Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  She set the scalpel on the cement. “Here, drink this.” She poured the water over Chloe’s mouth. The girl licked her lips and hummed. “Good. Now, come on, open up and really drink.” She pressed the bottle to Chloe’s lips and tilted. She drank, then sputtered and coughed. Water ran down her chin and neck, but she finally opened her eyes.

  “Thirsty,” she whispered.

  “I know. Ssh. Drink.”

  Chloe took in the water, draining half of the bottle. Panting, she said, “More.”

  “Slow down. I don’t want you to make yourself sick.” She picked up the scalpel. “Now hold still and let me get this jacket off you.” After tearing the thin, worn denim with the blade, she used both hands to rip the material from her arms, then her back. She poured water on the torn denim and began sponging Chloe, hoping to bring down her body temperature. Ice would be better, but that would have to wait. Once she was confident Chloe and the baby were okay, she’d buy several large bags of ice for the cooler.

  As she gently pressed the drenched denim along Chloe’s face and neck, she realized she hadn’t planned well. While she’d already come to terms with having no choice but to come to the unit every few hours throughout the day and evening to feed Chloe, she hadn’t anticipated just how hot the unit would become. When the scumbag owner had said the unit wasn’t climate controlled, she hadn’t thought much of it. Her only concern had been the great location, the cheap price and that she’d been able to pay cash. Now she had to find a way to keep Chloe cool and comfortable. The fans would help, but what if the batteries ran out during the night?

  She hadn’t realized keeping a pregnant hostage would be so problematic. And it was only day one.

  “I’m going to take off your shoes and socks, and cut your pants into shorts,” she said, and moved to the foot of the mattress. After removing her shoes and socks, she used the scalpel on the tight leggings, then poured more water on the denim rag and dabbed Chloe’s legs with it. As she bathed her, she noticed marks behind Chloe’s knees. Bug bites?

  Curious, she stood and retrieved the lantern, bringing it closer to the bed. When she aimed the light to the back of Chloe’s knees, her stomach soured. “What are these?” she asked, rubbing her thumb along the tiny, pinprick marks.

  “Thirsty,” the girl responded.

  After setting the lantern down, she moved the fan closer to Chloe’s bare feet and legs, then opened another bottle of water. “Chloe, I need you to tell me what those marks on your legs are from.” Pregnant women could have serious allergic reactions to certain bug bites. When she’d been pregnant with Elton, she’d broken out in hives after being bitten by red ants. Chloe had been living on the street and, from the looks of it, in the same, filthy clothes for a while. If the girl had been bitten by something, she might have to buy allergy medicine when she went to the store for ice.

  “Remember what I said?” Chloe asked, her voice rough, scratchy. “The streets aren’t a place for you.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” She set down the water bottle and began dabbing Chloe’s bare shoulders. “Here, let’s roll you on your side so I can get your back.”

  “It means things happen.”

  She thought about the men who had abused Chloe’s body. “Yes, but that doesn’t explain—” She gasped and grabbed the girl’s arm. There were at least half of a dozen marks, same as on her legs, near the crook of Chloe’s elbows. She bent and looked at her other arm. More marks, only these were larger and had been scratched open.

  Letting go of Chloe’s arms, she stepped away from the mattress. Sweat trickled from her hairline and onto her cheek. Not just from the heat, but from fear. She stopped and faced the girl. “I demand that you tell me what those marks are from, or I will turn off the fans and let you roast.”

  A slow smile tilted Chloe’s lips. “If you do that, you’ll kill the baby.”

  She glanced to the Gymboree bag that held the adorable outfit she couldn’t wait to put on her son. “Then I’ll find another pregnant woman.”

  Chloe’s soft laughter gave her chills despite the heat. “Good luck with that. Besides, I thought you said this was God’s plan. You know, our destiny.”

  She had said that, and still firmly believed God had placed Chloe in her path for a reason. This girl could never care for or love her baby the way she and Wayne could. She was young and homeless, and not fit to be a mother.

