by Maris Soule
She looked up at him, tears forming in her eyes, and then she gave a moan and leaned forward, her forehead hitting his chest. “He killed ’em,” she mumbled against his shirt. “Killed ’em all. My mother and father . . . my little brother. My sweet little brother.” A tremor coursed through her. “And now he’s gonna kill Sarah . . . just because she looks like me . . . like I did at her age. Poor Sarah . . . Poor, poor Sarah.”
Her entire body shook as her words turned into tears, and Vince wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. He remembered the snarly, bitchy policewoman he’d met only a few hours earlier. The woman he now held in his embrace was soft and pliable, a vulnerable female who’d been abused as a child, both physically and mentally. A victim. “It’s not your fault,” he said softly into her hair. “It’s not your fault.”
He wasn’t sure she even heard him, her tears wetting his shirt, and he knew he shouldn’t be responding to her physically, but he couldn’t stop the surge of desire that pulsed through him. At that moment, he wanted her. Wanted to console her, protect her . . . and make love to her.
He had a feeling she felt his arousal. Suddenly she stopped crying. Eyes wide, she drew back and looked up at him. “Whaz going on? Why . . . ?” She shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts. “Why you here?”
“I need some answers.” And as far as he could tell, she was the only one who could provide them. “I want to know why Bell is here, in Skagway.”
“Why?” She frowned, slightly swaying in his arms. “Because I’m here. He wants revenge. Wants to get back at me.”
That didn’t make sense. “For what? From what I’ve heard, you tried to protect him when the police arrived.”
“Protect him?” She snorted. “Him? I was scared. Scared of what he’d do to me. Do to them. Only afterwards, during the trial, did I have the nerve to tell them what he did to me. I told them everything.”
She smiled at that. A lopsided grin. Vince didn’t ask what Bell did to her. He didn’t want to know what the monster could be doing to Misty or the other girl.
“I’ve got to find him,” Katherine said and pulled completely free of his embrace. “Find and kill the bastard.”
She started for the side door, then stopped, weaving slightly on her feet. She turned back toward him, her face drained of color. “I . . . I think I’m going to be sick,” she said and changed direction, heading for the sink.
Vince had to look away as she emptied her stomach. Only when she moaned did he manage to control his own involuntary reaction enough so he could go to her side. She had a dish towel pressed against her mouth, and he focused on that rather than what lay in the sink. “Come with me,” he said, moving her away from the counter.
He guided her out of the kitchen and through the living room toward the short hallway he supposed led to a bathroom. Once he found it, he snapped on the light and eased her into the room. “How are you feeling?” he asked, unsure if he should lower the toilet seat lid or not.
“Hmm,” was all she said, then groaned, “Ooh,” as she looked at herself in the mirror.
She flipped the lid down herself, sat, and leaned forward, her left cheek touching the edge of the wash basin. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, lowering the towel only slightly.
“Don’t be. You’ve had a rough day.”
Vince ran water from the faucet until it was warm before he wet a wash rag and used it to wipe her face and then her hands. “I don’t usually drink,” she said as he opened the medicine cabinet, looking for something to cover the cut on her hand. “I learned a long time ago that I can’t handle it.”
He said nothing, simply opened the box of bandages he found and removed one.
“I should be out looking for Sarah.”
“And Misty?” He paused before placing the bandage over her cut. That she hadn’t mentioned Misty bothered him.
“And Misty,” she said with a sigh.
“If he’s here for revenge, why did he take Misty? Why ask for so much money?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how did he know to contact me?” That was what bothered him.
“You?” She shook her head, as if struggling to comprehend what he was saying. “He called you?”
“He didn’t call; he sent a fax. To my office.” Feelings of desire were replaced by suspicion as Vince remembered why he’d wanted to talk to her. “A few hours ago I got a call from my partner. Bob had stopped by the office when he got back from L.A. He said there was a fax in the machine, one that evidently arrived after our secretary left. It had specific instructions on how one hundred million dollars was to be transferred from Tom’s bank account to an off-shore account.”
“Charles contacted you?” she repeated, sitting straighter.
“The fax was sent to VR Protection Services.” Vince studied every nuance of her expression. “Signed, The Beekeeper. He didn’t even have the guts to use his own name.”
“But, why contact you?” she asked, which was exactly what he wanted to know.
“Good question,” he said. “You tell me why. Tell me how a guy in Skagway got our fax number. How he would know Bob and I could contact Tom; know we would have the ability to set up a money transfer. Explain how he knew any of this . . . unless you told him.”
“Me?” She stared at him for a moment, and then she struggled to her feet so she was standing, facing him. “Dammit all,” she grumbled. “I haven’t told Charles anything. Up until I saw that mark on that note, I thought Charles was still in a mental hospital in Michigan. I had no idea he was here, or that your boss’s daughter would be here, or that any of this would happen. I don’t even know your fax number.”
She tried to force her way past him, out of the bathroom, but he blocked her escape with his body. He wanted answers. “You could have gotten my fax number off the business card I gave you. And, I’m sure Crystal told you about my friendship with Tom.”
