by Nina Mason
Bev fixed him with a stern glare as she dug in her apron, pulling out what he needed. When he was ready to write, he got back on the phone. As Judy gave him the address of her apartment, he scribbled it down, then handed the pen back to Beverly. With an anxious glance at Ivan, he said into the phone, “I should warn you, Judy. I’ve got someone with me.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“My editor,” he said, thinking fast. “And we’re on deadline, so we’re in a bit of a hurry to get back to the paper.”
“I won’t keep you,” she promised. “But I’ll need half an hour to tidy up and put on my face.”
Before he could say another word, there was a dial tone humming in his ear.
* * * *
Eyes squeezed shut, Thea tightened her grip on the knife’s handle as Mr. Kidd stood over her making noises that, under different circumstances, would have turned her stomach. Heavy breathing, guttural gasps and moans, and the soft, rapid slapping of skin on skin. Using the sounds as a tracking device, she did her best to home in on the exact location of the slapping sound. Should she wait for him to get there? Would he be more vulnerable in the throes of orgasm? Would he close his eyes? Were they closed already? The temptation to peek pounded hard on the wall of willpower she’d erected, but she refused to let it in.
She waited, her insides wound tight, until she was sure he was on the verge. Gingerly, breathlessly, she slipped the knife out of its hiding place, keeping her movements as minimal as possible. He moved in closer and pressed his erection against her nipple. Fighting her revulsion, she took care in positioning the blade, rehearsing the action in her mind. Thrust, jab, plunge, twist. There could be no hesitation. She had to go for it, had to make it count. And then what? Was she prepared to kill him? Was she capable of cold-blooded murder?
She continued her deep-breathing exercises, now allowing her mind to fill up with images—of her grandfather, her own torture, and of Quinn Davidson and Malcolm Connelly—being gunned down like dogs. And for what? Nothing more than to make a couple of greedy billionaires that much richer.
Several minutes passed. Kidd was slapping harder now while emitting a throaty chant: “Oh, God. Oh, Tatyana. Oh, yes.”
This was it. It had to be now. Right now!
Slipping the knife out from under the blanket, she drove the blade toward her target with all her might. It struck meat. Mr. Kidd gasped, cursed, and howled. She thrust harder, calling on strength she didn’t know she had. The blade sank deeper. Mr. Kidd bellowed like an animal as warm liquid splattered across her chest.
She jumped up and opened her eyes just in time to see his fist coming at her face. She ducked. The blow grazed her cheek, knocking her off balance. She stumbled, falling back into the chair.
Kidd was on his knees, screaming and spewing expletives in a frenzied amalgamation of English and Bulgarian. Her glance fell onto the hilt of the knife protruding from his crotch. Had she hit her mark? She couldn’t be sure, but she’d definitely hit something. He was coddling the wound, moaning, muttering, and swearing. Under his hands, was a spreading splotch of red.
She leapt to her feet, frantically scanning the space for anything she could use to knock him out. Her gaze fell upon the chair where he’d been sitting. His coat hung over the back. Under it, she saw his shoulder holster. The gun was still in it. She felt a sudden burst of hope. Maybe, just maybe, if she could get to it, she still had a chance.
Just as she lunged, he grabbed her ankle. She kicked at him wildly, trying to shake him off. He held on tight, yanking hard on her leg, doing his damndest to pull her down. She held on, knowing if he got her down on the floor with him, she was done for. She searched her mind for something, anything, she could use from her Kung Fu training. Images of various stances, punches, and kicks came rushing back. But could she perform any of them with one of her legs pinned?
It was worth a try.
She shifted her weight to her captured leg, pivoted her hips, and brought her knee up forcefully, going for his chin. She scored a direct hit, knocking his teeth together with a chilling sound. As his head jerked back, he let go. Hopping back, she swung her leg, landing a roundhouse kick to the side of his face. She followed it with a quick punch to the nose. His hands flew to his face to stem the blood pouring from his nostrils.
