The broken window meant the room was freezing, despite the central heating. Naked, I squeezed into an alcove between the kitchen counter and the stove.
Gibbons pulled me out of the alcove, pulled a rope from his windbreaker pocket and tied my legs together. I tried to put up a fight, but it was hopeless, since the guy was solid as a rock. He wasn’t impressed by my pathetic attempts, which only seemed to fuel his enthusiasm. He flogged my ass, added an extra pull around my ankles, and then stretched them back. Not satisfied, he bound my wrists and attached them to my legs. I was surprised at my flexibility, never having been able to do it on my own. Finally, he stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth and turned his attention to the professor.
She was spared the leg ligation step. After stuffing a rag into her mouth, too, he dragged her across the floor and tied her to the concrete column at the far end of the living room. But her teeth were chattering so hard that he grunted and untied the knot, loaded her on his shoulders, and disappeared down the hall with her.
There was a moment of calm. But Gibbons returned quickly, went straight to me, pulled me off the floor, and lifted me into the air. I was too exhausted to resist. At the end of the journey I was hurled over his shoulder onto a king-size bed.
We were in Efron’s bedroom. Except for a bed frame, a mattress covered with a white sheet, and a computer desk, everything was still in packing boxes, and the walls were bare.
I tried to turn around on the mattress and bumped into Efron’s bent knee. I pressed my ankles hard to the sides, trying to spread them and create a gap. I rubbed them fiercely and the tie loosened a bit. I strained one leg back as much as I could until my toes could reach the wooden frame and pushed myself away.
Gibbons whistled and winked at me naughtily. I immediately realized how his mind worked. The chance of our escaping, stark naked, on this night of all nights, was less than zero.
He switched sides, approached Efron, and stood over her. Her voice choked on the handkerchief. She squirmed when he stripped off her clothes, tore off her bra first, then her panties. Before I could howl in protest, he hung my glasses back on my nose and around my ears, turned me around and pressed me against her.
“Beautiful.” He rubbed his palms together. “Now you can see each other and warm each other up.”
21
Jeffery Gibbons stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette.
My eyelids narrowed into two slits as I watched him through the huge bedroom window, where the glass, unlike in the living room, was intact.
Outside the rain became a trickle. I stretched up my neck further. The river was a dark snake, pleated with white arches, like an enormous marzipan and chocolate cake.
Gibbons leaned on the railing, drew on his cigarette, and gazed at the starless sky. Then he put his cellphone to his ear, barely stirring. He was consulting with someone. Clearly, things were not moving according to plan. Behind his silhouette, a convoy of electric circuits lighted the horizon.
Gibbons hung up, took a final draw on his cigarette, and dropped it over the rail, the back of his head following its dive, like a comet disappearing over the horizon.
He opened the sliding door and came inside, closing it behind him. His jacket shifted as he turned, and I saw the flash of a gun butt. A burst of freezing air hit my naked body like a whiplash.
Gibbons scratched the dimple in his chin. It was usually easier to read other people’s thoughts without my glasses, but tonight, with or without, I couldn’t begin to decipher his thoughts. I was nearly depleted; only the blistering cold kept me relatively alert.
The Irishman rubbed his hands. Our time was up.
Snorting and twisting my body, I motioned to him that I had something important to add. He bent to pull the handkerchief out of my mouth. For a few seconds I inhaled and exhaled deeply.
“Look,” I said in a rough, tremulous voice, “I’m telling the truth, I swear—”
Efron interrupted with a sob. Gibbons was about to replace my gag, but I managed to wriggle my face to the side and hurried to finish speaking.
“While you were out, I was thinking… I had two guests last night.” Only two? I didn’t actually know how long my door had been open, but I decided not to complicate things further. “There was my neighbor, Judd, and Johanna, an Austrian physician who works for a pharmaceutical company—”
Efron heaved in rage and hit the edge of the bed. Then her body went limp and she collapsed.
