Kindred Intentions

by Rita Carla Francesca Monticelli

  Amelia was disoriented. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In response to your thank you for saving your life. The one you should’ve said to me.”

  But the only word which had occurred to her was ‘why?’

  “I’m all right, take care of him,” Amelia said, as she shooed away the attentions of a paramedic and addressed them to Mike, who was now seated on the edge of an ambulance parked outside the building hosting Goldberg & Associates.

  However, the man was similarly reluctant to let himself be checked and was exchanging a few words with another policeman, who was taking his witness statement.

  “How is it possible that you lost him?” Monroe exclaimed at his transceiver.

  “At some point we lost sight of him …” There was hesitation in the officer’s voice from the other side of the communication. “And we could find him anymore.”

  Amelia turned to the building. The killer hadn’t exited from the main entrance; on the contrary, he had headed in the opposite direction. The place was enormous. He could have hidden anywhere, but he was wounded.

  Monroe cursed under his breath. “Lock all exits,” he shouted at the officers listening. “We must comb over this place floor by floor, room by room. He can’t have disappeared. Check every single person you meet.”

  “Sir, we don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “But he is wounded; I doubt there are many wounded men around in the offices, right?” The detective seemed about to explode. He had been investigating that case for months and Amelia could imagine how stressful this was to him.

  She was feeling exhausted and disappointed as well. For a moment she had thought she could catch him. She, a newbie who could solve such a complicated case at a drop of a hat. How delusional. She had just risked her own skin.

  As she pondered on it, she couldn’t help but look at Mike, who now seemed much less willing to talk to the officer who kept asking him questions.

  “I’ve seen him in the face very well.”

  Monroe rotated a gaze full of expectation towards her. “And just when were you planning to tell me?”

  “I …”

  “Would you be able to recognise him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you must go up with the others.”

  Amelia lowered her head. She was still barefoot and had some grazes on her legs. She must have got them on the stairs. She didn’t even recall scraping herself anywhere.

  The man shook his hand. “Put something on first.” Then he dismissed her with a disapproving gesture and resumed looking at the transceiver. “Have you at least reached Goldberg?”

  “He’s still barricaded in his panic room. He said he won’t get out until we assure him there’s no danger.”

  As she heard that last part of the conversation between her chief and colleagues, Amelia snorted and turned to the police van where she had dolled up for the interview just half an hour earlier. Her uniform was still there, including her shoes. She would surely feel more at ease once she had donned them again.

  A thought popped into her head and she placed a hand to her holster. She had lost her gun. She turned to tell Monroe about it, but he had already walked away. Oh God, this time she had really got herself into trouble.

  Dispirited, she headed for the van, which was parked on the opposite side of the street. The driver in the car that had stopped at the zebra crossing for her was now looking at her with a disgusted air, to say the least. As an answer she showed him her identification badge with one hand and the middle finger with the other.

  She pulled the handle of the side hatch on the police vehicle, but it didn’t seem to have any intention to move. All right, now she had to go back and get the key. In that very moment a glare landed on her eyes, making her turn. It was coming from the left rear-view mirror. The window was half open. She smiled at herself. What use was it locking the van if you left the window down?

  She moved closer to the door and, standing on tiptoe, inserted a hand through the narrow opening. Stretching her fingers as much as possible, she reached the safety lock and unlocked it. She climbed on the vehicle from the passenger’s side, and closed the door. She was about to turn and go to the rear.

  Again the dark hole of a silencer’s mouth.

  “Move to the driver’s seat and start the engine,” the killer said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  2

  “Pull out your mobile phone,” the killer’s voice ordered.

  Amelia was driving slowly and kept repeating to herself that her colleagues had certainly noticed the van had left, or they would notice very soon.

  “I said: pull out your mobile phone.”

  She felt the cold metal of the weapon pushing against the back of her head. “I don’t have it with me.” They could find her thanks to the GPS.

  The killer pushed harder. “Stop it with this bullshit! Pull out the fucking phone or you’ll be dead in a second.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t stress out.” She must not give him the impression she was intimidated, or things would be worse. But most of all, she must not be scared. She had to stay calm. Nothing bad would happen to her. Fuck, she couldn’t even lie decently to herself.

  “Come on!”

  Amelia pull back her hand from the steering wheel.

  “Slowly, don’t play tricks,” her jailer specified.

  She reached out to the pocket in her jacket and pulled out her mobile phone. Before showing it, it occurred to her that she could start a call to the police headquarters, by using the quick dialling function, but she let go. At the very least, she’d have to shift her gaze from the road to guide her fingers on the touch screen. With the old mobile phone, she could do that with her eyes shut, but not really with a smartphone.

  She raised it beside her head, so that he would see it.

  “Throw it out of the window.”

  And bye-bye, GPS.

  Reluctantly, she stretched out her hand beyond the glass and let it go. No harm done. The van was equipped with a satellite antitheft system. They would track them down anyway.

  “Pull over here.” The killer pushed his weapon harder against her nape.

  Now or never.

  Amelia slammed on the brakes. The man was hurled forward. Expecting that, she moved aside and grabbed his wrist. The gun was now aimed at the windshield.

