“They’re gone,” she called from the kitchen.
Mike’s mouth drew into a narrow smile. “They’re not gone. They’re just hiding, waitin’ to pop up the minute we show our asses. But the only thing they’ll see is the bitch’s face.”
He slung the assault weapon over his shoulder and pulled the police automatic from his pocket. In one step, he was hovering over Emily. “On your feet!” She stood immediately.
“Fasten the cuffs,” he ordered. Rita looked at the manacles dangling from Emily’s hands and then took the key from her pocket. She unlocked the cuffs that had been fastened to the bed and then connected each of them across to Emily’s other arm.
“Okay,” she said. Mike prodded Emily toward the door and then reached around her for the knob. The door swung back from its shattered frame.
Instantly, his arm was around her throat and the muzzle of the pistol against her ear.
“We go real slow,” he told Emily. They moved through the doorway, with Rita pressed close behind.
“One step, then stop.” His chokehold lifted Emily off her feet and deposited her on the next step, where he joined her immediately. Again and again he moved her down until they were on the path leading to the driveway. Emily had imagined that she would be able to throw an elbow or get her fingers close to his eyes. But the handcuffs kept her hands in front of her and his hold was like a vise. She was choking each time he lifted her feet off the pavement.
He moved her slowly to the driveway, always keeping her on the street side, with his back to the house. Rita moved with them, hiding behind the shield that they afforded. Then they backed up to the garage door, which Rita raised.
“Turn on the light and look around.”
She did, and opened the car door to look inside. “All clear,” she whispered.
“Kill the light and get into the backseat.”
She switched off the light, stepped around the car, and climbed into the back behind the passenger seat.
Mike took one last look up and down the street. There really was no one beside the uniformed policeman sitting behind the wheel of the waiting cruiser. He pulled Emily back into the garage, along the driver’s side of the automobile.
He opened the back door, ducked down behind it, and pushed Emily into the seat next to Rita. “Put your gun right up against her head. Up high, so they can see it.” Emily felt a new weapon against her temple, but Rita wasn’t pressing it into her skin.
Mike reached over the driver’s seat and pushed the front door open. He used this as his shield while he closed Emily’s door and slid in behind the wheel. He started the car, turned on the high-beam headlights, and rolled slowly out of the garage, his face below the height of the steering wheel. If they were going to turn a marksman loose, this would be their moment. But there was no hint of an attack as they rolled slowly down the driveway and bounced onto the street. Mike straightened up in time to see the cruiser pulling slowly away, its red and blue lights spinning furiously. He fell into line behind it and followed it toward the corner, which was masked by the wall of the factory across from the house. “Make sure they can see the gun,” he snarled at Rita. “Keep it up high.” The cruiser turned the corner. Mike leaned forward to see if anyone was waiting on the other side of the building. It looked clear and he made his turn keeping close on the taillights of his escort.
The shots went off together, sounding like a single explosion instead of series of small pops. The sports utility truck lurched as two of its tires were shot out. Something struck the back of the car like a fist, setting the frame resonating like a kettledrum.
“Shoot her!” Mike screamed. He fought the wheel to keep the car on line and stepped down on the gas pedal. “Blow her fuckin’ head off! Shoot her!”
But Rita was already falling forward, an expression of total amazement distorting her features. The gun she was holding dropped with her hand into her lap. She pitched ahead until the top of her head hit the back of the front seat. Then she crumpled into a kneeling position and fell against the door. There was a spreading bloodstain in the middle of her back, matched perfectly to the round hole that had been punched through the back of the seat and was leaking upholstery.
Emily couldn’t reach the pistol that was falling away with Rita. She was being tossed first to her left and then to her right by the abruptness of the car’s maneuvers and then slammed forward by the sudden crash. As the gunshots had sounded, the police cruiser had accelerated ahead and then swerved sideways to block the road. A figure had bounced up in the backseat and begun aiming an automatic weapon. Mike had kept the pedal to the floor as he veered right to circle behind the police car. When he had seen the rifleman in the backseat, he had cut to the left, aiming straight at the gunman. His truck deflected off the rear quarter of the cruiser, slamming both policemen against the inside of their own car. The weapon fell harmlessly out the window.
Mike swung the wheel to the right, tearing the bumper and half the trunk from the cruiser and scattering it across the road behind him. He hadn’t planned it, but he had turned the escorting patrol car into a barricade of debris that blocked the two police cars coming in pursuit.
Shots rang out from every side. The windshield starred and the passenger window shattered. There were more thumps against the sides of the car, one striking Rita’s body and pushing it over against Emily. But even with the blown tires, the truck was gaining speed, leaving the rattle of gunfire behind. And there were no cars with wailing sirens gaining on them. Just a few more seconds were all that he needed to put enough space between him and the police so that he would have a chance to make a getaway.
He caught only a quick glimpse of Emily rising up behind him, not enough time for him to get his hand back from the wheel to protect himself. Certainly not enough to reach for the automatic that was in the seat next to him. Emily threw her hands up over his head. The chains that he had fastened to her wrists fell heavily across his chest. Then she heaved back, pulling the links across his throat.
