Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  A rat ran in through one of the openings in the bars. She hated rats. They were filthy and carried disease. It scurried over to her, skinny and dirty, with feral eyes. It sniffed her bare foot; its whiskers brushed against her skin. She kicked at it. The thing bared its teeth at her, and she thought for a brief, terrifying moment it was going to bite her.

  Then it ran out.

  She would never be able to sleep again.

  But a minute later, she wished the rat was back, because there was something worse than rats.

  Scorpions.

  * * *

  She wasn’t in a Mexican prison; she was somewhere in New York City. She could hear distant traffic. There were no scorpions in the city. The worst of the bugs were cockroaches.

  But there were rats. She could hear them scurrying about in the walls, their purpose to survive.

  She had the same purpose.

  She didn’t know what this bastard really wanted, but he hadn’t removed the blindfold. Maybe that was good news—maybe he didn’t plan to kill her. She could survive anything—she had survived a Mexican prison, the disappearance of her mother, the murder of her best friend. She could survive some psycho who wanted to talk to her about her childhood, about her feelings of abandonment or whatever it was he wanted to know. She didn’t hide behind lies or sugarcoat who or what she was. And damn if she was going to let him win.

  He wanted to break her? She couldn’t be broken. She wouldn’t allow herself to be broken.

  He’d been gone long enough that the drugs had worn off, or at least they weren’t messing with her head as much. She was uncomfortable, her head ached worse than the worst hangover she’d ever had. Her mouth was thick and her body numb and bruised. But she was alive and her mind was finally beginning to work again. She needed a plan, or a way to stay sharp enough to take advantage of an opportunity.

  He’d forced her to remember her past, whether because it was always in the back of her mind or because the drugs he fed her forced the memory to the surface. Those dark days when she thought her mother was gone for good and she would die in that cabin.

  Except … she hadn’t thought she would die. As the buried memory returned, she remembered being afraid—very, very afraid. She remembered being cold because she didn’t know how to restart the fire. But she’d found blankets and then the instructions for the woodstove. The fire was still there, smoldering, and she fed it more wood. She’d burned her hand; that she remembered. She’d been angry with herself, because she knew stoves were hot and she knew she should have found a pot holder to open the handle, but she hadn’t thought it through.

  She’d been scared, but not about dying.

  She was scared her mother would die and no one would know where she was. That the people who owned the cabin would find her and be angry that she ate their food and slept in their bed like Goldilocks.

  But she hadn’t thought she would die.

  Maybe he would break her, but he’d need more drugs to do it. Of that she was certain. So what if he’d uncovered that she’d revisited towns her mother had taken her to? Her mother had brought her everywhere. Maybe she hadn’t consciously realized it, but if he thought the knowledge would somehow make her cry and beg for mercy, he was wrong.

  He’d already gotten tears from her once.

  She wasn’t giving him anything else that he wanted.

  She just had to wait. Think. Plan. Figure out who he was and why he was doing this. There was something she was missing, something familiar about him. She’d recognized his voice—she had to focus on that. If she knew who he was, she might be able to turn the tables.

  She might have drifted off, remembering his words, that tone, a word … a specific word …

  * * *

  Try to remember everyone you’ve met. The voice came with a smile. A secretive smile like he knew something no one else knew. Like he knew her.…

  “I’m glad we caught you, Doctors. This is Ms. Revere. One of her employees is looking at our facilities. Ms. Revere, Doctors Abrams, Schakowsky, Duvall.”

  Courteous hellos. And a surprise in his voice.

  Duvall.

  “I read one of your books a while back.

  “In the book you wrote about your poor friend Karen’s disappearance…” he’d said later. A second conversation.

  He’d read her books.

  The way he said “book.” The secret smile in his voice.

  * * *

  Dr. Carter Duvall.

  Max moaned involuntarily. Her head was so heavy. She’d fallen asleep, but it certainly wasn’t restful.

  Duvall.

  Why had he kidnapped her? What the hell was going on? Why had he said he wanted to break her? None of this made any sense!

  Had she learned something about Adam Bachman that Duvall didn’t want her to reveal? What could it have been? She didn’t know squat, which was one of her frustrations. And if this kidnapping had to do with the Palazzolos—well, their murders weren’t being investigated by her, they were being investigated by the NYPD.

  The time line works. Duvall was at Greenhaven when Bachman was there.

  It still made no sense to her. Why would a psychiatrist work with a psychopath to kidnap her? To kill people? What was she missing?

  Was Carter Duvall his partner?

  Max shook her head to clear it, but that only made her head ache more. Duvall wasn’t the person Bachman met at Fringe. Melinda’s description couldn’t have been more different. The partner was large, tattooed, only a little older than Bachman. Carter Duvall was in his late forties, Max’s height, and skinny.

  Maybe the guy at the bar wasn’t his partner, just a friend. Maybe Max got it all wrong, and now she was going to die for being wrong.

  There’s two of them.

  Cole. Duvall called the other guy in the room Cole. Did that mean there were three of them working together? Duvall, Cole, and Bachman? Could that even be possible?

  Of course it’s possible! You knew he had a partner, why not two?