“My neighbor’s leaving town this morning. There’s no phone or internet access where he’s going, but if you let me, I can call him now. Maybe we can go there together and find out before he leaves.”
He was more interested in Johanna. I had seen a tiny spark light up in his eyes when he heard the words ‘pharmaceutical company.’
“Johanna—does she have a surname?”
“Berger. Johanna Berger.”
After a long moment of indecision, the man said, “Well…” followed by the groan of one who knew the night was young and work was plentiful. The handkerchief returned to my mouth.
What now? What would happen to us? I had just admitted I was not in possession of the tube and had no idea where it was. What was intended as an honest disclaimer had turned out to be a fatal error. He no longer needed me.
Gibbons decided it was time to move. I hoped he wouldn’t choose the quickest way to dispose of me—via the balcony. He gazed toward the elevator, which was encouraging. He would have to remove two ‘packages.’ But where to? And who would be first—Efron or me? Not critical. At this hour, the chance of discovery by other tenants was slim.
As Gibbons dragged me along the cold floor first, my glasses were knocked off. He didn’t bother to go back and get them. Everything became foggy again.
“Where we’re going, there’s no need for you to see,” he whispered, and pressed the elevator button. When the door opened, he stuck me on the track to keep it open. He peeped inside, checking whether we could make the journey in one go.
Nodding, he leaped down the hall and returned with Efron, carrying her like a firefighter. She was still whimpering, her right leg straight as a stick. He laid her at the back of the elevator, behind me.
I was fumbling around in desperate attempt to find my glasses, but he kicked my fingers and I flinched back just as he jumped over me and the door closed.
We went down to the basement uninterrupted.
The door opened to underground parking fans which blew in fresh air, which tonight as was cold as an arctic front. The sudden change in temperature, along with my neck being stretched backward and my immobilized shoulder blades, exacerbated my already throbbing headache, each pulse followed by a wave of nausea. Individual stars twinkled in my left visual field.
Gibbons looked out. As expected, the parking lot was deserted except for three luxury cars—a Volvo S-80, a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and a Mercedes coupe.
I immediately realized that none of the three was his. But I had the feeling that if he decided to ‘borrow’ one—priority to the Grand Cherokee with the largest trunk—he wouldn’t have any difficulty. As a rule, exiting a parking lot was easier than entering one; the average guard would not bother himself to check the cars that were leaving.
Until he got a car ready, he had to hide us somewhere close: the garbage room or maintenance room.
Gibbons selected the first option.
The garbage room was an unlit space of bare concrete walls and high ceilings. Dumpsters on wheels lined the wall, each one directly beneath a sleeve that ascended to an opening in the ceiling. At the end of the last dumpster was a side gate that led to an access road for the garbage truck. It was locked with a heavy gate, and double chained. There was a tiny gap between the bottom of the gate and the asphalt for ventilation.
Gibbons dragged us both inside at once. He hooked one arm under my tied elbow, using it like a bask
et handle, and used his other hand to grip Efron’s shoulder. After leaning us against the wall, he signaled with a finger to his lips that we’d better not try the acoustics of the garbage room.
I heard his footsteps behind the door, turned my head, and saw Efron. She was hyperventilating. I knew that the rag in her mouth would raise the level of CO2 in her lungs and protect her from fainting.
I turned on one side, crawled and propelled myself along the floor like an amoeba, and managed to move within touching distance of her. I tried to call to her, but the handkerchief muffled my voice. Only her hands were tied. I hoped that if I could turn my back to her, she could use her good leg to loosen the bond that united all four of my limbs.
I knew we didn’t have much time. It would be over once we heard a car engine come to life. But as I drew even closer to her, feeling her wheezing against my own cheeks and seeing her pallor, I realized I could not rely on her for anything.
I searched for a sharp corner and found it at the edge of one of the giant containers. I was in the midst of my ups and downs, moving like a saw, when suddenly the sound of an engine emerged from the garage. That’s it. Time’s up.
