy’s instructions, Cassa
ndra made so many turns that she couldn’t imagine being able to find her way out of the facility again. Hardy sat up in the back seat once they were well away from the road—at such an early morning hour, nobody was around.
“It’s up ahead,” he told her quietly. “Bay number 328A.”
Cassandra pulled up to the storage unit, glancing behind her in the direction of her trunk.
There’s a human being in my trunk, hopefully still unconscious. There cannot be anything good in this storage unit.
Cassandra’s stomach twisted inside of her, roiling with too much caffeine and the certainty that what she was about to participate in was much more than just a kidnapping.
“I think…I think I want to stay here in the car,” she said quietly. “And maybe get some sleep.”
“You’re coming with me,” Hardy told her. He opened the back door and in a quick, fluid movement he was through it.
Cassandra pressed her lips together, fighting down the misgivings she felt. Nothing about the isolated location, the sterile concrete and metal buildings, gave her any sense of comfort about what Hardy intended to do with—or to—Riley.
“Pop the trunk,” Hardy called from outside.
Closing her eyes, resigning herself to what she was fairly certain she was about to see, Cassandra reached down under the steering wheel and pulled the lever that unlocked the trunk.
Chapter Eight
Riley was, mercifully for them all, still unconscious. Cassandra watched as Hardy carried the big man towards the roll-up door of his unit. She took a quick, deep breath and opened the driver’s side door, unbuckling her seat belt and getting out of the car.
I hate this. I hate this. Why am I going along with this? What will he do to me if I refuse to watch what he’s about to do?
Closing the car door behind her, Cassandra slipped the keys into her pocket and watched as Hardy opened the padlock attached to the storage unit’s door.
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