  “You’re right. I do believe this is our destiny,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I also won’t let you roast. But I will smash your fingers and toes. Do not doubt that. I suggest you make this easy on yourself and be truthful.”

  Chloe licked her lips and nodded. “I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point.”

  She moved closer to the mattress. “Good. Now tell me.”

  “They’re track marks.” She looked away. “I told you things happen.”

  This was not an explanation she understood. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Frowning, Chloe looked at her. “Are you seriously that naïve?”

  “I’m a good Christian.”

  “I’ve known good Christians who not only love to chase the dragon, but do a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Chase the dragon? Has the heat boiled your brain?” She stepped closer. “Proverbs 12:22 states, ‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.’ I will not tolerate your lies or deceit. Be clear and truthful or I will break your toes. Now.”

  “You seriously are clueless,” Chloe said with a slight shake of her head. “Okay, since I want to be in His delight, how’s this for an explanation? Heroin.”

  “Heroin?” she repeated.

  “Yep. Track marks are where I pressed a needle into my veins.”

  “You’re a drug addict?” She eyed the girl with disbelief. While she might be naïve when it came to drugs like heroin or crack, she’d seen people smoke marijuana. Chloe hadn’t acted high. She hadn’t been giggly or all smiles. She’d been down, had come off defeated. “I don’t believe you.”

  Chloe slowly blinked. “Now you’re just being stupid. I’m telling you the truth so you don’t smash my fucking toes.”

  “What did I tell you about your language?”

  “Get over yourself. Instead of being so concerned about my swearing, you should be more worried about when I start to detox.”

  Detox? Oh, dear Lord. She picked up the lantern, brought it closer to the bed and studied Chloe’s face and eyes. Her glassy eyes, the dark smudges beneath them, the pockets of acne covering her pale, thin face. If it hadn’t been for the track marks, she would have gone with her original assumption. The girl was malnourished and exhausted from living on the streets.

  “What will happen when you…detox?” she asked, still not truly convinced Chloe had been using drugs. Drugs cost money and, from the looks of it, Chloe had none. Plus, she didn’t act drugged. Sure, she’d been a little out of it this morning, but she’d spent the night being attacked by cruel men.

  “Don’t know. I’ve been using for three years.”

  How could the girl be so matter of fact about her drug use? How could she, knowing she was carrying a baby, continue to pollute her body?

  Is she lying to me? Maybe. Maybe Chloe thought that if she made it seem as if the baby could be born with complications, she wouldn’t want him.

  Would she still want the baby if it were true?

  She quickly turned away, bowed her head and closed her eyes. Oh, Lord, please help me. Why have you led me to this woman? What plan do you have in store for us? What is your design? Please give me the strength to—

  “Praying isn’t going to help you figure this one out,” Chloe said, amusement in her tone. “If I thought that would work, I wouldn’t be stuck in here.”

  She glanced at Chloe and shook her head at the pathetic girl. Although her heart raced with concern, for now, she had to do what was necessary to keep the girl cool and hydrated. Later, she would pray on all of thi
s and decide how to handle Chloe’s possible drug issues. “I’m going to leave again,” she said. “We need ice. I won’t be long and will give you your lunch when I get back.”

  Chloe closed her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Except for Wayne’s evil father, she’d never hated anyone in her life. But she was beginning to dislike Chloe. The girl was right. She was naïve when it came to some things—like drugs. Since Chloe had been homeless, to have been able to survive on her own, she was likely quite street smart. She would have to be strong and not allow Chloe’s lies and taunts to sway her from God’s plans.

  After opening, then closing and locking the door, she quickly made her way from the storage facility. The girl obviously didn’t understand that God worked in mysterious ways. She knew in her heart that this—Chloe and her baby—was her chosen path. God had given her a young, pregnant girl who was alone in the world. Chloe might believe that God had forsaken her, that her prayers have gone unanswered, but she knew otherwise.

  God had blessed Chloe with the child she couldn’t carry, and would reward the girl by welcoming her in to His loving arms.