“Your business card is on my desk . . . at the station. And, I certainly didn’t memorize your fax number. As for your friendship with Misty’s father, you yourself have made that clear, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about your ability to transfer money.”
Anger—and probably the act of emptying her stomach—had countered the effects of the alcohol she’d consumed. No more slurring of her words, no more wobbling on her feet. Her expression was defiant as she glared up at him.
“Then how—?”
“I don’t know how.”
Vince shook his head. He didn’t know what to think. If Bell didn’t get the information from her, how did he know?
“Can I have that band-aid?” she asked, glancing at the one in his hand.
“Sure.” He handed it to her and watched her place it over the cut on her palm.
Once the band-aid was in place, she looked up at him. “And, now, will you please let me out of here?”
He stepped aside, but followed her back into the living room. She might think the discussion was over, but he still had questions. “How did Bell know Misty would be here today?” Except it was no longer the day Misty had arrived. “Yesterday,” he corrected. “How did he know she’d be meeting with that Bane kid yesterday morning?”
Katherine stopped next to her grandfather’s recliner. “How should I know?” With a sigh, she turned and faced him. “Maybe he figured it out from that article in the paper, the one that mentioned this trip.”
“You saw the article?”
“No, I didn’t see the article. Mrs. Morgan told me about it. How many times do I have to tell you? I did not know your boss’s daughter would be here. I did not tell Charles she would be here. I . . .” She sank onto the recliner. “Oh, what’s the use. You’re never going to believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he admitted.
“Neither do I.” Her shoulders drooped, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and cradling her head in her hands. “Will her father pay?”
“I don’t know.” A
nd that bothered Vince. “Your sergeant said you talked to Bell.”
“He was on the police radio. Phil’s radio.”
“Your missing officer?” He knew that from what Sergeant Landros had said.
Katherine gave a slight nod. “I think Phil’s dead. I think Charles killed him because of me.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She looked at him, but Vince had a feeling she wasn’t really seeing him, that her mind was somewhere else. “Phil had a picture of me,” she said. “In his bedroom. He’d asked me out, but I always refused. I thought he was friends with my grandfather because they both liked to fish, but Alice said . . .” Katherine paused, and Vince saw the sadness in her eyes. “I guess he liked me.”
“And, that’s why Bell killed him?”
“Probably.” She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “God, I’m tired.”
She looked small in the overstuffed recliner. Small and defeated. He sat on the couch and watched her, multiple questions racing through his head. Was she as innocent as she proclaimed? If she didn’t give Bell the fax number, how did he get it? And how did a man who’d been in a mental hospital know how and where to find Misty? Or Katherine, for that matter?
Vince knew he’d gone too many hours without sleep to be thinking clearly. His gut feeling was to believe Katherine, but did he dare trust that feeling?
A soft, rumbling sound drew him out of his thoughts, and he smiled. Obviously he wasn’t the only one who needed sleep. Officer Katherine Ward was snoring.
CHAPTER FORTY
Misty lay on the bed, the strips of sheeting that bound her wrists and ankles once again securely tied to the metal posts. Two scratchy, wool blankets now covered her nakedness, but she felt cold. A shivering, deep down inside, shaking, cold.
That he hadn’t raped her after her botched attempt at an escape had surprised Misty. As he’d pressed her breasts into the carpeting, scrunching her nipples until electrifying jolts of pain radiated down her sides, he’d said she would pay. And she’d believed him.
She could tell when the damage she’d inflicted on his body subsided, and her nakedness aroused him. He didn’t remove his clothing, but, for what seemed an eternity, he rubbed his hips against hers, and she could feel his erection against her buttocks and spine. Her body tense, tears continuing to slide down her cheeks, she tried to force her mind to another level, one where nothing he did to her would truly touch her.
She still expected him to rape her when he pulled her back on her feet and shoved her down the hallway to the bedroom they’d recently left. “Your roommate tried to get away,” he told the girl named Sarah as he jerked Misty back onto the empty bed. “Tried to hurt me.”
“Did hurt you,” Misty said, proud of that much.
“Bitch!”
His fist hitting the side of her face stunned her. Her knees went weak, but, before she could fall, he pushed her onto the empty bed. She wanted to reach up and touch her cheek, but he tightened his hold on the narrow strips of sheet binding her wrists, and had them tied to the bed posts before she could resist.
“Go ahead. Do it!” she cried. “Hit me. Rape me. You bastard.”
“Hit you again?” he said, taking one of the strips bound to her ankle and pulling it taut. “Bruise one of my blossoms?”
Misty tried to kick at him with her free leg. “We’re not blossoms.”
He snatched the attached cloth strip mid-air and jerked her leg down onto the mattress. “Oh, yes you are. Blossoms that I’ve brought to my hive.”
Misty heard him lower his zipper, and she braced herself for what was to come. It can invade your body but not your soul. Her mother had said that about the cancer that ate away at her body. Up until the end, her mother had suffered in silence. And, so would she. Misty vowed she wouldn’t give this monster the pleasure of hearing her cry.
“You can blame your roommate for this,” he said, and Misty didn’t understand, not until she heard the creak of the other bed’s springs.
“Please don’t,” Sarah moaned.
