Then the signal began to move.
The wave of fear made him want to retch. The signal moved along the main drag in Hempton and took a highway heading north and east. He had to change routes if he wanted to intercept them.
It was like walking a tightrope, driving at that speed while monitoring the computer and calculating possible shortcuts. A minute later, his cell rang, to add another ball and hoop to his balancing act.
Fortunately, he had his earpiece. “Yeah,” he barked.
“The cops are there,” Braxton said. “It’s bad. The old lady was tied up on the ground. Wesley’s shot. No sign of your lady friend.”
His gut cramped. “Her signal’s heading northeast,” he said. “Keep me informed. Later.”
“Wait. Dunc. I’m sorry about this, man. I let you down.”
“Not your fault,” he said curtly. “I miscalculated. She should have had a team. She shouldn’t have been let out at all. Gotta go. Later.”
“Gotcha.” Braxton hung up.
He pressed the accelerator harder, glancing over at the map on the screen. He had to close that gap. More speed. He let the powerful motor open up and breathe, humming at 115 mph.
Play it cool. Like a glacier. After all. As long as she was moving, they probably weren’t hurting her.
But when that signal stopped once again, man, he could fucking forget about playing it cool. He was going to be twisting in the flames of hell.
Stabbing pains in Nell’s head woke her. She was confused, terrified. It was horrifically dark. She couldn’t get any air. She was buried alive, dirt and rot in her nose. Air. God, she needed air.
She started struggling. Her arms were wrenched back, wrists bound. She was curled in the fetal position. She couldn’t move. Her own weight made her hyperextended shoulders burn and throb. The vibration confused her. A bump slammed her head against the floor.
Ah. Yes. She was folded up in the trunk of a car.
Panic would not help. She tried to relax, took the slowest, shallowest breaths she could. Lack of oxygen explained the headache. Or carbon monoxide, maybe. Or both.
The car began to rattle and bump. They’d left the asphalt and gotten onto a rutted dirt road. It stopped. A murmur of male voices. Car doors popped open. The vehicle shifted as men got out. She tried to remember how many she’d seen at Elsie’s. Four, maybe.
Elsie. A fresh wave of emotion jolted her. Oh, God, poor Elsie. And Wesley, too. They’d shot him.
The trunk opened with a hollow pop. Daylight filtered through the filthy, stinking burlap that shrouded her. Rough arms grabbed her under the armpits, giving her shoulders an agonizing jolt. She was jerked out, legs bumping over the lip of the trunk. The ground whipped up and smacked her a blow that loosened every sinew.
“Take her into the building,” said the harsh, cracked voice with a thick German accent. “And tie her to a chair.”
She was hoisted up and dragged, feet bouncing over rough ground, into an enclosed structure. The sunlight she’d felt outside did not penetrate here. It was humid, chill, as if she were in a cave.
The man dragging her dropped her onto a straight-backed chair. Her arms were jerked tighter, fastened to her ankles, twisting her into an agonized pretzel around the chair back. She gasped with the pain.
“The rest of you, out. Go keep watch,” the German-sounding man ordered. There were mutters, tramping feet, and a large door creaked, banged shut. The light filtering through the burlap diminished sharply.
A latch fell into place. Clunk.
Silence. Her teeth chattered. She shook, with huge seismic shudders, as if she were freezing to death. She trembled so hard, the chair vibrated against the floor. The two remaining men stood there, watching her. She could sense their enjoyment. Feel their smiles.
“Take off the bag, John.” The German-sounding man’s voice oozed satisfaction.
The bag was wrenched off, whipping her head forward against the brutal pull of her tied arms. She coughed, dragging in big gulps of air.
Her hair was over her eyes. She tried to shake it back, but the slightest movement made her head throb. She just stared through the veil of tangled hair, like a captured prehistoric cavewoman, face dirtied, mouth open, eyes staring and wild.
It was not bright inside that room, but it still took a moment before her eyes readjusted. By some miracle, her glasses were still clinging to her face.