Thea bolted toward the chair, diving for the gun. Just as her hand touched the grip, he tackled her from behind. As she went down, her forehead slammed against the edge of the chair. She heard a sickening crack, saw a flash of yellow light, felt blood, hot and thick, pouring down her brow. She landed hard on her chest, grunting as the air shot out of her lungs. He was on top of her, cursing like a demon.
She twisted, thrashed, and kicked, but couldn’t throw him off. His fingers snaked through her hair, took hold, and jerked hard, snapping back her head. The pain made her cry out. He moved his mouth to her ear. She winced under the assault of humid breath.
“You have been a very bad girl, Pussy,” he whispered deviously. “And now you are mine to do with as I please.”
Chapter 29
There was an open parking space right out front and, as Ivan maneuvered into it, Buchanan looked around. The neighborhood was old, but rather charming with its manicured lawns and mature trees. As he took it all in, he couldn’t help wondering how Judy could afford to live in an area as nice as this one on only a waitress’s wages and tips. The building itself—with its gray-stone façade, bump of bay windows, and black iron railing—reminded him to an unnerving degree of the place where he grew up on Raeburn Street.
“Remember,” Ivan told him as they climbed out of the Mercedes, “no funny business.”
“I’ll be as good as gold,” Buchanan assured him with a false grin as they jogged up the front steps. “As long as you are.”
At the top was a recessed oak door with a security lock, above it, a transom with the building’s address painted in gold. An intercom with a dozen buttons was mounted on the wall beside the door. Under each button was a black plastic label punched with the occupant’s last name and unit. Because Buchanan didn’t know Judy’s surname, he scanned for the letter she’d given him: E. Finding it, he pressed the corresponding call button.
Within seconds, a woman’s voice came out of the speaker. “Alex?”
“And editor,” he reminded her, hoping she’d pick up on the warning tone in his voice (and that Ivan wouldn’t).
“First floor,” she told him. “Turn right. I’m at the end of the hall.”
The door buzzed. He yanked it open and stepped into the foyer, which was long, dark, and narrow. At the far end was what looked like a hallway with striped wallpaper over darkly stained wainscoting. To the right, a stairway with a heavy oak banister led to the second floor. He did his best to act casual despite his sweating palms and racing pulse. He headed past the stairs, hanging a right when he reached the hall. A long floral runner covered the floorboards, cushioning their footsteps. The apartment doors, each crowned by a stained-glass transom, were the same tawny oak as the wainscoting. Letter E was the last one on the left. Stopping before it, Buchannan rapped three times.
The door opened, revealing a woman in a t-shirt, jeans, and white trainers. She wore very little make-up and had her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked so different, it took him a moment to reconcile her with the waitress from the diner. From inside, he could hear the sound of a television.
“Hi,” he said, forcing a grin.
“Hi yourself,” she said, flicking a glance behind her. “I hope you don’t mind—but one of my neighbors stopped by. There’s a game on he was dying to watch and his set’s on the blink. So, I told him he could watch it over here.”
Buchanan, shrugging, threw a glance over his shoulder at Ivan. “This is my editor, Mr. Wint.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wint,” Judy said, offering her hand.
As Judy and Ivan shook, Buchanan observed them checking each other out. She must have decided Ivan was okay because she t
hrew open the door and invited them in.
They followed her into the living room, comfortably furnished with an overstuffed sofa, matching club chairs, a leather recliner, and a monolithic entertainment armoire that housed an equally monolithic flat-screen Sony. The furniture flanked a fireplace whose mantle was lined with what he guessed were family photos, some vintage, others more recent.
In the recliner, eyes glued to the game, was a fifty-something man. Buchanan gave him the quick once-over as Judy made the introductions. “Jack,” as she called him, was a Harrison Ford type with short graying hair and a slight paunch. He was casually dressed in a beige polo shirt, faded blue jeans, and white trainers very like Judy’s. He gave them a smile and a little wave, but didn’t bother saying hello or getting up.
