“You won’t kill me.”
“You’re getting the worst side of the deal, because the Dockerys will die soon, but you won’t die for a long time.”
“Bull,” Click said. “You’re not a murderer.”
“You don’t want to split that hair. A man can live for weeks without food before his stomach acids dissolve his vital organs. Water is a different story. Three to four days without it and you’re done. But . . .” Winter reached into his coat and took out an eight-ounce bottle about half filled with water. “If you conserve it, you can ration this for a long time. It’ll give you more time to think about what your family did to the Dockerys.”
Click said, “It’s the same as shooting me.”
“Think so?” Winter scratched his head. “Doesn’t seem that way to me. More like you’re committing suicide.”
“Screw you!” Click’s voice was fierce, but his eyes reflected a deep uncertainty.
“Once I close this door, we are going to walk out of this building. If we find the Dockerys and they are still alive, I’ll come back and let you out. Nobody but me will ever come back to check on you, and even if the hall out here was filled with people, they wouldn’t hear you if you had a bullhorn. This room was designed so patients going through DTs couldn’t harm themselves or disturb others with their screaming. After a few days in here you might decide on suicide. It won’t be easy, but you might be able to get that bottle cap lodged in your throat and block the air passage, if you don’t just swallow it.”
“This is wrong!” Click’s eyes narrowed to slits, his lips thinned. He looked around and up at the bare bulb in a steel-wire cage. “This doesn’t bother me.”
Winter reached over and flipped the light switch, plunging the cell into darkness.
“You turning out the lights?” Click sounded afraid.
“Tough old Ferny Ernest isn’t afraid of whips, chains, knives, hot wire. But he doesn’t like the dark.”
“Please,” the young man begged. “Just leave the slot open and the hall light on.”
“Click, people pay good money to spend time in sensory-deprivation chambers. All alone with just your brilliant mind for company. You can do math problems or figure out computer programs to pass the time. Some religions believe that hell is a dark void where you spend eternity alone with only your thoughts for company. In every religion, murder is a mortal sin that guarantees hell.”
Click bolted for the door. Winter body-blocked him easily and flipped him onto his back. Then Winter stepped out and closed the door, silencing Click’s anguished screams. When Click pressed his face against the note-card-sized square of two-inch-thick Plexi, his eyes wild with terror, Winter slid it closed.
“How long are you going to leave him in there?” Alexa asked Winter.
“Good question.”
“So, what is this place?”
“A building Sean bought to turn it into a safe house for battered women. They start work on it in a few weeks. I had the keys because we’ve been meeting with architects and space planners.”
“Your own private Abu Ghraib. Great start, Massey. You just have one prisoner and you’re torturing him.”
On the way back up the hall, Winter told her about Click’s scars, the conditioning to physical pain the boy had been put through for years, probably starting when he was very young.
“God, child abuse for the good of the family,” Alexa said sadly.
“For the survival of the Smoots,” Winter said.
“He’ll bug out,” Alexa warned.
“His fear of the dark is a full-blown phobia, but he won’t die from it. If I leave him in there a couple of hours, it will seem like a lot longer to him. When we come back and give him a chance to come clean, he’ll do it.”
“This is so wrong,” Alexa said. “I can’t believe you . . . that we can be so cruel.”
“Without him, you’ll never find the Dockerys in time, Bryce goes free, and not one of the Smoots will ever be punished for Lucy’s murder. What I got from reading Sarnov’s lips through a window won’t hold up in court. But knowing what we know might give us leverage with the next Smoot.”
Alexa grabbed Winter’s arm when they entered the lobby. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Damn it, Lex!” Winter yelled. “Stop thinking about this little vermin, and think about Lucy and Elijah. Click is a career criminal who is conspiring to murder two people just to throw a trial to free another murderer so Bryce can go on being a death merchant. We let him out now and it’s all over.”
“Turn on the light,” she argued. “Keep him in there, but if he goes insane from the fear, he’s no good to us either.”
Winter thought it over for five seconds. “No way.”
“What do we do in the meanwhile?”
“See what we can learn from somebody else.”
“Peanut?”
“Don’t know where he is. We could go look at each Smoot house, maybe find another Smoot or two. We can’t torture them because they’ll never talk. We might follow Peanut if Clayton tells us where Peanut is—or was, since this phone-trap thing isn’t instant—and we could tag along behind him. If he goes to where they have the Dockerys. Too many ifs.”
“Why couldn’t we trade Click to Peanut for the Dockerys?” Alexa said.
“Peanut would never go for it. Click’s life isn’t worth a day in prison to him.”
“He might if we promise we won’t prosecute.”
“You think he’d believe that? We both know that men like Peanut Smoot aren’t the sorts you can deal with unless you have something they really, really want and can’t take away from you. And I don’t think Laughlin, Sarnov, and Colonel Bryce would let him do it and live. Peanut’s freedom is more important to him than the lives of any member of his family.”
“So how do we find Peanut?”