The Irishman was a pro. Car burglary was small potatoes for him. But when I listened carefully, I realized the noise was not a car engine, but the electric gate.
From our hiding place it was impossible to see the parking lot or even the short hall to the elevators. But there was no mistaking the beams that suddenly spilled over the opposite wall.
A car had arrived.
Gibbons would have to hide and wait for the parking garage to be clear again. Which meant Efron and I had earned a few more minutes. If I released myself, I could run for the newcomer and save us.
I renewed my vigorous bear-on-a-tree-trunk moves trying to cut the rope, and after a few more strokes felt my blood resuming its flow to my forearms. I had a gloomy thought about permanently losing the sensation in my fingertips; that would mean saying goodbye to my dream of becoming an eye surgeon. But now it felt as if grasshoppers crawled inside my fingers; my nerve endings were coming back to life. Finally, I freed my legs from the pressing knot that tied my knees together, then pulled the kerchief out of my mouth and took a deep breath, the first in a long while.
Just as I managed to free myself completely, I heard the sound of footsteps from the direction of the automatic doors, leading to the elevators.
I pushed myself off the wall and dashed out of the garbage room. But when I got to the elevators, I could just hear the echo of the footsteps being swallowed up inside and the door slamming shut.
I was too late. Damn! My heart was pounding in my earlobes as I squinted at the lights above the door. By the time my eyes managed—somehow—to focus, the flashing arrow over the bar already indicated the elevator was at the first floor. I turned and saw Gibbons’ silhouette inside the Grand Cherokee.
I returned to kneel beside Efron, removed the rag from her mouth, and quickly covered her mouth with my hand to silence her sobs. As I loosened the knot around her forearms, an engine roared from the parking lot. This time it was that of a car.
Acting quickly, I grabbed Efron and pushed her out under the gate, but her swollen leg got stuck between the rail and the metal bar. I looked around and saw an area where the ground sank, right at the center, probably washed away in the last storm. I managed to roll myself under the gate first, then reached back for her. I clutched her wounded leg with both hands and pulled her straight through the hole. Then I squeezed hard on her shoulder with one hand and, blocking her wild shriek with the other, pulled her towards me, like a baby moving foot-first in a birth canal. An instant after we were through, I heard Gibbons’ footsteps approaching the garbage room door.
Outside the rain picked up. I dragged Efron out of the parking area. Gripping her as hard as I could—Efron limping hard, me wheezing from the effort of supporting her—we climbed a sand hill straight into a dark space. It was a building site adjacent to the northern wall of the complex, where we were greeted by a strong gust from the river.
She broke away from me as we slid over the muddy slope.
***
Gibbons entered the garbage room just in time to see the final vibrations of the access gate.
The bastards had escaped. He’d underestimated the student’s innovative skills. But in this freezing rain, in utter darkness and without his glasses, he couldn’t get far. He was very near-sighted—people like that were night-blind, Gibbons knew; his niece wore similar Coke-bottle glasses.
And the professor—she was lame, dragging a foot. She had to be here, somewhere nearby.
The apartment building’s façade was on the other side, facing the river. Andromeda consisted of two main buildings, each in a form of a spiral DNA strand—an ultramodern design by a famous architect. The developer was of Greek ancestry, thus all his projects carried names from mythology—besides Andromeda, there were Prometheus and Pegasus, in New Albany, Indiana, and Ikaria in Elizabethtown, Kentucky.
Situated on a rock, about thirty miles northeast of downtown Louisville, along the Ohio River, Andromeda was the jewel. On a clear sunny day, the breathtaking view included an infinite landscape of green and blue. As construction was still in progress, there was still no protected area, except for a single gazebo. That night, brittle streetlights exchanged flickers with the lightning. The low clouds obscured the penthouse from sight.