  It went off and the shot stopped on the bulletproof glass.

  She felt herself being grabbed by her neck. The last feeling that remained impressed in her memory was the pain when her brow hit the steering wheel.

  As soon as she woke up, she wasn’t sure she was really awake at all. It was dark and she was dazed. Her head was aching with intermittent stabs, which spread from her brow to her whole skull then down to her neck. There was a deep background noise. She took some minutes to realise it came from an engine and that the vibrations she felt were those produced by a vehicle in constant motion. The stabs of pain were due to the rhythmical hitting of her head on some surface.

  She tried to stretch out, but her feet stopped against something hard. She tried to turn, but in all directions her hands touched an obstacle on which her fingers could slide freely. The texture reminded her of a carpet; no, it was thinner, like the upholstery of a car.

  She was in a boot.

  She started kicking and shouting, but her efforts seemed to have no effect. There was no noise or voice in response to her complaints.

  She resolved to calm down and analyse the situation. She had finished the police academy not even one year earlier, and amongst the many things they had taught her there were some scenarios similar to the one she was experiencing now. She was still alive, she had no significant wounds; first of all she had to figure out where she was.

  She had understood she’d been locked up in the boot of a vehicle. There was nothing like that in the van in which she had been taken hostage, so she wasn’t there anymore. Considering the size, it wasn’t a particularly small car. The only possibility tha
t occurred to her was that the killer had left his car at a certain distance from the law firm and that, once he’d exited, he’d needed to reach it without being noticed. And a wounded man, who might have difficulty walking, would certainly have stood out.

  What she couldn’t yet understand was how he’d exited the building undisturbed. He was trapped. But it was no use lingering on that thought. Somehow he’d made it and apparently he hadn’t found anything better than to take refuge inside the police van, where he had taken the first opportunity to have someone give him a lift to his own vehicle.

  And then it occurred to her: she wasn’t in a traceable vehicle anymore. Perhaps nobody was even looking for her and, anyway, they would hardly find her, now that she was shut in some car mixed in the urban traffic of the morning, driven by a man whose face was unknown by anyone but herself.

  No, wait, the cameras must have filmed him while he moved within the building. That certainty wavered almost immediately as she recalled that Monroe, at a certain point, hadn’t seen them anymore in the surveillance system. She was ready to bet that his face wasn’t to be seen in any of the frames where he’d appeared. On second thoughts, there was something else strange. The reception had seemed to her oddly deserted for that time of the day. The man was a professional, he was wearing the uniform of the security guards, he must had planned that assault in every detail, including his escape, whether he’d succeeded in reaching Goldberg or one of his partners or associates. Maybe he had gained access to the surveillance information system, thus creating the conditions that had allowed him to act undisturbed.

  All that made sense. But why, once he’d reached his car, had he taken her with him? Why hadn’t he just left her there? Perhaps because she had seen him up close, but in this case he could have just killed her. Perhaps he wanted to use her as commodity. He was wounded and not yet in a safe place; she could prove to be useful.

  Then she realised that the vibrations from the car had become constant. How long had she been unconscious? They had entered a dual carriageway and, considering that it was Tuesday morning, in order to be travelling at such a regular pace, they had to be far from the city centre. At least half an hour must have passed.

  A spreading discomfort mixed with fear invaded her. She felt so lonely, lonelier than she’d felt in a long while.

  She perceived something sliding down her temple, something liquid. She placed her fingers on her brow and found it viscous. As she touched her right eyebrow, she felt a burning sensation. She was bleeding, but it probably wasn’t something serious. She must not lose her head now. Focus was the operative word.

  She resumed feeling the inside of the boot. She searched the surface above and beside her with her hands. She reached the point where the hatch locked. She could feel the slot, but there was no way of clicking it open.

  She turned to the other side. Her hands were touching a smooth, not particularly cold, surface, maybe plastic. It had to be the rear of the backseat. She tried pushing a bit. She felt it slightly moving away under the pressure of her fingers. She pressed harder and a thin chink of light crept into the darkness of the boot. The seat was a tip-up one, and if she had somehow succeeded in opening it, she could have got out and surprised the driver from behind. Or maybe she could leave the car as soon as he had stopped it or, at least, slowed down. She had nothing with which she could face him and he was twice her size. The second solution was surely the most feasible one.

  Curling up, she could put herself to her knees, keeping her chest and head bent forward. She planted her feet at the back of the boot and opened her palms, placing them on the panel. Pushing both with hands and feet, she moved it a bit more. Now she could see, through the gap, the sun hitting the rear left door. She pushed with all her strength. It wouldn’t give. Her sweating hands slipped and the gap closed again.

  Bugger. She needed something to lever.

  She resumed exploring the narrow space she was in. Apparently she was the only thing in there. The rocking of the car together with her fruitless efforts, and the heat, made her slightly nauseous. She let herself slip to one side, exhausted.

  No, she would get nowhere this way. She wouldn’t be able to get out of there, unless someone opened the hatch. But what would happen next? She took deep, fast breaths; she was trying to hyperventilate in order to stifle her need to throw up. The last thing she needed was to soil herself with her own vomit.