Mike wasted an instant trying to steer the car and then lost another precious moment when he fumbled for the weapon. By the time he got his hands up to the chain it was already biting into his flesh.
Emily raised her knees against the back of Mike’s seat, letting her use every muscle in her body for leverage. Then she pulled back, ripping his head back and lifting him right out of his seat.
His arms flailed wildly. His hands reached around behind his head so that he could get a grip on the chain. But in that position, his strength was no match for the force Emily was generating. He felt his windpipe snap and could taste his own blood in his mouth. And then there was no air. Mike’s feet were off the pedals, kicking frantically in search of any kind of leverage. His heel flew forward and smashed the center out of the dashboard.
The truck kept rolling ahead, angling gradually toward the sidewalk. It was still traveling at a good rate of speed when it jumped up on the curb, sheered off the top of a fire hydrant, and ricocheted off the wall of a brick building. From there, it angled back into the road, crossed the street, and slammed into an industrial trash Dumpster on the other side. All the while Mike was struggling, his efforts getting weaker. All the while Emily kept her knees braced and her body taut as she pulled back with all her strength. When the car came to rest, Mike made no movement to escape. His finger never even twitched in the direction of the pistol or the assault weapon.
Emily thought that he was dead. But she kept her weight hanging from the chain that was looped around his neck. She was crying hysterically when the police pried open her door and lifted her out.
Walter had been up all night, drinking black coffee and pacing in circles around Amanda, who was dozing on the family room sofa, and Alex who had finally nodded off in a soft chair. His fear and anxiety were driving him like rocket motors.
He should have heard by now. There was already sunlight in the windows, which meant that it was late morning in Zurich. The money should already be gone from
Fassen Bank. The order to free Emily, it should have been given hours ago.
She was supposed to have been left off safely, in a spot where she would be easily found. But that hadn’t happened. Maybe she had never been set free. Or maybe her jailers had dropped her deep in the woods or in some deserted building where she would never be found. Walter didn’t know. All he could do was agonize over the dreadful possibilities.
It had to be the sadistic pervert who had been holding her. The fiend had taken such pleasure in describing how he planned to violate her and mutilate her if he wasn’t paid. Walter had believed he really meant it and wanted to meet his demands; $50,000 was a pitifully small amount compared to what was at stake. But Andrew Hogan had never taken him seriously. Hogan had insisted that the bastard was only a hireling, useful only in as much as he might lead them to Emily. Now it seemed obvious that Hogan had guessed wrong. Emily had not been released on schedule.
The one thing Walter couldn’t let himself think about was what her keeper might have done to her. Twice, he had given assurances to the man, and both times he had broken his word. Once, it was because he had cooperated with Andrew Hogan, the second time because Hogan had barged in with a blundered attempt of his own doing. The deceptions could have driven the psychopath beyond his point of control. Emily might have paid the full price of his madness.
“Nothing? No word at all?” Amanda’s sleepy voice asked as she snapped out of her slumber and read her father’s anxiety as he paced with his coffee gripped tightly in his hand. She lifted up from the sofa and glanced over at her brother. “I guess we haven’t been much company for you.” Then she moved slowly by him and into the kitchen, where she poured the dregs of the pot into a cup.
“She should have been found by now. I sent the money. They were supposed to let her go.” He shook his head in self-recrimination. Then he sank into the sofa that Amanda had just left. She leaned on the kitchen counter. “We’ll just have to wait … and hope.”
“I tried. I did everything I could,” Walter said, shaking his head in despair. He raised his eyes to his daughter, expecting a consoling word or expression. But she remained dark and silent. He knew she would never completely forgive him.
The telephone rang and Amanda sprang to answer. Alex bolted out of his chair and rushed to her side. Walter stood, looking after them, too frightened to follow. He watched her lift the receiver, but didn’t hear her say a word. For what seemed an eternity, she listened gravely.
“What is it?” he finally managed.
She held up a hand, telling him not to interrupt.
“Jesus, is she all right?”
Amanda was nodding, but he couldn’t tell whether she was answering him or agreeing with something that was being said over the phone. “Okay,” she said. And then, “Yes, I know how to get there… of course … he’s right here … certainly he’ll come… we’ll all be leaving right away …”
“For Christ’s sake, tell me. Is she all right?”
Amanda smiled and nodded enthusiastically, but then her expression narrowed as she went on listening. With her change of mood, Walter’s sudden joy was dashed.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” he begged.
She waved the questions away and went on listening. “But that’s not serious,” she interjected. She nodded at what she was hearing, thanked the caller several times, and finally hung up the phone.
“They’ve found her. She’s okay. She’s going to be just fine.” She hugged her brother and they locked together in a swinging, dancing embrace.
“What was the problem?” Walter demanded again.
Amanda hesitated for an instant and then explained that there were superficial wounds in the course of the rescue. “They’re going to keep her in the hospital for a day or two. Just to make sure everything is all right. It’s routine. Just a routine precaution.”