Two men. One old and collapsed in on himself, with a flabby, jowly face. Watery blue eyes peered out from puffy bags of unwholesome flesh. His lips were an unhealthy purple. He leered at her.
So did the other man, who fit Nancy’s description of the Fiend. Burly, with piggish, deep-set eyes glittering in the flushed, tightly packed fat of his heavy face. His lips were wet from being compulsively licked.
Both were loathsome. Neither seemed concerned about her seeing their faces. They didn’t expect her to ever be able to identify them.
She shoved that unwelcome thought out of her head.
The old man stumped forward, and tipped up her chin. “Antonella,” he crooned. “In the flesh. And such lovely flesh.” His hand crept down her chest, groping. He found her nipple and pinched.
She did not allow herself to scream. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ulf, my dear. Ulf Haupt. And this is my assistant, John. But I am the one who will ask questions today. Not you.”
“Wh-what do you want from me?”
The light in his eyes was evil, insane. “Information, of course.”
Her stomach plummeted. That was a commodity of which she had so little. The other man, whom Ulf Haupt had called John, rummaged in her blouse, groping her boobs until he got his fist around her pendant.
He wrenched it until the chain broke. “We’ll add this to our growing collection,” he said.
“John’s been eager to question you,” Haupt said.
“Yeah, since this morning,” John agreed. “When you broke up with the prick.” He waited for a reaction, laughing at Nell’s shocked expression. “I heard it all,” he taunted. “I bugged your computer, you stupid cunt. You wanted him to declare his love, huh? You wanted him to grovel, suck your toes? I almost found it in my heart to pity the guy. If I hadn’t had to listen to him fucking you for the last two days.”
She recoiled. He leaned forward, until his face was inches from hers. “I heard it all. You dirty little slut. Heard you screaming and begging and coming.” He slapped her, rocking the chair so hard it teetered on two legs. “You love it, don’t you? Filthy whore—”
“Enough, John!” The old man’s voice was sharp. “Do not get carried away. She must not lose consciousness before we get the information we need. You can play later.”
John subsided, muttering something vicious under his breath about cunts, sluts. His fists were clenched, and his mouth was open and wet, breath rasping fast. Irrational hate shone in his eyes. God help her. She was tied to a chair in front of a pair of raving madmen.
Haupt patted the cheek that John had slapped, as if she were a little girl and he was some hideous parody of a benevolent grandfather. “So, my dear. Tell us what you know about the sketches.”
Sketches? She seesawed frantically, wondering what would get her killed the fastest—admitting ignorance or feigning knowledge. Either option looked bleak. “I don’t know anything about any sketches.”
Haupt’s eyes hardened, and his fingers tightened on her cheek, pinching. “Do not lie. We read the Contessa’s letter, stupid girl. She said the three of you could solve the puzzle, so you must know something!”
“But I’m alone. I’m not with them.” Nell shook her head to clear it, blowing hair up and out of her eyes. “And you took the letter, so we never got a chance to read it. And Lucia never had a chance to—”
Another vicious slap. Her head rang. Tears sprang into her eyes.
“So the Contessa never told you how her father died?”
Nell shook her head, gulping. “No,” she whispered.
“You want to hear the tale?” Haupt sounded eager to talk. “My father knew the old Conte deLuca, you see, back in their youth. In the thirties, before the war. They attended the art academy together in Rome, for a time. They became friends. Such good friends, the Conte even invited my father to visit his ancestral home. To show off the family’s art treasures.”
“Ah. I, um, see,” said Nell, although she didn’t.
“And then, the war. And the Reich,” Haupt went on. “My father was a high-ranking officer in the SS. He arranged to be headquartered in deLuca’s palazzo during the occupation. One of his duties was to appropriate the cream of the art pieces, for the glory of the Reich. But the Conte deLuca was greedy. He kept aside his greatest treasures. He hid them, but he wrote a map describing where to find them.”
Nell held her breath, hypnotized by the pale, mad eyes of the ruined old man. Spittle landed in her face as he talked. She silently begged him to go on and on. Keep on talking, all day, all night.