Gibbons curled up in his windbreaker and cursed whoever had told him, before he’d boarded the plane, that the Ohio Valley never got as cold as in Chicago. He came out of the underground parking and looked around.
There was no sign of the student or the professor. Two naked bodies could easily blend into the dark.
He clung to the wall and bounded across the path to the gazebo. From there he could simultaneously watch the two entrances and be relatively sheltered from the wind and the rain.
Behind the bougainvillea, Gibbons thought he heard a shout—muffled sounds from the river—but then he noticed someone kneeling on the ground, their back to him. When he tried to look closer, the shadow was gone. The black space in front of him resolved into an empty muddy puddle.
He was accustomed to surprise visits on construction sites, frequent haunts of drug dealers and other petty criminals.
Gibbons turned on his flashlight and saw flag poles sticking out of the mud.
He had taken two more steps before he noticed the pit.
22
Supported by my elbows, I rose and pulled one leg after the other from the mud.
The rain drummed on the two drains at the bottom of the ditch. I tried to find a safe shelter, but without my glasses the effort was hopeless, especially at night.
I was concerned for Efron. Her injured leg prevented her from walking and the slippery mud would make it impossible for me to carry her steadily upon my shoulder, so I pulled her carefully. Leaning on me like a cane, she hobbled along the wall until I found what looked like a drainage ditch. It stank like hell, but there was no other hiding place in sight. She slipped away like a corpse into a grave, emitting a little sob as her foot met the bottom. I pulled two wooden planks into the ditch and propped them over her to form a roof, hiding her completely.
The illumination along the bushes was scanty and I awaited the next lightning flashes, in order to identify abnormal movement. But these were brief, like the thoughts inside my head.
What time was it? Late night or early morning, or both? Aside from the terrible cold, I was trudging along the riverside, in the nude.
At first, I considered joining Efron in the ditch, holding and warming each other until daybreak, but when I gave it more thought, I realized we needed help—immediately. If not, we’d both die of hypothermia.
No phones, no clothes. The only advantage to the cold wind was that it forced me to think quickly and calmly. Otherwise, if I’d had time, I would have
burst into tears.
I inhaled deeply.
Well, Milbert, your only hope is the guard. But Gibbons knew that too. To get to the shack I had to circle the wall and cross the construction site, blind as a bat. Gibbons was certainly observing from behind the bougainvillea and would leap out as soon as I crossed the black pond.
However, there was another way to get to the guard, longer but also brighter—circling around in the opposite direction and going through the lobby. I had to pray the door was unlocked or that there was a tenant to open it for me and call the police. First the guard would arrive; then the sirens would follow, and before sunrise Efron would be having her injuries examined at the ER, and I would be sipping hot chocolate in my bed.
And let the damn tube rot in hell.
I tried to run but was too dizzy. Even in slow motion I could feel all my red blood cells plunging toward my toes.
Halfway to the building there was a groove that started near the foundation of the side wall and exposed a collection of pipes that were lying alongside the footing. The pipeline curved down at a sharp angle and disappeared into the bottom of a pit—more like a crater filled with slimy liquid. The stench was horrible. I tried not to look down; my sinuses were burning and my nose leaked, but I was beyond caring whether I was catching pneumonia. I’d read the Textbook of Infectious Diseases and couldn’t recall a single microbe or virus willing to settle inside my lungs in such freezing conditions.
I had to risk it and move, taking small steps until I reached the patio of the apartment tower.
The doors were locked.
On the inner wall of the lobby hung a huge advertisement that read Pappas & Maronidas—Andromeda Rock, with a picture of two buildings surrounded by trees and meadows. A small note explained that four more buildings were in final zoning plans. Diagonal print circled the poster: “Luxurious specs: one apartment per floor, river view from every balcony, marble floors, private elevator, gym, tennis court, sauna, underground parking, private beach, 24-hour CCTV, ground floor supermarket and shopping center (opens soon).”
An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller Page 12
