Freefall (58 page)

“Sleep well?”

She was not playing his game. “I need to use the bathroom.”

The corners of his mouth pulled as he experienced the power of her helplessness, her need to ask because she couldn’t get up high enough to use the toilet. He could refuse, but he reached under the sink and untied the cord from the pipe.

She imagined head-butting him, but there was hardly room to stand. Her hands were trapped behind her back, and he would clobber her. He took the gun from atop the toilet tank and held the end of the cord like a leash while she struggled to her feet.

She looked him in the face. “I’d like some privacy.”

He stepped out and pushed the door almost closed.

Immediately she realized her mistake. How could she undo her jeans? Trembling, she called, “Curt.”

He opened the door with a lascivious look. “Need help?”

“I want my hands untied.”

“Can’t risk it.”

“You’ve got a gun.”
You slimy coward
.

He pondered, then turned her around. She gasped with relief when her arms fell to her sides. Her thumb and forefinger felt like frozen sausages. She’d probably crushed the carpal nerves trying to get free. Tears stung, but she would not let him see. She waited until he had walked back out, and then closed the door. There was no escape from the bathroom, no window, no ceiling panel or air vent large enough to slip through, only a rusty fan vent and a cracked light fixture.

When the toilet flushed, he opened the door, gun raised. He motioned her toward the bed.

Her stomach clutched into a fist, but he said, “Call your uncle.”

She sat down near the nightstand where he had laid her phone, then opened it and dialed.
Please, Uncle Rob, please
. The phone rang.
Oh, God, please let him answer
.

“Good morning, Gentry.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Curt snatched the phone from her hand without shifting his aim. “Listen close.”

“Who is this? What’s going on?” Her uncle’s voice carried.

“You know who it is. And it’s what’s going to happen that matters; what you’re going to do, and what I’m going to do if you don’t.”

She quailed at the look he shot her. What would stop him doing anything? Her muscles tensed. Her hands were free. She could jump him right now. The bullet might go wide, or it might rip through her abdomen, followed by a whole cylinder of cartridges tearing through her. She wasn’t that desperate. She prayed he wasn’t either.

Curt instructed Uncle Rob to send the money to his offshore account, money he’d been willing to kill for. What would stop him now? She could identify him, testify in court. He must know that. She had to get away. But how?

Hiding her fear had kept her strong, but showing it might lower his guard. She needed a director to tell her which way to take the scene—and then she realized she had one.
Lord, show me how to go over these falls, how to stop this wrong
.

If this were a script, there’d be something she could do. But it wasn’t make-believe. It was real. And she could die.

Curt pocketed her phone and picked up the cord. “Lie down.” His voice was cold. “Hands over your head.”

Her breath stopped.
Fight. Kick the gun from his hand. Run for the door
. But it was bolted and safety chained. He was bigger, stronger. She wouldn’t make it out.

“On your face on the floor.” He pressed the barrel of the gun to her head.

She dropped to her knees, shaking. He pushed her down, pinned her arms with his knees, his weight on her back. He knotted her hands with the cord. Then he attached the other end to the leg of the bed frame against the wall. The minute he released her, she rolled to her side, but his face was right there.

“A note to the sex goddess. If I want it, I’ll take it.” He stood.

She pressed her back to the bed frame. It was time to report to the studio. What would they think when she didn’t show? Alec might tell them she’d been acting strange. They’d call, send a runner to her apartment, but no one could get in; no one had a key, not even Cameron. How had she thought they would find her note?

She pictured Dwight, tight-lipped and sharp, cursing the money she was costing them. He’d shoot scenes that didn’t include her and hadn’t been on the call sheets, but that would take time to gather the actors, rearrange the sets. Time and money.

It made her sick to think of Uncle Rob scrambling to meet the demand. Could he come up with so much? He’d done well, but … that well?

Curt sat down against the wall, confident that she’d been neutralized. She couldn’t do anything he didn’t want her to, and he could do anything he wanted.

“So. Tell me about the kid.”

She swallowed. “What kid?”

“You know the one.”

Then it hit her. “Troy?”

The air-conditioning unit came on with a heavy growl. It hadn’t cooled the bathroom, but it chilled her now where she’d sweat a circle at the neck of her cotton tank.

Curt leaned forward. “Tell me how he felt about you.”

“He had a crush. He’s just a boy.”

Curt rested his forearms across his knees. “Why you?”

She shook her head. “I gave him a venue to express his feelings. I guess he got confused.”

“He wasn’t confused.” Curt stood and paced the room. “He wanted to be recognized, appreciated.”

“He was.” She raised her chin, “I gave him a chance through therapeutic improv to work through his feelings, but also to learn the craft. He knew he had talent. I gave him confidence.”

Curt sneered. “You didn’t get it. You still don’t.”

She sighed. “Maybe not. But at least I tried.”

Curt’s anger gave way. He slid down the wall to the floor and stared at her. He was at least ten years older, probably more, but looked as lost as the kids she’d tried to help. Maybe he was what happened when no one did.

FORTY-FIVE

Cameron woke up in Gentr y’s apartment,
amazed his eyes had even closed. He’d been lured to sleep by an assurance that drained from him now like sweat. He sat up, went down the hall and showered in Gentry’s bathroom, surrounded by her scented soaps, candles, and shampoos. Only, her scent was missing.

