“Do you have preference on pizza?” Taylor asked from the driver’s seat.
“Connor told me about a great pizza place near him. I’d like to pick up my car from his apartment building, so we can grab one on the way to your place.”
“Your car?” Taylor glanced at Becca. “I can drive you anywhere you need to go.”
“I know, and you were a real sport to jump in when you did, but I have this thing about being able to take off if I need to.”
Taylor eyed Becca with curiosity.
“It’s a foster kid thing. I need to be in control and have a plan at all times. Without my car, I can’t do what I want, when I want. It makes me edgy and I’m already on edge. I don’t need more stress.”
“So punch Connor’s address into my GPS,” Taylor said. “We’ll drop your car at my place, and then go grab the pizza.”
Becca added the address and they were soon heading in the right direction. She wasn’t hungry, and she was tempted to tell Taylor to skip the pizza, but Becca knew she should eat, and she suspected Taylor wouldn’t eat if she didn’t. Becca used a phone app to order a large pizza, then sat back for the rest of the drive.
Once outside Connor’s apartment, Becca settled into her car and was on the road to Taylor’s place. Taylor followed close behind, and while waiting for her to park her car, Becca enjoyed the solitude and the chance to think.
She’d confessed her secret twice today, and the sky hadn’t fallen. People hadn’t harshly judged her for leaving Molly. She did see pity in their expressions, but it wasn’t the kind of pity that would linger or make them treat her differently. She was still Becca to them.
Taylor opened the passenger-side door, and the smell of rain in the distance filtered into the car. Becca took a deep breath of the freshly scented air. Despite Zwicky being in the wind, she actually felt more optimistic than she had in years. Maybe it was the fact that her secret was finally out in the open, lifting a heavy weight from her shoulders.
Taylor buckled her belt, and they exchanged small talk while Becca drove them to the pizza place. She and Taylor stepped inside, and the spicy smell sent Becca’s stomach rumbling. Suddenly eager to eat, Becca paid for the pizza and gave the worker a generous tip.
“Thanks.” He got a big goofy smile on his face. “You made my night.”
“Glad to,” she responded and felt almost giddy as she returned to her car.
Taylor rested the pizza on her knees, and Becca quickly pointed the car toward Taylor’s apartment.
“Good thing you live close by or I’d be tempted to dig into that pizza before we got there,” Becca said.
“If you do, I’ll join you.”
“I’ll just drive faster.” Becca laughed and turned the corner.
She tried to speed up, but her car suddenly slowed. She pressed harder on the gas pedal with no result. The engine was running, but the gas pedal didn’t seem to work. They were coming to a stop.
“I thought you were hungry.” Taylor shifted to look at Becca. “Why are you stopping?”
“I’m not.” Becca stomped on the gas pedal. “The car won’t speed up, but the engine is revving. It’s like the brakes are taking over.”
“This is the worst time for car trouble,” Taylor said.
Becca’s car finally came to a complete stop, and she got out to look for the problem. She strolled around the car, but couldn’t see anything wrong. She could lift the hood, but why bother? She knew nothing about engines. Resigned to having to call her road service, she turned back to her door.
A car pulled up behind them. Perfect. Maybe the driver knew something about cars and could help.
She waited by her door to see what the driver planned to do. Her hand settled on her sidearm just in case.
A man leaned out the window and yelled, “Car troubles?”
No. Oh no. Becca’s heart dropped to her stomach. That voice. That horrible, graveled, mean voice. The one that had terrorized her for days.
Van Gogh.
He was here. He’d returned. For her? Likely.
She reached for her door handle. The locks suddenly clicked into place. Becca pounded on the window, her terrified gaze going to Taylor. “Unlock the door. Hurry. It’s Van Gogh.”
Taylor tried rocking the button back and forth, but the locks didn’t respond. “They won’t open.”
Panicked, Becca glanced behind her.
Van Gogh had gotten out of his vehicle and moved closer, his scarred face gleaming in the streetlights. He held an assault rifle aimed at her heart. “Now, Lauren, there’s no need to pretend you don’t want to come with me.”
The use of her former name sickened Becca on the spot.
“When I visited your apartment, I saw all the work you’ve done to find me. I’m flattered.” His voice was low and oddly tinged with sexual innuendo.
How could he believe that she’d been looking for him so they could be together? Easy, he was insane. And he’d come for her. To claim her after all of these years.
She frantically pulled on the door handle, her heart racing.
He stepped closer, and above his heavy whiskers, she could make out individual ragged scars running across his face. Over his hands. It was as if she could feel him above her, as he’d been years ago, looking down, his eyes glittering with intensity. The cold knife slicing her skin.
“No, please. Let me be,” she begged, the way she’d done at fifteen. She’d been a mere girl then. Now she was a grown woman, an agent. She gave herself a mental shake. She had to stop this. She wasn’t going to let him have this effect on her.
You’re stronger now. Not a victim.
She drew her gun and planted her feet. He might kill her, but at least she could get a shot off first and protect Taylor.