  Chapter 16

  WHEN THE GARAGE door slid shut, Chloe opened her eyes. Holy shitballs. Had Heather grown up living in a frickin’ convent? Did the woman not know anything about what went on in the world?

  She grinned. Wait until Heather found out what she did for a living. She’d probably drop to her knees and start spouting out all kinds of prayers. Her smile fell. Damn, she itched everywhere. The water Heather had dabbed on her skin hadn’t helped cool her off, and only intensified the need to scratch.

  Since she couldn’t do anything about the itching, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But her legs were restless. She stretched them and pointed her toes. The puny fan blew hot air along her feet and ankles, while the other one continued to stir air across her face. She wished Heather hadn’t left before setting up the others. Even with the pathetic fans, the hot air had grown stagnant. The strong smell of her body odor and mildew from the mattress made her nauseous. When a cramp seized her calf, she mustered the strength to push herself upright.

  Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She used her shoulder to rub away the itch, but it did no good. Fuck, it was hot and she was still thirsty. Kind of dizzy, too. The roar from the L—likely the Red Line—vibrated the unit. She looked to the water bottles. They called to her, teased her. She couldn’t reach them, and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to open them.

  The bag near the waters caught her attention. Gymboree. Wasn’t that a baby store? Oh, my God. Had Heather bought baby clothes?

  Bitch.

  She would not take her baby.

  The day she’d discovered she was pregnant had been a bad one. Winter hadn’t been about to give up and the temperatures that February night had plummeted to the teens. Roman hadn’t cared. While the wind and snow had blown through the streets, he’d made her and the other girls stand outside wearing next to nothing. As she’d worried about winding up with frostbite on her ass, her stomach, like now, had grown queasy. Bile had risen in her throat, but she’d kept fighting it back down. The last time one of them had come down with the flu, Roman had made the girl sleep in the gross, rat infested, detached garage. Because she hadn’t wanted that to happen to her, she’d kept her cool, kept telling herself the nausea would pass. It hadn’t, and she’d ended up throwing up on the John she was blowing.

  She half-laughed at the memory. The John had been horrified and started gagging. After he’d controlled himself, he pulled up his pants, then smacked her in the face and demanded his money back. She’d already passed it off to Roman, and had told the man to take it up with her pimp. For whatever reason, the guy hadn’t bothered. Instead, he’d hit her again, then kicked her out of his car and driven off. When Roman had asked her what happened, she’d lied and said the guy was finished with her. But Roman had smelled the puke and begun questioning her.

  She’d wound up in the gross, rat infested, detached garage anyway. But, later that night, Roman had brought her a pregnancy test. When she’d asked him why, he’d said, “Dumbass, when was the last time you had a fucking period?”

  Since her only concern had been about her next fix, and her menstrual cycle had always been irregular, she hadn’t even paid attention. Stupid. Although she rarely drank, she’d downed a crap-ton of whiskey the night she’d seen the plus sign on that pregnancy test. Then, she’d proceeded to chain smoke a pack of cigarettes, all the while injecting herself with heroin. Most women would have been thrilled to be pregnant, but not her. A pregnant whore was useless. She’d known if she didn’t have an abortion, Roman would kick her out of his shitty house.

  The next day, still strung out, she’d gone to the clinic with Roman. That’s when the doctor had given her an ultrasound and she’d found out that she wasn’t just a month or two along, but closer to four and a half months. She hadn’t remembered much else from the ultrasound, which again still bothered her, but she did remember the doctor saying his clinic did not perform abortions after sixteen weeks. There were clinics in Illinois that would, but those were two-day surgical procedures and Roman had refused to pay the expensive cost—even if she was his best little whore.

  Maybe God had intervened after all. Maybe there was a reason she was meant to have this baby. Did she think the reason had anything to do with Heather? Hell to the no. Even God had to know the woman was bat-shit crazy.

  Her calf cramped again and her legs jerked with restlessness. Using the little strength she had, she stood, but a wave of dizziness knocked her back on her butt.

