Out of Control

by Shannon McKenna

  No point in playing dumb. “What do you want with her?”

  “I want what she took from me,” Marcus said flatly.

  “She doesn’t have a goddamn thing.”

  Marcus let out a bark of laughter. “I’m not surprised if she opted not to tell you. Hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake.”

  Davy looked around at the sumptuous library, decorated with costly Persian carpets and fine art. “Everything she owns is in five plastic shopping bags in the trunk of her car,” he said. “There’s nothing worth hundreds of millions of dollars in those bags.”

  “I don’t know where she’s hidden it,” Marcus said patiently. “That is exactly what I want to discuss with her. As soon as possible.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Davy said.

  Marcus pulled Davy’s cell phone out of his pocket, and dangled it from his fingertips. “We’ll discuss that. But I doubt her whereabouts will be a mystery for long, no matter what you say or don’t say. I just have to wait for her to get anxious and call you. And then we’ll see how much you are worth to her. Are you worth hundreds of millions?”

  Davy stared at the guy. So this simpering piece of dogshit was the guy who had ruined Margot’s life. God, she deserved so much better.

  He braced himself. “Go fuck yourself,” he said quietly.

  She paced, chewed her nails, tore at her hair. It couldn’t take long to talk to those self-important blowhards at Krell. A half hour to shop at the mall, fifteen to get to Krell, an hour to talk to the blowhards, fifteen to come back, and that was being generous.

  He’d been gone for over three hours.

  The queasy, crawling feeling was driving her nuts. Of course, she’d had that feeling more often than not for eight months, but it was measurably worse than usual. Verging on the screaming, writhing level.

  She had been grabbing and hanging up the phone for the past hour. As the minutes passed, she clutched the receiver for longer and longer, finger floating over the number pad.

  Why not? Worst case scenario, he would be irritated with her for being hysterical and needy. Could she live with that? Hell, yes. If she could handle him being furious, she could handle him being irritated.

  What she could not handle for one second longer was this yawning vortex of fear, big enough to suck up the entire known universe. And since her entire known universe at this moment was Davy, well, that clinched it. There were limits to a girl’s self-control.

  She grabbed the phone and dialed his cell number, praying for him to be in range. It rang, praise God. The line clicked open.

  “Davy? Is that you?” she asked. “Can you hear me? Hello?”

  There was a brief pause. “Margaret Callahan, I presume?”

  Next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the floor, her legs having folded up and dumped her ignominiously onto her butt.

  It was hard to force out words when there was no breath behind them. “Who am I speaking with?”

  “With someone who has been wanting to meet you very badly for eight months now,” said the silky voice. “You’ve been very elusive. It’s been driving us mad.”

  “Why do you have Davy’s phone? Where’s Davy?”

  “He’s here, with me. We were just discussing your location. He’s been unhelpful so far. I was about to take the gloves off, so to speak, and voilà, the phone rings. Ms. Callahan, you have a sixth sense.”

  “Let me talk to him,” she said.

  “Certainly. Mr. McCloud? Your lady friend wants to speak to you.”

  “Margot?” It was Davy’s voice, hoarse and ragged.

  “Oh, God, Davy, what has that bastard done to—”

  “Listen to me. Run. Hang up the phone and run like hell.”

  “But I—but you—”

  “Don’t waste time. Hang up the phone and run. Don’t even talk to this asshole. He’s not worth it.”

  “Davy, I can’t—”

  “It’s me again, Ms. Callahan,” said the soft voice. “I’m touched by your lover’s devotion, but I don’t recommend taking his advice. Not if it is of any interest to you how many pieces I cut him into.”

  She’d thought she’d known what fear was, but she’d never seen it until this moment. Never even imagined it. “Are you Snakey?”

  “Snakey?” The voice rumbled, a low, fruity chuckle. “I love his new pet name. It suits him so well. No, but Snakey is here, and eager to see you again. You made such an impression, Margaret.”

  She barely kept her voice steady. “What do you want from me?”

  “Very good, Ms. Callahan. Short, to the point, no histrionics. I like a practical woman. But you know what I want.”