“We don’t. You go back to the hotel and get some rest. If I don’t call you by daylight, you call the cops anonymously and tell them where Click is. He doesn’t know your name. If I get the location, I’ll call you. I never show up, it’s not your fault.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The best I can,” he answered. “I know you want to help, but you’re in my way. If you really want the Dockerys, back off.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m going to go see someone who should know where they are, who might be willing to tell to save his skin.”
“Who?”
“A lawyer.”
“You’re not serious?” Alexa said. “You’re just going to tip our hand early. Laughlin isn’t some kid, Winter.”
“Lex, don’t worry. If he doesn’t tell me where the Dockerys are, I’ve got more padded cells.”
48
Lucy Dockery would have one chance at survival. She had formulated a plan based on what she was sure she could lay her hands on in order to effect an escape. She had done her best to weigh what she was capable of doing against what wasn’t as likely to work. For example, she had seen a bottle of antifreeze in the bathroom, probably used for winterizing the trailer’s toilet. She imagined that if she could get some of it in Dixie’s coffee, the woman might drink it and it would probably kill her the same way it did dogs that drank it. But as far as Lucy knew, the poison could also take a long time to work, and she wasn’t going to get a chance to pour it in the coffeepot, and maybe Dixie wouldn’t even drink any coffee. She was resigned to the fact that her plan was dangerous and it was likely that, if it worked, Dixie probably wouldn’t survive. Well, Dixie planned to kill her and Elijah, and if she had to kill in self-defense, she was pretty sure she could do it.
In theory.
Every time she imagined striking a fatal blow to Dixie, every fiber of her being resisted the alien thought. Lucy was horrified and revolted at the very idea of taking a life.
Yes. To save Elijah, I will. If I absolutely have to, Walter, I will. I promise.
She heard Dixie making noise in the kitchen, mumbling
to herself, running water into the sink, opening and closing the refrigerator. Lucy lay still, curled herself into a fetal position. When the door opened, Dixie entered carrying a glass and a plastic bowl. She had a T-shirt draped over one shoulder and a towel over the other. She sat down on the bed.
“Missy?” she said in a low voice. “Baby, you awake?”
Lucy drew herself into a tighter ball.
“You poor little thing. Dixie’s going to clean you up,” the big woman said. “I’m sorry for what Buck did. He got punished for it. He sometimes has trouble controlling his temper. I know you didn’t mean to upset him like you did.”
Dixie reached out and dabbed at Lucy’s blood-matted hair with a wet end of the towel.
Lucy moaned, playing barely conscious as Dixie worked halfheartedly to clean her up. “You are one lucky gal,” Dixie chirped. “This isn’t near as bad as he can do. Not by a long shot it ain’t. It’s sort of his way of fore-playing. Buck’s used to doing like he wants, and that won’t never change. But he won’t bother you again. Not so long as you don’t give me call to turn my back and let him. Think of me as your angel standing between you and . . . Honey, you need to sit up and let Dixie put this shirt on you so you won’t be naked.”
Lucy allowed herself to be lifted so that Dixie could wrestle the T-shirt onto her. It was huge and reeked of stale sweat. Lucy assumed it belonged to one of the men. She remained as limp, as listless, as she could manage, returning silently to her fetal position as soon as Dixie finished dressing her.
“You know it wouldn’t do you any good to try to get out of here. We know everybody around for miles and my daddy about supports half the people out here. You could say we’re very instrumental in this community. A lot of the people around here are our kin.
“Honey, you need to sit up and drink this medicine Dixie got for you,” Dixie said, her voice sticky with false concern. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Lucy had known this was coming, but she was filled with sudden terror, knowing the concoction would probably put her out, or at the least turn her into a staggering mess. If she was going to have a chance, she couldn’t allow it. Dixie turned her over, raised her up, and put the coffee mug to her lips, pressing the rim against Lucy’s teeth. The main odor was that of orange juice with an undercurrent of cough syrup.
“Don’t make Dixie mad,” the powerful woman warned. “Drink it.”
Lucy wanted to scream, but instead she opened her mouth to allow the thick, sweet liquid to flow down her throat. Dixie didn’t take the mug away until it was empty.
Dixie stood, letting Lucy go back into her curl. “You get some rest, missy. A nice restful sleep is just what you need. You’ll wake up at home.”
Dixie stood in the doorway staring in at Lucy for a long time. All the while, Lucy was visualizing the medicine cocktail working itself into the lining of her stomach.
Keep thinking you’re winning, you muscle-bound freak, Lucy thought. Just keep thinking it.
Eleven-letter word for Dixie.
P S Y C H O B I T C H
49
Clayton Able knew exactly where Dixie Smoot had called her father from, but he wasn’t going to share that with anybody except the Major. Winter Massey was, as Clayton had insisted from the start he would, proving to be difficult to control. It appeared that if Massey was left to his own devices, he could make a very large mess of things, and generate complications they didn’t need.
He turned to Antonia. “We have to stop Massey.”
“Slow him down,” the Major answered. “It isn’t necessary to do anything so rash. Massey can’t get anything done before tomorrow, and then it’ll work for us. He can die as planned while shooting it out with the kidnappers. No need to change the plan.”