  She wanted out of here, though, and tried standing again. Her vision blurred, and she swayed slightly, but her legs supported her. She took a step to see how far the cord attached to her back would stretch. She made it to the white bucket. Walking backward, she crept along until her butt hit the dresser. With her back to the furniture, she stretched her arms as far as she could and latched onto the metal securing the cord to the dresser. Her heart sank. There was no way to unfasten the metal without the proper tools. She blindly ran her fingers along it anyway and encountered a padlock.

  Even if she could escape her restraints, Heather had locked the unit from the outside. Still, if she could free herself, she could hide behind boxes and attack the batty bitch, then run for it. Her heart raced as she pictured herself whacking Heather over the head, then locking her in the unit and calling the police. The cops would help her call her parents. She could go home, go to a baby doctor and finally be free—from the drugs, from living on the streets, from being a whore. She would—

  Her breath caught and she held it. She thought she’d heard—

  There it was again. Men?

  She licked her dry lips and, with hope bursting from her chest, realized Heather had forgotten to gag her. Drawing air into her lungs she cried out, just as the L past again. “No,” she yelled, and called for help again anyway. Hoping and, yes, praying that there were men outside the unit and that they would hear her.

  When the train passed, she stopped screaming and listened. Other than the pounding in her head, she heard nothing and began wondering if she’d imagined the voices. Minutes ticked by, how many, she couldn’t be sure, but she was sure of one thing. No one was outside the storage unit.

  No one knew she’d been locked away.

  No one cared enough to even worry.

  Deep sadness suffocated her almost as much as the abysmal heat. Heather, no matter how naïve, stupid and crazy she was, might actually pull off this plan of hers. In a matter of weeks, while Heather played mommy, she could be dead.

  There had been times during the three years she’d been in Chicago that she’d wished she were dead and out of her misery. Now that she was trapped, helpless and had more than just herself to consider, the will to live was strong. Like a potent dose of heroin, it rushed through her veins. But like a firefly stuck inside a sealed mason jar, there was little she could do.

>   She slumped on the mattress. The L thundered past again, cruelly reminding her that life was and would continue to go on, with or without her in it.

  Metal clanked against metal, just before the garage door slid open. Heather emerged from the shadows outside the unit, carrying a large bag of ice and a couple of plastic grocery bags. She set down her purchases, then closed the door.

  Frowning, and without a word or making eye contact, Heather removed the fan boxes setting on top of the cooler to the floor, then placed the ice inside the cooler. She opened the boxes, then began filling the fans with batteries. After she set them around the mattress, Chloe had to admit that the light breeze made a huge difference. Still silent, Heather proceeded to place ice in the plastic zipper sandwich bags she’d pulled from one of the grocery carriers. By the time the L sped by again, she’d filled ten bags and had set them in the cooler.

  Heather’s cherub-like face remained screwed up in a harsh scowl as she began peeling an orange. “Eat this,” she said, breaking the silence.

  Chloe opened her mouth and bit into the orange slice. A burst of citrus filled her mouth and she craved another taste. If she were totally honest with herself, she craved more than the orange or any other food. It had probably been close to twelve hours since she’d had a hit of H, and although she didn’t want to harm her baby with drugs, her body literally ached for one more rush. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off and take her back to her happy place.

  Between bites of the orange, she eyed her backpack. Thanks to the cord attached to her back, she couldn’t reach it, and even if she could, she couldn’t inject herself. Knowing the answer to her cravings, to the itchiness, to the restlessness making her legs jump was only a few feet away but completely out of reach had her heart speeding up with a strange mixture of determination, relief and defeat. When she was selling herself, fucking disgusting strangers, the heroin had allowed her to forget, to momentarily dance under a beautiful, brightly colored rainbow and to feel the sun on her face. She’d love to go to that place now, to pretend that she wasn’t cuffed, or that a crazy woman planned to take her baby. But forced sobriety would hopefully give her baby a fighting chance and help clear her head. Only what good would a clear head do if she couldn’t find a way to escape?