Buchanan stared at him longer than was strictly polite. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Was it the shape of the mouth or maybe something around the eyes? Was he an actor? Maybe he’d seen him in an advert on the telly. Unable to place “Jack,” the journalist shook it off and returned his eyes to Judy.
“The McGuffin’s in the kitchen,” she said, moving toward a doorway at the far-end of the room. It led into a hallway with several closed doors and one of the swinging kind. She pushed through it and he followed her into a spacious eat-in kitchen.
“You want anything?” she asked, gesturing toward a monstrous stainless-steel refrigerator that looked strangely out of place. “Coke? Bottled water? A beer, maybe?”
“Just what we came for,” Ivan said impatiently.
“That’s right,” Judy said, rounding on them. “Alex said you were in a hurry.”
“I do not mean to be rude,” Ivan put in, his tone a trifle less harsh. “It is just that we have a deadline and must be getting along. I am sure you understand.”
“Of course,” she said, moving to a bank of drawers. She opened the top one and started rifling noisily through its contents. “I’m almost sure I threw it in here. I call this my junk drawer. It’s the place I throw all the crap that doesn’t quite belong anywhere else.”
Buchanan couldn’t help noting she was rambling. Did she sense that she might be in danger? He wondered if Good Neighbor Jack was there to do more than watch football. Perhaps she’d asked him to come by just in case there was trouble. Not that her friend could do much to protect her if Ivan started shooting.
Judy, still rummaging, appeared to be having trouble locating the disk. Let her take all the time in the world, Buchanan thought. When he was done here, he reckoned he was done for good. So why rush? Ivan, on the other hand, was growing agitated.
Buchanan looked around the room. The bay window he’d seen from outside formed an alcove for her kitchen table—a sturdy oak set he knew to be an English antique—the kind where the leaves pulled out from underneath. The seats had been recovered in a cheerful floral. There were more flowers on the clock on the wall, which ticked loudly. A glance at the decorative black hands told him it was nearing five o’clock.
“I’m just sure I put it in here,” Judy said, drawing his attention back to her rifling.
“I take it you did not listen to what is on the tape,” Ivan said beside him.
Buchanan, aware that her life depended on the answer, prayed she hadn’t played the “McGuffin”…or at least had the good sense not to admit that she had.
“I was curious,” she said with a shrug, “so I listened for a few minutes, just to see if it was really an interview.” She glanced toward Buchanan, who felt the color draining from his face. “No offense, but you haven’t exactly been honest with me. So, I was afraid you might be lying about what was on the disk, too, and that maybe I should turn it over to the police. And I have to tell you, after I heard what those two men were talking about, I thought seriously about doing just that.”
Ivan, hand on the gun in his pocket, took a menacing step toward her.
Buchanan grabbed his arm. “You promised.”
Ivan, shaking him off, pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed its nose right at Judy’s heart.
* * * *
Thea lay in the corner of the dark cell, shaking with cold, exhaustion, and the knowledge that she had come within a breath of being savagely raped. Mr. Kidd had just finished tying her to the platform bed in Tartarus when he got the phone call. After hanging up, he hovered over her for an excruciatingly long moment, seeming to fight an inner demon. His better angels must have prevailed, because he proceeded to untie her, after which he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the room. She’d felt clumps of follicles ripping out as he towed her down a long concrete corridor, which was rough and cold. Finally, he threw her in here, ominously proclaiming, “This will be your tomb.”
No more than a few minutes had passed since and she could still hear him moving around somewhere else in the space. She prayed that whatever he was doing had nothing to do with her. She also prayed he would leave. She would rather spend her last few minutes in this life alone, making her peace with Allah, than churning with dread, imaging all the sick things Mr. Kidd might yet try.