“Come along now, Lauren.” He stopped and ran his eyes over her. “You are my Lauren, are you not?” His eyes caressed her, and she felt dirty. He took a few more steps toward her. “My sweet, sweet Lauren.”
So he had some doubts as to her name. She’d play that up and maybe he’d leave her behind. “I’m sorry, but you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know any Lauren.”
“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” He arched a brow and inched closer.
She gestured with her gun to stop him. “I’m not going with you.”
“Now don’t say that, my sweet.” He smiled, a sickly narrowing of his lips that made her gut churn. “I’ll be forced to kill you and take Taylor instead. You know what that would mean for her, right?”
Becca glanced at Taylor, then back at Van Gogh. She’d tried to think of him as Zwicky, but seeing his face, hearing his voice, she could only think of the serial killer. Not a man residing in the cute house, living in the past when his mother was alive. Not when his eyes, locked on hers, were filled with venom and evil. She couldn’t go with him. She just couldn’t.
“Put your gun on the ground. Nice and easy. And if you’re carrying a second one as so many law enforcement officers do, add that one, too. And then your phone.” He waited for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, have it your way. Taylor will join us.” He started toward the car.
“No wait. Leave Taylor alone.” Becca gently laid her gun on the ground. “I only have one.”
Becca started backing away from the car and prayed for Taylor’s safety.
“No, Becca, don’t,” Taylor screamed and drew her own weapon, but held her fire.
Becca knew Taylor wouldn’t shoot as long as Van Gogh had his rifle sighted on Becca.
“Okay, now this way. Quickly.” Excitement tingled in Van Gogh’s words.
Becca went along with him, hoping that by now Taylor had called 911 and a patrol car would be screaming down the street in mere moments.
Memories of her last time
as his captive assaulted Becca. The knife. The jars and ears. The terror for herself and Molly.
Fear pierced Becca’s heart and she dragged her feet.
He pushed her ahead and directed her to the passenger seat of the small sedan. She tried to elbow him, but he shoved her inside. He dug into his pocket and pulled out bright yellow zip ties. He held them out to her. “Tie your ankles together. Nice and tight.
She didn’t immediately comply.
He arched an eyebrow, crinkling the scars running across his forehead. “I can still get a clean shot off at Taylor from this distance.”
Becca took the ties and bent down. “You won’t get away with this.”
He laughed, the sound other-worldly and ominous. She pulled the ties tight and sat back up.
“Now hold your hands out.”
He would threaten Taylor again so Becca did as she was told, and he zip-tied her wrists together.
He bent to check the ties on her ankles, his gaze never leaving her face. He came back up, his fingers going to her hair, stroking it and letting it run through his fingers. “I’ve missed you, Lauren.”
She gagged and thought to spit at him, but she feared he would take it out on Taylor.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t be long and we can be together.”
He slammed the door and strode around the front of the car, his gun still trained on her.
Right. Like she had any hope of getting away.
He didn’t seem to hurry, which was a good thing for her. The longer he took, the sooner Taylor’s call to 911 would bring police officers to the rescue.
He slid into the idling car and set his rifle between his knees. He took another tie and affixed her hands to the door handle.
She was truly his prisoner now and her stomach revolted. She swallowed hard against a dry throat.
He wound a scarf that smelled of his mother around her head, silencing her voice, and she was no longer free to call out.
“I’m sorry, my sweet,” he said as he shifted into gear. “But as I’m driving you might yell for help, and I can’t risk it.”
Her stomach retched again. Not from the cloth, but from his use of “my sweet.” She wasn’t his sweet anything.
Humming, he drove off slowly and waved at Taylor as they passed. She held up her phone, frantically miming that it didn’t work.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I forgot to mention that I’ve also blocked cell signals in the area.”
Paralyzing fear climbed up Becca’s back and nearly swamped her. Taylor might not be able to call out or move the car, but someone was bound to happen upon her and help. Becca knew Taylor would have gotten the license plate number to this vehicle. But the car wasn’t registered in Zwicky’s name, so it could be a rental, and she wasn’t sure having the plate number would help locate her.
Still, she knew someone would come for her. Connor would come. At least that’s what she had to believe or she might lose it completely.
Whistling, Van Gogh made several turns, and they drove for miles before he parked in a darkened alley behind another small sedan. Becca made note of each turn, each street, and this time, she would lead the police, lead Connor, right to Van Gogh if—no, when—she got away.
Van Gogh grabbed his rifle and stepped out. He went to the other vehicle and opened the trunk.
No, please God, no. Don’t let him change cars. They’ll never find me.
He put his rifle in the front seat then came back to the car and opened her door. She tumbled halfway out. He pulled out his knife, the same one that had carved the number five in her tender flesh, the same one that had sliced into the skin above her ear. The big, gleaming, horrifying knife.
She shrank back, but she was unsteady and couldn’t move.
He sliced through the tie holding her to the door. Then he scooped her up with one arm, the other holding the knife to her throat.
She didn’t care if he had a knife. She started to fight him.