In the kitchen, he sipped a mug of bitter grocery store coffee and called the police for a status report. The first person he reached was not forthcoming. “Then give me to the person authorized.”

The detective in charge of the case came on the line and told him they’d found several overnight withdrawals from Gentry’s account from various ATMs. They’d collected video from those locations and plugged them on the map, but she was the only person visible in her own vehicle. In other words, nothing to prove Curt Blanchard’s involvement.

He dropped his forehead into his hand. “What can I do to assist the investigation?”

“We’re aware of your qualifications and your relationship, Mr. Pierce.” Detective Stein’s voice had rusty undertones. He didn’t like his toes stepped on. “The best you can do is stay calm and available, in case she tries to reach you.”

No way he was calm, and available? “I’ll be as reachable doing something as not.” Gentry had all his numbers in her phone. She could reach him if she got the opportunity. “This isn’t just anybody. We’re talking Gentry Fox.”

“In this department, everyone’s case is taken seriously, and we don’t know for sure that she’s in danger.”

“Don’t know …”

“Mr. Pierce, we’re doing all we can to locate Ms. Fox. But what we have right now to indicate foul play is a scrap of paper that could have been part of an errand list.”

He expelled a breath. “She was attacked on Kauai. Days ago she recognized the man who ordered it. Now she’s missing. How much more do you need?”

“We have competent officers on the search. My partner and I are covering every angle.”

“What other angles are there?”

“In the bank security tapes from last night, Gentry Fox appears to be on her own.”

Cameron gripped the phone. “The officers who responded agreed Curt was probably armed. He could have stayed out of sight in the car and still had her at gunpoint.”

“We are proceeding with that assumption, as you’ve seen on the news. All units are on alert for her and her possible companion. Trust us to do our job. And don’t get sideways of this investigation. We won’t look away from the kind of thing you pulled on Kauai.”

“Fine.” The worst thing he could do was antagonize the detective. “But keep me in the loop.”

“That I can do.”

Mug in hand, Cameron invaded the living room. He wanted a plan, needed one, but Detective Stein had neutralized him. His glance fell on Gentry’s Bible. He sat down in the chair and picked it up. The pages were penciled with dates and comments, personal notes and study notes, and a lot of thoughts with question marks that might have been Daniel’s interpretations.

He flipped through the pages where she’d inserted markers, passages she wanted to find easily. It felt like reading her diary, but he was glued to the notes in the margins. Joy poured from her scribbles, as she found new meaning or personal application to phrases and paragraphs. Her words illuminated passages he’d heard but had never taken personally.

A ribbon marked Psalm 64; verses 2 and 3 were highlighted and underlined.
“Hide me from the conspiracy of the wicked, from that noisy crowd of evildoers. They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim their words like deadly arrows.”
Beside it she’d written,
Pray for Troy
.

His heart squeezed. Where was she? How was she? Brave, yes, and strong. Spitting mad, he hoped. He couldn’t imagine her afraid, broken, violated. And he wouldn’t. He pulled out his phone.

The washcloth bound into Gentry’s mouth with a lamp cord, would keep her quiet. The cord connecting her wrists to the bed held fast. Curt went out to the motel office to pay up a couple days and keep the manager off his back. But when he ducked into the tight and dingy office, Gentry was on the portable TV with a snapshot of him alongside. It was like a hammer to the head.

How could they know? He’d told Fox to keep silent. Cold fury gripped him. He ducked out before the manager responded to the bell on the door. Swearing all the way to the room, he let himself in, anger forming like a fireball in his gut.

He ripped the cord off and yanked the rag from her mouth. “What did you do?”

She lay there, scared and confused.

“How do they know? The cops. The press.”

“I told you I’d be missed.”

He shook his head and paced. “I warned him not to talk to anyone.”

“It wasn’t Uncle Rob. They’ve been looking for you since the party. What did you expect when you showed up there?”

“Shut up.” He hated someone telling him his mistakes, like he didn’t know already. She sounded like his mother. “Just shut up.” He should have left the gag in. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do it with her shrilling in his ears.

He’d remained anonymous through the whole interaction with Malakua and left him to take the heat. He’d pulled all kinds of cons, but he’d never been on the run. What should he do?

He’d planned to leave Gentry in the room once the money was transferred, but now he’d need a hostage. And then what? If he left her alive she could finger him. He swore.

All he’d wanted was Allegra and the life she had. He could have cleared his debts, gotten his neck out of the noose. They could have been happy. But she’d gone back to Rob. He smashed his fist into the other palm.

Gentry jumped. He turned and stared at her. Did she think him a brute? He was no worse than the bighead actor whose house he’d taken her from. No worse than that boyfriend who’d given away his own kid. The investigator. And then it clicked.

He crouched down and grabbed her face. “You told him. How?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your boyfriend, Cameron Pierce.”

“He expected to talk to me last night. I told you he’d wonder.”

There it was again, the tone that made him feel stupid, worthless.

He gripped her throat. He could crush her skinny neck, squeeze it as he’d wanted to squeeze his mother’s so many times. He felt her fear. She was helpless.
Feel it. Feel what it’s like to be small and vulnerable
.