  After a while she started feeling her head empty and a sensation of cold, while the skin of her hands prickled, but at least her nausea was disappearing. When she had the impression she was getting better, she resumed thinking.

  Yeah, what would happen next? She had to find a way to defend herself, when the man opened the hatch. Maybe she could assault him. She was a trained police officer, young, in good shape, heck, and he was wounded.

  She touched the pockets in her jacket, but she already knew there was nothing useful in there. Her handbag had been left somewhere on the floor in Goldberg’s waiting room. Her fingers perceived a bulge caused by her gun holster, empty. The killer had her gun, too. She hadn’t even been able to tell Monroe. But who cared now? Were she still wearing her shoes, the heels would have been a good improvised weapon.

  Hell, it was worthless to think about what she didn’t have; she had to focus on what she did have.

  She couldn’t see a thing in the darkness and so she tried to figure out what else could be found in a boot; maybe something small that the killer had forgotten to remove before putting her in there.

  The spare wheel. The jack!

  She turned face down and again on her knees, backing off with her butt. She was searching for something protruding from the upholstery. There had to be a compartment down there; usually you didn’t notice it when you opened the boot, but it had to be there. Her right index finger outlined the edge of something. She placed both hands there and tried to lift it. It didn’t resist her attempt. With a soft rip it detached from the floor of the boot. It was fitted with a Velcro closing system. She rolled it up a bit so as to create an opening where she could insert her hands. As she did so, they found an empty space. A little further down and they touched the bottom.

  No wheel, no jack.

  Regardless, she kept moving them inside the compartment. She could feel something in there. Some cloths, perhaps for polishing the bodywork. They certainly weren’t the ideal weapon. Then the knuckles of her left hand clashed with a hard, smooth, cold, cylindrical object. A spray bottle?

  There was no spare wheel, so it had to be a compressed air bottle to temporarily inflate a flat tyre. So, it was something a bit more useful. She could try to hit him on his head or spray the air on his eyes. She shook it and heard a liquid sound, while its surface became colder. It was full. Ah, no, it wasn’t exactly a spray. It appeared to have a valve. If only she could see it better. Nevertheless, the top of it was sure to hurt if planted inside an eye socket.

  Okay, she owned a weapon now, more or less. She just had to wait.

  She closed the compartment and lay down on her side. She would keep the bottle in her right hand, hidden from the killer’s sight, when he’d opened the compartment. She would pretend to be disoriented, then she would snap forward and strike him. Well, considering the situation, it was a more than passable plan.

  Only one question remained. How long would she have to wait?

  The rocking was still constant. The car was travelling without accelerating or braking on an apparently straight road. Probably a motorway. Where the hell was he taking her?

  She hated that waiting combined with uncertainty. It always reminded her of that day.

  She had waited for hours in the hospital, while Joseph was under the knife. Before entering the operating room, a surgeon had tried to reassure her. She must not think the worst. He had survived the accident. They would stop the internal bleeding. She must not lose hope. She had wanted to believe those words, because they were the only thing left to hold onto. Gavin, her husband, now ex-h
usband, had been sitting there, his head in his hands. From time to time, he’d stared at her with a scornful air. He’d made her feel even guiltier than she already felt. She had been behind the wheel that day, yes, but it hadn’t been her fault. The traffic light had been green and she had crossed the junction, confident that there was no danger. She hadn’t even seen the other car arriving from the left, until she felt the impact passing through her body, her neck bending, the airbag exploding, hitting her in the face, while the world out there spun around. Then everything had stopped, and when she’d opened her eyes, her first thought had been for her son, just a two-year-old, fastened into the child seat, trapped on the seat beside hers, facing backwards. The door was bent inwards and had reached the side of the child seat. Her child had been screaming. For a moment she’d felt relieved. He was crying, he was alive, perhaps he wasn’t hurt. But she had perceived an unusual desperation in his hoarse shouting, until it’d stopped.

  The surgeon had left the operation room. The meaning of the expression on his face was evident. No words needed. Gavin was crazed and she had found herself sitting on the floor, while the room around her had been dimmed by her tears, with nobody trying to comfort her, not even her husband.

  For a while she’d thought that her life was over, that she had nothing more to live for, but then she’d entered the academy. What had happened to her had destroyed the plans she had built with care since she was a little girl and had projected her towards an uncertain future. It was up to her to give a meaning to it. Fighting those not respecting the law had appeared to her the more satisfying choice. She would chase them down, one by one, and make sure they never came out of prison, unlike what had happened to the person responsible for the death of her son.

  What a fool.

  A sudden screeching of the brakes, a change in direction recalled her to the present. The car had taken an exit. She felt she was being dragged by the centrifugal force. It had to be the typical motorway or dual carriageway interchange. Given the prolonged sensation of crushing to the left, the car must had travelled a half circle. Perhaps it was crossing a flyover. Not that all those details were worth anything, but trying to understand what was happening out there made her feel a little less at the mercy of the events.