“Now, Lauren,” he said patiently. “There’s no one watching anymore. No need to pretend you don’t want to be with me.”
If she hadn’t been gagged, she’d have screamed her hatred for him, but all she could do was try to wiggle free. She bucked hard and lurched from his arms. Despite her tied ankles, she managed to remain standing. She started to hop, her balance precarious. He took her down in a swift tackle.
“I’d hate to mar that beautiful neck, so please don’t fight me.” He pressed the knife to her skin.
She was instantly taken back sixteen years. To his basement. The cold damp air. Her body chilled to the bone from lying naked for days. Wondering about his plans. Worrying. Terrified.
He bent closer. His smell, garlic mixed with the same old-lady scent in his mother’s room that had lingered in Becca’s nostrils long after she’d gotten away from him, now sent bile rising up her throat. She was numb with fear.
He got her to her feet and gently settled her on soft mats in a trunk with luggage piled high in the back.
“I’m sorry, my sweet, but I can’t arrive at the hotel with you drawing attention to us.” He reached into a cooler and took out a bottle with just a few sips of water in it.
“Yell and the knife comes back out.” He removed her gag and held the bottle up to her lips. “Now drink it all.”
She knew it was filled with drugs to knock her out, and she pinched her lips closed. “The knife, Lauren. Remember the knife.”
She opened her mouth, and he dumped the water in quickly, forcing her to swallow hard.
He tossed the bottle into the trunk and sat on the bumper. “We’ll just wait for that to take effect.” He hummed a song she remembered him humming last time. A dance tune, she thought.
He reached for the hem of her shirt, and she tried to move back, but she slammed into suitcases and couldn’t move. He lifted her shirt and tsked. “You didn’t like the number, my sweet? I could have given you a different one if you’d but asked.”
She wouldn’t comment as her response would only make him mad, and she’d seen what he’d done to Molly when he’d gotten mad.
“No matter. We can replace it.” He gently pulled down her shirt.
She felt the first effects of the drug start to take hold. Since it acted so quickly, she suspected he’d roofied her. She knew she would soon feel very drunk, and it would last for up to eight hours or so. Eight hours when she’d have no idea what he was doing with her body.
She started floating, feeling as though she was rising up and out of the trunk. Eight hours like this. She started to cry. Despite being careful, despite Connor’s protection, her worst nightmare had just come true.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TAYLOR HAD TO GET to a phone. Now! Hoping to escape via the trunk, she tossed the pizza on the driver’s seat, turned on the overhead light, and dove into the back seat. She clawed at the back cushion. It didn’t budge.
“No,” she cried out. “It has to have trunk access.”
She jerked harder. It still didn’t budge.
She moved to the other cushion. Pulled. It gave a little. She ran her hands over the top. Yes, a release. She pressed it and jerked. The trunk opened wide before her.
Good.
She wiggled inside and felt around for the release. She scraped fingers against rough metal, but finally found the lever and jerked it open. The trunk lid popped. Fresh air rushed in. She scrambled out and drew her weapon. Just because Van Gogh had driven off, that didn’t mean he hadn’t left a trap. She spotted a laptop sitting on the ground where he’d parked. Likely the computer controlling the car brakes and locks. A small device sat on top.
She ran to the computer. Using her sleeve to keep from smudging any prints, she picked up the small handheld device. It was a signal jammer, as she’d suspected. She quickly
turned it off. Looked at her phone.
Yes! She had a signal.
She dialed 911. “This is FBI agent Taylor Andrews, and I need to report an abduction.” She provided details, including Zwicky’s license plate number. “This is related to an ongoing homicide investigation. As soon as you’re done dispatching patrol units, I need to be connected to Detective Connor Warren.”
“Hold on.”
Taylor knew 911 operators had to remain calm, but this one didn’t seem to be getting the seriousness of this situation.
“This is a matter of life and death.”
“I understand.”
Taylor wanted to scream at her, but she bit her lip instead and paced as she waited.
“The operator said something about an abduction,” Connor’s deep voice came barreling through the phone. “You’d better tell me Becca is with you, and she’s all right.”
Taylor explained what had happened, each word fighting the last to get out.
“Give me the address.” Fear mixed with anger darkened his tone.
She provided it. “I’m heading back to the car now.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “And you’d better hope she’s been found by then or so help me, Taylor . . .” He hung up.
She didn’t need him to complete the sentence. She’d screwed up. She couldn’t have stopped Van Gogh, but there were other things she could have done.
“Like not let Becca get her car or stop for pizza,” she mumbled as she headed back to the car.
When she reached the vehicle, she inserted the key into the driver’s door and tried to unlock it. The locks wouldn’t budge. Van Gogh had to have modified the vehicle’s computer. If Taylor got a good look at it, maybe she could find a way to locate Van Gogh. First, she needed to secure the computer sitting on the street. She dug through Becca’s go bag for gloves and retrieved the computer. The urge to search the machine was strong, nearly overpowering her common sense.
Web of Secrets Page 26
