In A Heartbeat (34 page)

“Turn off at Riverview, then take Ritchton.”

If she had any doubts before, his words confirmed their destination. Once they arrived at the warehouse, he signaled her to exit the car. She reached across the seat to grab her purse.

“Leave it,” he snarled.

“But my medicines. I can’t—”

He pressed the gun to her side. “Worry about this, not your purse.”

He hustled her inside. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she noticed crates and corrugated boxes stacked haphazardly.

“You’ve been busy,” she commented.

“No thanks to you,” he snarled. “I’ve been bringing stuff in ever since Renard started making noise about a physical inventory. That was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“What are you planning to do with me?”

They’d come through the narrow front entrance. She looked for an avenue to escape among the closed receiving bay and two windowless doors along the back wall. He marched her to one of them.

Burroughs fished in his pockets, then slipped a key into a lock on a grimy door.

“Open it,” he ordered.

“It’s stuck.” she tugged on the thin metal handle.

“Try harder,” he said.

She planted her feet and pulled. The door growled as rusty hinges acquiesced, unleashing a foul smell of stale urine and mildew. The stench alone made her gag.

“In there.” He shoved her into the dark, dank room. The door scraped shut. The lock clicked.

She spun about, pounding the door with both fists. “Let me out of here. Pete, I can’t stay in this place,” she pleaded. “Let me out!”

Pressing her nose by the crack in the door, she prayed some fresh air might displace the fetid interior. The rancid air pressed in with a weight of its own, much like a casket, much like death.

“Please, Pete,” her voice broke. “I’m scared.”

“There’s a light switch by the door. You might as well quiet down because you’re going to be there awhile.”

Footsteps retreated.

“No! Come back.” She pounded some more. “Don’t leave me here! I need my medicine! At least give me my medicine!”

The far door slammed with finality. She was trapped in this hell on earth. “Please, come back,” she whimpered. But her words were in vain. No one was there to hear.

Her fingers slid down the sticky surface of the wall until they dragged over a light switch. With a flip, her consigned hell flooded with light and the rusty rattle of a long unused ventilation fan. A grimy stained toilet commanded one corner of the tiny room. An equally disgusting sink and filth-covered mirror lined the back wall. She looked high, hoping one of the dirt-caked windows that Max had discovered opened to the bathroom. No such luck. Her prison had four scum-encrusted walls, and was not much larger than her bedroom closet.

With horror, she glanced at a sticky black residue on her hands where she had pounded the door. Germs must thrive in this cesspool. Stumbling over to the sink, she turned the faucets. Brown water trickled out, adding flecks of rust to the stained basin. Once the water began to clear, she thrust her hands under the cold stream. With some difficulty, she chiseled away the dusty, dried sliver of soap cemented to the sink. She swiped her hands on her jeans rather than risk the stiff towel lying on the floor. Fortunately, the fan lessened the sharp ammonia smell, but nothing helped the appearance of the bathroom.

She kicked the gray towel to a spot near the door. A mouse dashed out from its folds. Angie shrieked, pressing herself tight against the sink. The rodent sought safety along the floorboards. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She tried to calm the frantic pace. “Relax,” she said, her voice lost in the rattle of the overhead fan.

The mouse disappeared, but the floor bore witness to its frequent visits. She stomped on the gray rag, before using it with her foot to swipe a small area on the floor. Dust and dirt scattered in all directions. She sneezed repeatedly, then sat, touching as little of the floor as possible.

“Hello?” she yelled. Shoot. With the fan on, she wouldn’t be able to hear footsteps when Pete came back.
If
he came back. She shuddered. With the ruckus overhead, no one would be able to hear her call for help.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to swipe them away. Someone had to return for her. They had to. She couldn’t survive otherwise. And when they did, she would need to hear them coming. Her enemies already had advantages. They didn’t need surprise on their side as well. She glanced at the combination ceiling fan-light.

Someone had to come. Someone had to hear her call for help. Her calls couldn’t compete with a rusty noisy fan. Her fingers reached for the light switch. She bit her lip, and after one last look at the path of the mouse, she switched off the lights.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TOM WILSON’S SMILE disappeared moments after leaving the personnel department. Something was up and he was willing to bet that Angela’s sudden appearance at the post office had something to do with it. He walked up to Cathy’s desk where he knew a half-full decanter of coffee would be sitting on a credenza. How much did Hank know? Tom emptied some of the pot into a mug. What was Angela doing at that post office? Was she on to them?

His cell phone rang. Pete Burroughs’s face smiled at him from the screen. He glanced at Cathy, nodded to the light that indicated Hank was on the phone in his office.

“I’ve got to take this. If he finishes up before me, can you tell Hank that I’ll be just a few more minutes. Thanks, hon.”

Great. With everything else on his plate, his nervous Nellie of a co-conspirator required handling again. He slipped into an empty conference room and closed the door. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got her locked up, that’s what. But I don’t know what to do with her.”

“Who? Who have you got locked up?” Tom gripped the phone tighter, recognizing that this wasn’t going to be good news.

“Angela Blake, that nosey auditor. She saw you at the post office this afternoon, so I grabbed her before she could blab.”