“No. Not her,” Misty shouted, twisting as far as she could onto her side so she could look at him. “I’m the one who kneed you. I’m the one who got you all hot and horny.”
“Hot and horny.” He chuckled, and, in the dim lighting, she saw him stroke himself. “Some men call their cocks names. Peter. Or Jack. Me, I call mine The Stinger.”
Misty begged, Sarah cried, and their tormentor laughed, but he didn’t stop what he’d started, not until he was breathing hard and Sarah’s sobs had turned to hiccups. And then he covered both of them with the scratchy, wool blankets and left the room, closing the door and taking away all light.
“I’m sorry,” Misty said, wishing there was a way she could reach over and touch the girl on the other bed. “So sorry.”
“I—” Sarah started, then stopped.
“I thought I could escape, could get help.”
Sarah hiccupped another sob. “He’s never going to let us go, is he?”
Misty wouldn’t allow herself to think that. “He wants money, my father’s money. Once he gets that, he’ll let us go.”
“No. After he has the money, he’ll kill us. That’s what they do.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in a movie.”
“Movies are movies. They’re not real.” Except Misty knew what Sarah had said did happen in real life.
“It might be better to die. I don’t want to get pregnant. My mother was raped by a white man, and she got pregnant. And, you know what, they never did anything to the white man.”
“Did your mother get an abortion? If you’re raped, you can get an abortion.”
“No,” Sarah said. “She had me.”
“Oh.” Misty wasn’t sure how to respond. “I guess that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“She didn’t want me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard her tell one of her friends.”
“Well, you’re not gonna get pregnant. And we’re gonna make this guy pay. We’re not gonna die . . . but maybe he will.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
7:30 A.M., Friday
The rich, nutty smell of freshly brewed coffee and the gravelly, quavering sound of her grandfather’s voice woke Katherine. “Trail’s hard to see,” he said from somewhere on the other side of her bedroom door. “And, once you find it, it’s no easy climb, but you get to that lake and you’ll see more trout than you ever knew existed.”
Who is he talking to? she wondered and rolled to her side to look at her bedside clock. The moment she did, a dull, thudding pain in her right temple announced itself, and she remembered the bottle of whiskey she’d nearly emptied. And, then it came back to her in a rush: the glass she dropped, Vince’s unexpected arrival, and the mess she made. What she didn’t remember was getting into bed.
“You gotta go through Dyea and across the steel bridge,” her grandfather continued. “You know where that is?”
“Can’t say I do.”
Katherine recognized Vince Nanini’s deep, resonant voice, and squeezed her eyes closed. She didn’t need to look to know she was only wearing her bra and panties. The question was, did she remove her clothing or did he?
Try as she might, she couldn’t remember, not for sure. It all seemed like a dream, him helping her into the room, urging her to take off her clothes. The muscles in her stomach tightened. What else did he do?
“You gotta follow a maze of two-tracks on the other side of Dyea,” her grandfather continued. “When the tree limbs are scraping both sides of your truck, that’s when you gotta park and go on foot.”
“Doesn’t sound like a lot of people go there,” Vince said.
“ ’Course not.” Her grandfather gave a snort. “Wouldn’t be a pristine lake if they did, now would it?”
“No, I guess not.”
Katherine only half listened. The rest of her muddled thoughts focused on her body. She knew from
experience what it felt like after intercourse. Charles had given her more than enough proof, and there’d been a short time, while in college, when she’d hated herself—hated all the misery she’d caused—and had turned to booze and sleeping with men as her punishment.
Her head felt the same as back then, but not her body.
So why didn’t Vince Nanini make love to her? She knew she’d aroused him when he’d held her. She’d liked the strength of his arms and hardness of his body, had actually been aroused herself. Of course, that was before she threw up, and he started accusing her of helping Charles.
Go away, she silently willed, not wanting to face him again. She’d been stupid to let him in last night. Stupid and drunk.
A knock on her door made her start. “You awake?” her grandfather called. “Your friend needs breakfast.”
“Tell him to go away,” she called back, the sound of her voice making the band of pressure around her skull tighten. “Tell him—” She stopped, remembering the broken glass on the floor and the mess she’d left in the kitchen sink. Damn, she was going to have to face Vince after all. “Stay out of the kitchen,” she ordered. “Both of you. I’ll be out in a minute to clean up that mess.”
Katherine hurried to dress, but with every movement she made, her head threatened to explode. Even the simple act of slipping on a sweatshirt increased the pressure, and after putting on a pair of jeans, she would have skipped shoes and socks if not for the broken glass she’d left on the kitchen floor. She already had a cut on her left hand; she didn’t need sliced feet.
What she did need were several aspirins and lots of water or she was going to be sick again.
“ ’Morning,” she said, keeping her head down, eyes lowered as she entered the kitchen. She ignored her grandfather and Vince standing by the coffee pot, and headed straight for a pair of dark glasses she’d left on the counter by the telephone. Once they were on, it dawned on her that she’d walked right through the area where she’d dropped the glass. Where only a few hours earlier broken shards of glass and a puddle of whiskey had covered the tiles, she saw nothing but the tiles. Sparkling clean tiles.