He bought an armful of flowers from the florist in the hospital lobby and smiled at everyone on his way up to her room. As he neared her doorway, he stopped for an instant to check his tie and smooth down his hair. He started into her room but was stopped in his tracks by her battered appearance.
Her face was swollen around a red welt that she had gotten during the car crash. An enormous white dressing circled her head. Both her hands were bandaged to protect cuts she had gotten from her shackles. There was a terrible fatigue in her expression, undoubtedly the result of her ordeal, and a simpleminded look in her eyes that probably came from the solution that was being dripped into her arm. He ran to her, dropped the flowers at her feet, and lifted her into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and then he repeated it over and over again.
He left Emily asleep, with Amanda by her bedside, and went down to the hospital cafeteria to join Andrew Hogan. Andrew took him step-by-step through the last hours of her captivity, the attempted escape, and the car crash that had killed her captors.
“She told me she had killed someone,” Walter said, as soon as Andrew had stopped speaking. “I was holding her, trying to console her. She wasn’t fully conscious. But she mumbled, I killed him, Walt. I killed him.’ Who? What did she mean?”
“Emily is heavily sedated,” Andrew said.
Walter nodded. “I know, I know. She’s in a daze. But she seemed positive that she killed someone.”
Andrew went into more detail than he intended about the last minutes of Emily’s captivity. “At some point, probably after the woman was shot, Emily got the handcuff chain around the guy’s neck. She pulled back hard, obviously trying to make him stop the car.”
“And that’s what killed him? She garroted the bastard?”
Hogan shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The man died in the car crash. The impact broke his neck. That’s what the police officer on the scene is going to write in his report. He assured me there would be no problems for Emily.”
“But, she thinks …” Walter persisted.
“She’d been through hell,” Andrew said. “She has every reason to hate the prick who caused it. And yet killing someone is hard for her to accept.”
Walter felt indicted. “I never intended for her to suffer. I never wanted to see her hurt.”
“Oh?” Hogan asked. “What did you intend?”
Walter looked flabbergasted. “Intend?”
“Yeah. When you and your young lady planned this whole thing, what was it you intended?”
“You think… that I… ?”
Hogan walked toward the exit. Walter kept pleading his innocence until he realized that no one was listening.
He finally fell off to sleep in the backseat of the car while Alex drove them back home. “Her ear,” Amanda kept repeating. “It’s gruesome! It must have been awful for her.”
“There’s plastic surgery,” Alex finally offered. “They do wonders.”
“But the shock! Do you think she’ll ever get over it?”
“Mom’s a strong lady. I think she’ll do just fine. I really do.”
Walter was scarcely awake when he noticed the blinking light on his telephone answering machine and played back his secretary’s message. “Mr. Hollcroft called,” Joanne said, her tone conveying due reverence for the president and chief executive officer. “He heard about Emily and he wants you to know how shocked he is. He insisted that I tell you that he and the bank are completely behind you. He wants to know if there is anything he can do for Emily, or for you.”
“That’s most considerate,” Walter said, hoping that his secretary might carry the remark to Jack Hollcroft’s secretary. “I’ll call him right away.”
“Oh, you can’t do that,” Joanne cautioned. “He’s going into a meeting with a few of the directors. It’s expected to run late. But his secretary did say that he hoped to talk with you at your earliest convenience. He didn’t mention anything specific, but she said she thought it concerned some international transactions that he didn’t completely understand.”
Walter breathed deeply. There was very little that the chairman d
idn’t completely understand.
Tuesday
JACK HOLLCROFT, ACCORDING TO Fortune magazine, was the most conservative man in global business. “Among the sixty suits in his closet,” the editors jibed in a feature article, “there isn’t one lighter than charcoal gray. He regards colored shirts as the gaudy uniform of advertising hucksters and once told a colleague who appeared before him in suspenders that he looked like a sideshow barker.” It was an accurate description of the world’s most respected banker. Everything about Jack Hollcroft assured depositors that he would never gamble with their money.
He was an unimpressive-looking man of average weight and average height, with thinning gray hair, gray eyes, and a complexion that was slightly tanned all year round. His most remarkable feature was an easy smile that made him look a bit like a southerner even though he had been raised in the suburbs of Boston. His voice was perfectly modulated and never elevated in volume. He was known to be a generous patron of causes that involved small children and helpless animals. Yet successful men, with personnel entourages much larger than his, were known to stop in the men’s room and throw up their lunches before entering his office. You had to be well prepared for Hollcroft because, while he would allow a puppy to pee on his shoe, he couldn’t stomach fools.
He stood to meet Walter Childs halfway between his office door and his desk and then walked him over to a setting of antique furniture that was one of three informal groupings in his office. “What a terrible ordeal you’ve been through,” he sympathized. “Your wife kidnapped. I can’t imagine anything worse. You really shouldn’t have come in so quickly. What was it? Just yesterday that she was released. Really Walter, there’s nothing here that’s at all important compared with her recovery.”
He helped Walter into a corner of a sofa as if he were an infirm patient. “How is she?” he asked with genuine concern. “And how are you? It must have been horrible for you.”
The Trophy Wife Page 30