As long as he was talking, they would not tear her to pieces.
“The war ended,” Haupt went on. “My father fled to Argentina after the war, but he never forgot. He paid deLuca a visit fifteen years later, but the sketches were still hidden. Would you like to know what my father did to the Conte? In his efforts to convince him to reveal the hiding place?”
“N-n-no,” Nell quavered. “Thanks, but no.”
“Do not be insolent!” Haupt shrieked. “Perhaps if I tell you that you will share his exact same fate, it will spark your curiosity, hmm?” He slid his cold, puffy hand down over her arm, her breasts. “All that smooth, flawless skin. So pale, and soft and perfect. A pity, really.”
Delay, delay. “And, ah, wh-what about M-m-marco?”
“So you know about the Marchese Barbieri? Worthless old turd. He was the one with the map, little good it did him. My father and then I myself stationed domestic spies in the Palazzo deLuca for decades, watching him search, but he never found the sketches. And then, one fine day, he climbs on a plane! And flies to America! What a curious thing, eh?” He rubbed his hands together. “John was there to meet the old Marchese. That was how we finally located the elusive Contessa. But John has an impulse control problem. I call it, ‘kill now, ask questions later.’” Haupt shot a poisonous glance at John. “The Marchese and Contessa were dead before we could find out what he brought, or where he hid it. So be a good girl, Antonella. And maybe John won’t be so harsh with you, eh?”
She swallowed. “I will cooperate. As much as I can.” Which wasn’t very goddamn much. As they would discover, soon enough.
Haupt held up the necklaces. They swung and glittered in the dim light filtering through the dirty, cobwebby windows, the sapphire N, her ruby A. “Tell me the secret of the necklaces,” he commanded.
She winced. “I don’t know. I only saw an incomplete draft of the letter you took, and it said that only the three of us working together, using our love of art, could open some sort of key, but we never figured out exactly to what. I’m sure she meant to tell us more before she—”
Crack, another slap. Her nose was dripping blood.
“Do not lie!” Haupt screamed. “I know you know more! We have researched you, Antonella. The bitch Contessa had you study Italian and Latin. You were being groomed to take over the search! Admit it! Why else would you study a dead language? Have you seen the map? Have you read it? What does it say?”
“No! I-I-I haven’t s-s-seen…” She floundered, stammering. Her imagination was failing her, utterly. How could she describe a passion for language and literature for its own sake to subhuman monsters? They wouldn’t understand it. They didn’t even know what beauty was.
John stepped up, with a businesslike air. His next blow knocked her chair off balance. It teetered on one leg, tipped. The room swirled as she tumbled backward, onto her tied hands. Crunch, wood splintered beneath her, and oh, shit, oh, dear God, her hands, oh, that hurt—
A long broken shard of wood from a piece of junked furniture had stabbed into the pad of her thumb. She wrenched her thumb loose from the shard, again, groping with her fingers feeling blood flow, slippery and hot. Felt for the shard. There it was. Her hand closed around it, and clenched.
Snap. She broke off the tip. Small, but hers. Hidden in her fingers.
John hooked the back of her chair and heaved her upright. “Let’s try that question again, Antonella.” He leaned down, the whites of his eyes showing all around his irises, and slid the point of his knife under her blouse. A few sharp jerks, and the fabric gave, gaped. Buttons flew, skittering on concrete.
He dug the knife tip under the crossed silk cord that held her bra cups together, flicked the knife. This time, he nicked her skin. Blood welled up, trickled down her belly. Blood dripped from her wounded hand, as well. She clutched the splinter, hard enough to hurt, to ward off the squirming nausea, the waves of shimmering dark faintness.
The knife gleamed in front of her wide, hypnotized eyes.
“Now, Antonella,” he said, companionably. “Let’s talk about art.”
“Right on Connemara Drive, four point two miles. Hard left onto a dirt road, half a mile after you cross a creek. Her signal’s three hundred meters ahead of me, perpendicular to the main road and ten degrees to the right. I’m leaving the car. Tell the cavalry to hurry the fuck up.”