Besides, she was still clinging to the hope Buchanan would somehow miraculously return to rescue her. Not that she relished playing the part of the damsel in distress. In truth, she loathed the idea. She’d always resented all those sexist fairy tales in which some hapless princess waited around to be rescued. As far as she was concerned, the only one worth any salt was The Little Mermaid, whose message to girls was “don’t sacrifice what’s special about yourself for some sweet-talking guy.” Still, she could think of worse things right now than having Buchanan ride in on a big white charger. In fact, she was hard pressed to think of anything better—apart from kicking Mr. Kidd to death with her boots.
She struggled to sit up, pressing her back into the corner. The cold of the stone sent a chill through her body. Pulling her legs against her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins and set her head on her knees. The cell was so dark, she couldn’t see the walls that confined her, though she sensed they were close. The space, she estimated, was no bigger than the kitchen in her apartment. Five by five at the most. And it was quiet now. Deathly so.
This will be your tomb.
Fear dragged its icy talons across her insides. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she took a deep breath, counting slowly to five as she blew it out. She needed to stay calm. Dissolving into hysterics, tempting though it may be, wasn’t going to solve anything. Buchanan had been gone a long time, but he still might come back. There was a chance. Infinitesimal perhaps, but still a chance.
A scene from the movie The English Patient started playing in her head. Katharine, critically wounded in the plane crash, lying in that desert cave, clutching Count Almasy’s hand.
“Promise me you’ll come back for me.”
Almasy, desperate to save her, vowed he would return before venturing into the desert on foot. He would have kept that promise, too, had it been within his power, but poor Katharine perished alone.
Thea felt the strangling hands of terror tightening around her throat. Twisting around, she struggled to stand, pressing her fingers into the mortar joints in the wall to pull herself up. The surface was rough and pitted. Was it brick or chiseled rock? And which way was the door? In the darkness, she had lost her sense of direction.
She ran her fingers along the joints, moving down them like trails. Just as her fingertips touched metal, she heard something. A soft hissing sound, like air escaping from a tire. Now she smelled something, too—an unpleasant sulphuric odor. Was it rotten eggs? She took a deeper whiff and started to cough.
This will be your tomb.
Panic exploded like a bomb, shooting red-hot shrapnel through her system. She knew that smell. A story she’d covered ten years ago—a gas leak at an electronics factory on Long Island—came rushing back. Seven workers, as she recalled, ended up in the hospital. The attending physician told her methane gas wasn’t poisonous, but caused asphyxia by depleting the oxygen supply. Gas, he also exp
lained, was heavier than air, so anyone trapped in a gas-filled space should stay as high as possible.
Choking back her fear, she pressed her hands against the wall, rose up on her toes, and lifted her face for a breath. The hissing continued. The sulphuric smell grew stronger. Her head started to pound, her pulse to race like a rabbit’s. Numbness crept across her limbs. It was getting harder to breathe, to think, to stand.
“Tin Man,” she whispered in a voice like sandpaper. “Come back for your paper ballerina.”
* * * *
“Drop it, asshole.”
The deep, commanding voice came from behind him. Buchanan spun around, jolting when he saw two men in the doorway, handguns fixed on Ivan. It took him a minute to put it together. Blue windbreakers. Baseball caps. Three bold yellow letters. Relief coursed through him in warm waves.
“You heard the man.”
Judy’s voice made him turn back. He was stunned to see that she, too, had a gun. He looked at Ivan, who still had his gun fixed on the waitress, but now his eyes were darting around like a cornered animal.
Before any of them could give another order, the Bulgarian spun around and broke toward the table. He grabbed one of the chintz-covered chairs and threw it at the bay window. Even as the glass shattered, he leapt through. The agents in the doorway looked at one another in stunned disbelief before taking off after him.
Buchanan, mind reeling, turned back to Judy, mouthing questions that refused to come.
“I’m a detective,” she said. “Vice. The waitress gig was part of an undercover sting operation. There’s a prostitution ring running out of the motel next door. We’ve had them under surveillance for weeks now. You’re just lucky it was me who was working the counter that morning.”
Buchanan didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He needed a minute to get his head around what just went down. Judy was a cop? The FBI was now involved? And who was Jack? Not just a neighbor, obviously.