  “No. I don’t. I swear to God—”

  “The part where you insist on your ignorance bores me. Let’s skip it. It would be unlucky for Mr. McCloud if I got annoyed.”

  She could have screamed, she was so frustrated. She must be under a curse, condemned to blindly grope for a key to the blank prison wall in front of her face. “Humor me,” she pleaded. “Be specific. I want to cooperate. This is too important to risk any misunderstandings.”

  The mystery voice let out a theatrical sigh. “This is an unsecured line, Ms. Callahan. Don’t be obtuse. I want back what’s mine. You were the last one to have it. Does that ring a bell?”

  “But I—”

  “I will give you some instructions. I don’t recommend contacting the police. They are unlikely to believe you, and even if they did, I would know, and McCloud would pay. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen carefully, then. The number 313 city bus leaves the central station downtown at twenty minute intervals. You will take the one that leaves at 6:05. It runs down Wyatt Avenue for four miles, then turns south at Trevitt. Are you following me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “6:05. Bus 313. Wyatt, Trevitt.”

  “The second stop after the bus turns onto Trevitt is at Rosewell. Get off, and walk ten blocks south. There will be a freeway overpass. On your left is a small grocery and an auto parts store. There is a pay phone between them. You will receive further instructions there. If we are convinced that you are alone and haven’t been followed.”

  “Wait,” she said. “If I can’t—”

  “There is no can’t, Ms. Callahan. If you don’t arrive on schedule with my property, McCloud will die. Badly.”

  “But how do I—”

  “Good luck. I look forward to meeting you.”

  The connection broke, leaving her adrift. That cold, sick feeling was rising up again, as if she were going to black out or barf. She flopped onto her back, propped up her knees, forced herself to breathe.

  She did not have the luxury of freaking out.

  It had to be the mold and that ghastly rubbery hand the guy wanted. Why, she could not begin to imagine. It was hard to think with her brain squeezed by a fist of fear, but beneath the fear was something new. Sharp, burning anger. It steadied her.

  That evil son of a bitch was hurting her Davy. She was going to do everything in her power to make him stop. And make him pay.

  Davy had told her to run. Very noble and heroic of him, and she adored him for the gesture, but her life would be worth nothing if she ran off and left the man she loved to die. There was just no point. She might as well just throw herself under a bus and be done with it.

  The only card she had left to play in this game was herself. She would stick that icky thing into her shopping bag, put on Tamara’s hair clip, and follow the guy’s instructions.

  And hope like hell, if nothing else, for a chance to kill him.

  She dialed the number Davy had left her for Sean. He picked up instantly. “Yeah? Who’s this?”

  “We’re in trouble,” Margot said flatly.

  “That was quick.” His voice without laughter was unrecognizable.

  Margot recounted Marcus’s phone call and instructions. “I’m going to the rendezvous,” she concluded. “There’s nothing else I can do. Nothing you can do
either, but I thought at least you should know.”

  “We’re on our way,” Sean said. “Me and Seth. We took off just a few hours after you guys did. Just the time it took to throw our arsenal together and hit the road. We’ve still another hour and a half or so to San Cataldo, but we’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  She was dumbfounded. “How did you guys know where we—”

  “How do you think Davy found you?” Sean’s voice was impatient. “Do you still have Mikey’s dog collar on you?”

  “Uh, yes,” she said, startled. “Should I—”

  “Fuck, yes. Keep it on you. Better yet, just wait for us. Stay clear of that scumbag. That’s what Davy would want.”

  “Staying clear wasn’t one of the options the scumbag gave me,” she told him. “They’ve got Davy. They’ll hurt him if I don’t go.”

  “Shit,” Sean muttered. “You have a weapon, at least?”

  “Who, me? Hah!” Margot said. “Gotta run, Sean. Good luck.”

  “Margot—” Sean began, but she hung up on him and called the operator. “Give me the San Cataldo Police Department, please.”

  She waited forever. “Dispatch,” a woman’s voice finally said.