  Something crawled over her skin and she cried out. Was something on top of her? Or was this a reaction to the drugs? She thought they’d worked their way through her system, but what if she was hallucinating? What if her mind was making things up? Why would one of the doctors at Greenhaven be party to murder?

  It makes sense, Maxine. Focus. Calm down.

  She had to be alert enough to pay attention when her captor spoke again. Now she had a reference. If she was right, she’d know it as soon as he returned.

  She prayed she survived long enough to tell the bastard to go to hell.

  * * *

  David sat up early Saturday morning and got his bearings. He’d fallen asleep on Max’s living-room couch. He hadn’t closed his eyes until nearly dawn. It was now 6:30 A.M.

  David had shown Nick to a guest room, because Marco had taken over Max’s bedroom. David wanted to tell Marco to use the other guest room, but he didn’t want another argument. Marco always came into Max’s life like a bull in a china shop. David had been around long enough to watch her work through several different men, but he didn’t usually like—or dislike—any of them. Max once said he was the overprotective brother she never had, but that was far from the truth. Sometimes, David felt sorry for the guys who had fallen for Max. She didn’t let people get close. That he understood. He had few friends and even fewer people he trusted. He hadn’t left the Rangers on good terms, though he’d been honorably discharged. He’d thought he’d known people … but he hadn’t. Not really.

  Which is why he cared for Max. They had rough spots, but she was honest with him and with herself. But mostly, she gave him something he’d never had before.

  Purpose.

  Everything he’d done in his life was because of someone else. He’d slept with Brittany in high school because he wanted to prove to his football team buddies that he wasn’t gay and could screw the hottest girl in the school. The only good that had come out of that volatile relationship was his daught
er. He’d joined the army for his father, a patriotic veteran whom David admired and respected above all other men. He’d become a Ranger because his best friend joined the Rangers. He’d left the military to save his one long-term relationship, but it hadn’t ended well—and then Chris had committed suicide and in his suicide note blamed David. He’d even started working for Maximum Exposure as a favor to a friend.

  He’d been lost. Angry. Borderline depressed. He hated Chris for killing himself, for leaving David to clean up the mess. He hated himself that he hadn’t seen the signs, hadn’t been able to stop it from happening. And he hated himself for being less than he should have been, questioning everything he’d said and done, thinking he could have said and done something different. Until Max, he only saw the negative in humanity, rarely the good. The only good was his daughter, and Brittany didn’t give him a minute of time with her over the court mandate. All the rage made him bitter.

  David was still angry at times, but over the last two years he’d developed a peace that he hadn’t had before. A focus and purpose that saved him. He’d made it his secret mission to give Max the one thing she didn’t know she needed. Unconditional love.

  He would find her. He would tell her.

  Nick stepped into the room. He’d showered and changed, and wore his gun belt and badge, though he was far out of his jurisdiction. He didn’t look like he’d slept any more than David. The shower upstairs went on and Nick glanced up, a hint of anger in his expression.

  Nick was similar to Marco in career choice, but in most every other way different. Which was a good thing, as far as David was concerned.

  “What’s the plan?” Nick asked.

  “Coffee,” David said and got up. He walked into the kitchen and started a pot. “Sally O’Hara—the detective from Queens—is canvassing the area where we think our unsub might have been recently, and so far nothing. She’s going back out today.”

  “Do you think that Dr. Ullman can get information from Bachman?”

  “I don’t know. Arthur is close to Max, I’ve only met him a couple times. But whenever she’s stuck on something, she calls him and he comes.”

  “And Lopez?”

  David knew what Nick was getting at, but he didn’t want to go down that path. He said, “Ignore him or he’ll get under your skin. But he has clout in the bureau, he’ll move mountains to find her.”

  “He’s sleeping in her bed,” Nick mumbled, but walked away before David could comment.

  Marco came downstairs shortly, his black hair wet and curling at his collar. He was in a suit, sans jacket, and also had his gun. He was talking on the phone. He poured coffee as he spoke, then hung up. “Arthur,” he said. “He worked with the assistant director in New York on the warrant to put Bachman into federal custody so we can take a crack at him. It’s Saturday, but we have a federal judge on call who Arthur thinks will be amenable. All we can do is wait.”

  “I’m not waiting,” David said.

  “You have to leave this to me. It’s been nearly thirty-six hours. There’ve been no ransom demands. The driver is still missing. The car hasn’t shown up. They’re down a rabbit hole somewhere. This isn’t about money.”

  “We knew that yesterday.”

  “We have to cross the t’s and dot the i’s, Kane. You’ve worked kidnappings before, haven’t you? Right—you’re not a cop.”

  Marco could get under his skin like no one else. But David refrained from comment. “We need an ID, Marco.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I’m pushing everyone I can push.”

  “Have you found Anna Hudson?”

  “No, but considering the FBI has been working on this for less than a full day, cut me some slack, Kane.”

  “I may not be a cop,” David said slowly, carefully, “but I know when something is personal. This is personal.” Arthur had said it the night before; David had been turning it over in his head throughout the sleepless night.