“Dunc! Hold on! Don’t just—”
He killed the phone and took off running. Glad for whatever instinct had prompted him to put on brown and olive drab. Her signal had been stationary for twenty minutes. Plenty of time to hurt her, if that was their intent.
He felt cold, his emotions flat-lined. A virtual figure in a video game, sent out to earn points, defeat goblins, gargoyles, basilisks, defeat the evil sorcerer. If he scored enough points, and made no wrong moves. But in the vid game, the player’s life wouldn’t be gutted if he fucked up. There would be no “game over” flashing on the screen. No invitation to try his luck again.
One chance. One.
He ran onward, darting from bush to tree, until the building came into view, and then the car. He hoped there were no infrared alarms. He doubted it. This was an improvised, last-minute snatch. This place wasn’t their turf. He hoped.
The building looked like an abandoned, crumbling barn. He spotted the first sentry, and sank down into the bushes. He recognized the tall black guy from Lafayette. Duncan dropped to his belly and slithered around the guy, keeping beneath his line of vision. When he spiraled in closer, the guy was turned, pissing against a tree. Good.
Duncan leaped up behind him. The guy spun around, mouth dangling, dick still in his hand. He sucked in air to yell, and took the heel of Duncan’s boot to the point of his chin. Crunch.
He toppled, eyes rolled back. Hit the tree, slid to the ground on his ass, slumped. Penis still drooping out of his opened pants.
Voices. He followed them, slithering toward the hushed murmur in the clearing around the barn. It was the blond dickhead from Lafayette, smoking a cigarette and talking to a stocky shorter guy. The blond guy had bruises beneath both eyes. Duncan crept closer, recognizing his reedy, whining tone before he could make out the words. He pulled out a couple of drugged throwing stars.
“…with this kind of shit! It ain’t worth the fuckin’ money to get treated like fuckin’ dogshit,” he bitched. “All I say is, they better let me take my turn with the bitch after John works her over, because I mean to teach that cunt nobody messes with Curtis, man—ay!”
His monologue choked off to a shriek. He pawed at his buttock, and held up the throwing star Duncan had lobbed. “What the fuck?”
The second guy howled. A star protruded from his shoulder.
Curtis spun, and sprayed the woods with bullets from his Uzi. “Who the fuck are you, you fuck?!” he shrieked. “I’ll waste your ass!”
So much for stealth. Curtis was wavering, toppling. The other guy went down even faster. The points of the stars were treated with a high-power, quick-acting seda
tive. He waited for some reaction from the barn. Sure enough. The door opened. A man poked his head out.
“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled. He saw the unconscious men collapsed on the ground, and his face twisted with disgust. “Fucking jerk-offs,” he muttered, and lifted his automatic pistol.
He pumped a short burst of bullets into them both. The sprawled bodies jittered on the ground and then lay still.
Duncan stared through the foliage. The men were torn apart, lying in pools of blood. The Fiend lifted his gun and sprayed the woods in a wide arc. Bullets sliced through grass and leaves, right above Duncan’s head. Splinters of bark and earth flew, bullets thudded into the ground.
The Fiend laughed, hysterically. “Fuck off and die, shithead!” he howled. “It’s your turn, now! I got her! Go fuck yourself!” Another spray of bullets punched into the forest, rat-tat-tat-tat.
The guy ducked back inside. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Duncan flew like a bolt from a crossbow across the carnage in the clearing and flung himself at the door. “Nell!” he bellowed.
“Duncan?” she called back, just as bullets pumped through the door.
One of them grazed Duncan’s hip like a lick of flame. Another caught his pocket above his knee, ripping the fabric. She screamed, a wrenching cry that curdled his blood.
He sprinted around the building.
“They’re coming,” John said to Haupt. “We have to cut loose. Curtis and Turturro are meat. Didn’t see Gerard. Probably dead, too.”
“They’re coming? Who is coming? How did they know where to come? How is it possible?” The man’s voice rose to a shrill, querulous squawk. “You stupid, incompetent—”
Tasting Fear Page 35