  “Hi. I urgently need to speak with whoever was in charge of the Craig Caruso and Mandi Whitlow murder investigation.”

  “Hold the line, please.”

  She stared at herself in the mirror as she waited, noting dispassionately how awful she looked. Face bone white, eyes hollow, jeans and tank top dingy and wilted. A voice snapped her attention back to the phone. “Detective Sam Garrett here,” said a deep male voice. “You have information regarding the Caruso case?”

  “I’m Mag Callahan,” she said.

  There was an astonished pause. “Where are you, Ms. Callahan?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that right now,” she said.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out who framed me for the last eight months. I think I’ve found the bastard, or he’s found me, I should say. I also doubt that I’m going to survive the encounter, so I wanted to go on record first as saying that I’m not a murderer. OK? Write it down. Tell everyone.”

  “Uh…”

  “And neither is Davy McCloud,” she added, for good measure.

  “Who?” Garrett sounded baffled.

  “My boyfriend,” she explained. “He’s been framed for murder, too. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now he’s been kidnapped, to control me. By the same filthy scumbag who killed Craig and Mandi.”

  “Hold on. I’m confused. You say that your boyfriend has been kidnapped, and that you are—”

  “You’re not the only one who’s confused, Detective,” she said. “I’ve been confused for months. I’m sorry I can’t explain better. I’m on a real tight schedule, and I’m afraid they’re hurting Davy. I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up. If you find me in a Dumpster somewhere, the guy who killed me is the same one who killed Craig and Mandi. And he’s not working alone. He’s got a sicko ninja-type assassin working for him. OK? Got that straight?”

  “Who is this man, Ms. Callahan?” Garrett’s tone was that of a man trying to reason with a demented person. “Help me out here.”

  She laughed out loud. “Do you think that if I knew who he was that I’d be in this kind of trouble? I would’ve turned this nightmare over to you guys months ago if I could have, believe me. All I know right now is that he calls himself Marcus. If I live through the night, I promise I’ll contact you and tell you the whole story.”

  “But we—”

  “And that’s all I can say right now. Thanks for your time.”

  She slammed the phone down. Good. That was done, and it felt right. Futile maybe, but symbolically appropriate. She’d reached the end of the line. She checked the clock, calculating how long it would take to cab it to the station, and concluded that she could have five minutes to spiff herself up for the end of the world. She’d be damned if she’d go out to confront her ultimate mortal end looking like a schlump.

  The only thing she had to wear besides the jeans and tank top was the dress she’d worn to the wedding. It was too sexy for the occasion, but it would have to do. She wrenched off her clothes and yanked the thing on. Panty lines be damned.

  She looked at the spike-heeled sandals, and decided there were lengths to which she would not go, even to avoid edge-of-doom fashion don’ts. It was doubtful Fate would give her a chance to run like a rabbit from Snakey and his buddies, but that was no reason to hobble herself.

  The battered red high-tops it would be, then. At least they packed a visual punch, in their own spunky, scruffy way.

  Hair. She gelled her already crazed nest-crest until it stood out in snarled tufts. Then she twisted everything she could catch of it into a tight roll, crunchy enough to hold Tamara’s hair clip. No need to fuss with the rest of it. It was perfect as it was, sticking out every which way in the nutsoid, probably-on-drugs look of a high-fashion runway model.

  She rummaged through her plastic bag for her makeup stash and applied liquid eyeliner and mascara with slutty abandon. With her eyes as hollow as they were, she should go for the deliberately smudged look.

  She painted on the lipstick with a bold hand, studied herself critically in the mirror, and dabbed more lipstick onto her pale cheeks, rubbing it in hard to give herself a smidgen of color.

  She rummaged in her purse for Mikey’s studded dog collar and buckled it around her neck. It barely fit. She slid the medallion around to the back, tucking it inside the band, and pulled some hair loose over her neck to cover it. She checked out the final effect in the full-length mirror, and blinked with her heavy, crusty eyelashes, startled.