  “We don’t know that.” But Marco didn’t look at him.

  “You think so too.”

  “It can’t be that personal if Max didn’t recognize the guy who grabbed her.”

  “He could have been hired, but it is still personal.”

  “Personal how? I need evidence, Kane. Not speculation.”

  “Arthur agrees.”

  “Psychology is educated guesses, and even educated guesses can be wrong.”

  David’s phone rang. He grabbed it. It was Ben. “What?”

  “We found Anna Hudson. C. J. traced her. She’s an elementary school teacher in Levittown, a suburb of Philadelphia. She changed her name to Anna Bristol, her mother’s maiden name.”

  An hour and a half drive. “Tell C. J. good work.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to talk to her.”

  “Shouldn’t you leave that to Marco?”

  David glanced at Marco. Without breaking eye contact, he said to Ben, “He can join me if he wants. E-mail me the information, including a photo if you have it. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

  He hung up. Marco said, “You can’t—”

  “Don’t say it. You and Arthur handle Bachman, I’ll take Santini with me to interview Ms. Hudson. Maybe one of us will have put a name to Max’s kidnapper before noon.”

  Nick stepped back into the kitchen. “I’m ready.”

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction,” Marco told him.

  Nick didn’t say a word. He turned to David. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said as he left.

  David was beginning to like Nick even more.

  * * *

  Riley woke up feeling sick to her stomach. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t.

  She knew this feeling. She’d had these sensations before, when she popped too many pills.

  But she’d been clean for eight years.

  She tried to sit up, but her stomach rolled, and she almost puked. She was desperately thirsty and for the first time in a long time she wanted something to pick her up. Just one pill, to take off this edge.

  No. No. No! What happened last night?

  The last thing she remembered was leaving the records room. No … that wasn’t right. She had left the room and went outside. She’d opened the door to her room. It was fuzzy. But she knew she’d returned to her room … and there was a man.

  They were standing in the courthouse.

  That’s not right! You were in your room at Greenhaven. You admitted yourself so you could ID Bachman’s partner. You got the files, returned to your room, and …

  The man from the courthouse, the one she’d bumped into, was there. In her room at Greenhaven.

  “Ms. Butler,” a voice said. “You’re awake.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice. Or did she? It wasn’t the counselor she’d met yesterday. Or Ms. Jackson.

  It’s the man from the courthouse. Why is he here?

  “You have a serious problem. You came to the right place for help, but we can’t help you if you aren’t honest with us.”

  “I—what?”

  “You brought drugs into Greenhaven. You nearly overdosed last night.”

  “No.” But she wasn’t sure she’d spoken out loud. She hadn’t taken anything. Not voluntarily.

  He’d said something to her in her room, but the image was blurry, like opening her eyes under water. She couldn’t remember his words. What did he say?

  Her body told her she had taken a lot of pills. Or something. It was different, not what she’d been used to. It was worse that the oxy she’d been addicted to.

  A sharp prick in her arm.

  “Ouch! What? Wh-wh-wh?” Her tongue was thick.

  “To help you with the withdrawals.”

  “No. Please. No.”

  She felt someone lean over her. Touch her face. She was hot, so hot, but she was shaking.

  She felt another prick in her arm, then she couldn’t speak.

  The door opened, then closed.

  Ri
ley forced her eyes open, but she saw nothing. She was blind. That couldn’t be right! But everything was white and out of focus. She wanted to throw up, but she couldn’t force herself to puke. Her head was spinning.

  She tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. The pain was fading away, along with everything else.

  The noises were far away.

  “She’s crashing—call 911.”

  A voice—it was panicked.

  “Riley? Ms. Butler, what did you take?”

  Nothing! He drugged me!

  But no words escaped her. She gagged.

  “Riley, help is on its way. Doctor! Doctor, please help—Ms. Butler is a new guest, I think she smuggled in drugs. She’s nonresponsive.”

  That voice was Ms. Jackson, and she sounded very concerned.

  Nonresponsive … because she’d been drugged. The sounds were fading.

  “An ambulance is on its way,” someone else said. How many people were in her room? Where was the man who drugged her? How long had she been here?

  “Where are the drugs?”

  “Here,” someone said. “Two syringes on the floor. I don’t know what was in them, but they’re empty.”

  “Keep them for the medics. They need to save her. This can’t be happening!”

  It was happening.

  Help me.

  She cried, but no sound came out.

  I don’t want to die! He did something, he did this to me, stop him, don’t touch, help me help me help me …

  Her body convulsed and she heard voices, panicked voices, felt hands on her, holding her down.

  God, I’m dying … I’m going to die … please, no.

  No.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Levittown was more than just a suburb—it had been built in the 1950s and every house looked like nearly every other house. It was a perfect place for a person to disappear—its population was mostly white, mostly middle income, mostly commuters.

  Anna Hudson—Anna Bristol—lived in one of the identical houses, updated only by a fresh coat of pale yellow paint, colorful flowers in pots along the front walk, and two new trees in the front, planted a year or two ago. She spent a lot of time on her yard and it showed. An old Honda Civic in the driveway was in dire need of new tires.