“Randall is hot over what happened at Click’s house. Says we should have warned him that Massey was there.”
“Screw Randall. He didn’t tell us he was going there. This is a two-way street. Max had better not forget who’s calling the tune. Where’s Alexa?”
“Coming here.”
“Good.”
“Massey’s on his way to Laughlin’s.”
“And Laughlin won’t be home. So Massey will go back to see the Smoot kid and—”
“I’ve seen this happen a hundred times and I know in my gut when something is about to go up in flames,” Clayton insisted nervously. “If you don’t let me handle him, I’m not going to stay with this. I’m not going to spend my golden years in prison. We need to let Randall deal with Massey now.”
He heard her exhale loudly. “Go ahead. But it means a change in plan. I’ll work out an alternate with Alexa. Make sure Max understands that Massey’s body can’t be found until Monday. We’ll have to play some hocus-pocus with the forensics. No biggie, since we’ll be controlling the evidence-gathering process and reports.”
“I’ll make the call. You are paying me for my experience with these sorts of matters. It’s the right thing to do,” Clayton said, smiling. “The smart thing is the correct course.”
“It had better be, Mr. Able. It sure as hell better be.”
50
Winter Massey locked the gate to the closed-down clinic, then waited for Alexa to leave. She had the damned phone to her head before she was fifty feet away, probably calling Clayton Able for advice, no doubt begging him for some intelligence that would negate the necessity of Winter’s trip to Laughlin’s. Winter wasn’t going to run everything he did through Clayton, or wait for him to toss Winter some eleventh-hour bone. Winter didn’t care for men who sat at computers playing with human lives that were no more real to them than some teenage sorcerer in a game of Dungeons and Dragons. Clayton was working with Alexa, but the man had worked for Military Intelligence. He gave Winter the creeps, and every bone in his body told him not to trust him.
Something else was bothering him more than Clayton Able or Click’s imprisonment. He couldn’t shake a feeling of unease, a feeling whose source he couldn’t put his finger on. Winter had never gone against his gut without being sorry he had. Right now his gut felt hollow and hot.
He hadn’t wanted Alexa to come with him from Click’s house because he didn’t want her undermining what he was doing with Click. He had told himself that she was better off not being involved in anything that was heavy-handed or illegal due to the consequences to her career. She might want to let go and get down in the dirt with him, but she couldn’t. Still it troubled him that she would bring him in to do something and then block him from doing it.
Winter picked up his own cell phone from the console and dialed Sean.
“Hello, Tiger,” she answered.
“You say that to everybody?”
“Just if caller ID says they’re using your phone,” she replied. “How’s it going?”
“It’s picking up steam,” Winter told her. “I borrowed one of your padded cells. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” she said. “If you need it, it’s fine.”
“Your liability paid up on it?”
“Yes. Winter—Is everything all right?”
“Peachy keen. How’s everything at the ranch?”
“There’s a leak in the roof and water is running down the stone fireplace. Olivia has the sniffles. Rush saddled his horse without Faith Ann’s help. Faith Ann cooked speckled trout dinner and it was excellent. Hank’s complaining about everything because he wishes he was with you. This bed is so cold and lonely.”
“Well, if things work out, I’ll be back in it tomorrow night.”
“You’d better be. This hot water bottle doesn’t keep me as warm as you do.”
“I’m glad you need me for something.”
“Massey, I need you for everything. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure I do.”
“You’d better be careful. You get injured and I’m going to be very angry with you. Is Alexa with you?”
“She’s gone back to the hotel to meet with someone.”
“W
ho’s watching your back?”
“Doesn’t need watching. I’m just driving around in the rain.”
A horn blared. Winter, realizing he had drifted close to another vehicle, swerved back into his lane. A van sped by, the driver holding his hand out in the rain long enough to give Winter a hand signal not covered in the North Carolina driver’s manual.
“What was that?” Sean asked.
“A Toyota, I think,” Winter said.
“Winter, stay focused,” she chastised.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“That’s not funny. You hang up and don’t split your attention again for a minute.”
“Okay, babe. Go back to sleep.”
“Know what, Massey?”
“Yes, Sean, I certainly do.”
“You’d better.”
He waited until after she hung up to end the call. After this was over, he would tell Sean about the machine-gun attack at Click’s. No sense in giving her something concrete to worry about. He had come within a split second of being cut to pieces. It was nice to know that retirement hadn’t put cobwebs in his reflexes.
If the phone book was correct, Ross Laughlin’s house was a large Tudor near Queen’s College on a tree-lined street where other stately homes were surrounded by manicured lawns. The windows of the lawyer’s home were all dark except for the ones on the back corner of the first floor—probably the kitchen. Laughlin’s outdoors lighting was pooled for dramatic effect, designed more to show off the landscaping than to offer security. Winter assumed Laughlin had at least as good a security system as everybody else on the street. Perhaps, being a criminal as well as an attorney, his was better than anything his neighbors had. Winter didn’t like the setup. There was no good place to park without letting himself be exposed as he approached the house from the front. He kept going and turned the corner and found a narrow service alley that ran behind the houses.
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