  Gosh. Well. It was a look. Not one she’d ever dreamed of putting on before, but somehow appropriate for running into the face of doom. The garish spots of lipstick on her pallid cheeks gave her the dramatic look of a tubercular nineteenth-century prostitute, and the studded dog collar was a kinky final touch. She wasn’t sure what message she was sending with it, but hey, what the hell. Keep ’em all guessing.

  She reached into her bra to fluff up her boobs and tugged the dress down a couple inches. Retro-tech-punk collides with the Addams Family. She decided she liked it. It was a fuck-you outfit. A tiny extra charge of power to put in the balance against this huge fear.

  And her five minutes had stretched into seven. No more stalling.

  She emptied out the plastic shopping bag. Tucked the mold and the rubbery hand into it, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door.

  At first she was afraid her outfit would give her problems hailing a cab, but one screeched to a halt as soon as she held up her arm. The cabbie kept shooting her fascinated looks, but she was too occupied trying not to imagine Davy in pain to be bothered with him. She fished in her purse for the fare. Amazing how her feelings about money had changed since she’d stopped hoping to live through the night. She just needed the price of a bus ticket. After that, her cash had no more relevance than Monopoly money. Once she paid the cabbie, she could throw the rest out the window. Not that there was much left to throw.

  Dressed as she was, Rosewell Avenue wasn’t the best part of town to get out of the bus and walk ten blocks. Margot realized this as soon as the bus pulled away, revealing the adult book and video store, the men’s weight-lifting gym, the dingy massage parlor. To say nothing of the scantily clad ladies who X-rayed her with hostile eyes from their various places on street corners and in doorways. She spun in a circle, clutching the shopping bag to her chest, trying to spot whoever must be monitoring her. No luck. She straightened her shoulders and got her feet moving, counting blocks as she passed them, careful not to return the stares that came her way.

  Amazing, how different Davy’s penetrating gaze was to these jerks’ clumsy attempts to intimidate her. The difference between real power and feigned power. Davy was for real. Heroic and brave. Telling her to run away while they were hurting him. Oops, none of that. Sobbing uncontrollably was not the
plan, not with three blocks between her and an unspeakable fate. One foot in front of the other. Cracked sidewalk beneath her feet. Broken glass, syringes, used condoms, cigarette butts. The roar of the freeway overpass got louder. Sweat trickled down her back. The colors burned her eyes, the odors tickled her nose. Exhaust, pot smoke, pee, rotting garbage. There it was, just as Marcus had said. The auto parts store, the grocery. The phone between them rang as she stared at it. She walked towards it, and reached for the receiver with all the enthusiasm one might have for handling a poisonous snake. “Yes?”

  “Margaret Callahan?”

  “That would be me.”

  “A gray van will pull up behind you in thirty seconds. Get into it.”

  “But I—”

  The phone went dead. She dropped it. It swung back and forth on its metal-wrapped cord like a black plastic pendulum. Marking the time to the end of the world. Thirty seconds passed. An engine hummed. She turned. The door slid open in a gray van. A man with a black ponytail was crouched in the door. He grinned at her. “Margaret Callahan?”

  She nodded. He held out his hand for the bag. She handed it over.

  The man peered inside it, and passed it to someone in the front seat. He turned back, his eyes dragging over her body. “Get in.”

  She stared at him, paralyzed with dread.

  “If you ever want to see your boyfriend again,” he added.

  She got in.

  Chapter

  26

  Marcus had been holding himself back.

  Davy was plenty dazed and battered from the blows to his face, but he knew damn well how much worse it could have been. Marcus was saving him for later. Maybe for Snakey. Or maybe he was waiting to have Margot for an audience. Best not to think about that.

  The library was empty now, but for himself. There was a flurry of activity elsewhere in the place, barely audible. The house must be huge.

  Marcus had gagged him before he left the room, and with the nosebleed he was having, that was a torture in itself, struggling through bubbling liquid for each labored breath.

  The door burst open. Margot was shoved into the room, blindfolded, arms fastened behind her. She stumbled to her knees and fell forward onto her face. One of the goons who had nabbed him at Krell crouched on top of her, straddling her, and pulled out a knife.