“Calm down, Pete.” Although the words did nothing to calm the churning in his own stomach. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Timone. I’ve got Angela locked in a bathroom. What do you want me to do with her?”

“Now’s a fine time to ask,” he growled. “You should have thought about that before you kidnapped her.”

“So what do I do?”

“Do I have to think of everything? Just…just leave her there.” He mopped his forehead. “Are you sure she can’t escape?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good. I need some time to think. Come back here and we’ll talk.”

“What about her car? It’s pretty snazzy. Somebody will see it if I leave it.”

“Then get rid of it,” Tom growled.

“How?”

“What do I care? Just do it then get back here before people start asking questions.” He jabbed the disconnect then allowed himself a few moments to compose himself. He could have talked his way out of being seen at the post office, but any chance to cover his tracks from future scrutiny had vanished.

Burroughs’s actions confirmed that nosey bitch’s suspicions. What other possible motivation would explain kidnapping and detaining an auditor? Ex-auditor, he modified. He’d hoped those photos would get her fired but he hadn’t expected Hank to hire her. Pete would crack under pressure of interrogation. No doubt about it.

Over the last few years, Timone had generated hundreds of thousands of tax-free income. He and Burroughs could have quietly closed the business, then waited a few years before starting up another phony company, if Angela had just minded her own business. But not now…

An idea crept through his panic. Why not just close everything now? No one else showed any interest in Timone Industries. With Angela out of the picture, no one else would know about the payout scheme. He could quietly pull the plug until the whole business was forgotten. People disappeared every day. A smile grew on his face. What’s one more, more or less? He straightened his tie, collected his papers and opened the conference door.

THE MINISCULE LIGHT that had leaked under the locked door had faded. Her stomach had ceased its loud protestations of hunger hours ago and resigned itself to lack of sustenance. Angie glanced at the phosphorous dots on her wristwatch. Nine o’clock. She didn’t need to place her hand over her heart to know it was beating. Its fierce pounding shook her entire body. The heavy air made it difficult to breathe, difficult to take deep breaths. Even her dark-adjusted eyes couldn’t find a hand in front of her face. She might as well close her eyes as keep them open.

The lack of light accentuated the sounds and smells of her prison. What she’d give for that can of Lysol tucked away in her car. The smells were bad, but the sounds… She never imagined how many sounds existed in an isolated room in an abandoned warehouse: the hammer of air in the water lines, an occasional drip, and the soft scurry of tiny feet.

A few times, she felt her way to the basin and splashed the brackish water on her face to keep her alert. She even succumbed to drinking some of the foul stuff.

Through it all, her mind kept slipping back to the ones who had often offered assistance in the past. How she wished they were here now. Stephen, her mother, Hank. Most especially Hank. She should have listened. She should have stayed behind locked doors. But no, she had to prove to them all how capable she was. How independent she was. She didn’t need anyone’s help…until now.

Tears trickled a path across her cheek. She was hesitant to brush the tears away with her filthy hands and risk inviting more germs into her respiratory system. That thought almost brought a laugh. As if it mattered if she got an infection. Burroughs probably wouldn’t let her live to see a tissue, much less the people she loved.

The people she loved. She wanted to say so much to them, now that she physically couldn’t. In this hellhole she didn’t even have one of her mother’s quilts to cling to. She never told her mother how much those quilts meant to her. And Stephen. What would he do without her to preach to and bully? He’d probably have “I told you so” inscribed on her tombstone. At least now he could get on with his own life. Marry the girl of his dreams and build a family. Same with Hank. A shiver shook her spine. Hank would be able to marry his model and father beautiful children. A sob caught in her throat. She pictured his face, recalled his scent, felt his touch. The trail of tears became a torrent. Her shoulders shook with each agonized gasp. She never told him she loved him, never wanted to be that vulnerable. Now he’d never know.

Through her sobs, she thought she heard glass shattering.

“Hello?” she cried. “Is anyone there?” She pounded on the door. “Can you hear me? I’m locked in this room. Can you help me?” She screamed and banged louder.

There was no response, just the scurry of tiny feet on the opposite side of the room. “Hello?” she called without any real force.

Death had never scared her before. She had faced that possibility too often to be afraid of death but now, it was different. Before she had never felt truly alive. Now…now that she had a real future, she wasn’t willing to surrender to death. Hank. If only she could see him one more time, feel his breath on her cheek, feel him surging inside her, feel that passion, that love. The word surprised her. Had she told him she loved him? This was the regret. Leaving the one she loved behind.

Hours passed. The cold concrete beneath her cheek hummed with a faint vibration. An engine maybe…a car? She held her breath so the ragged sound wouldn’t distort her hearing. She tried to sit up. The effort took all her strength. She tried to call out for help, but only a dull hoarse rasp issued from her dry, cracked lips. Footsteps. Someone was coming.

“Angie. I’m going to open the door. I’ve got a gun. Don’t try anything.” Burroughs’s voice filtered through the door.

As if she could. That rank poor excuse for a towel was less stiff than her muscles. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The disconnect with reality made her suspect a fever raced through her body. Without her doses of anti-rejection medicine, infection set in quickly.

“Maybe she’s dead.” The second voice sounded like Tom Wilson. “If she is, it would make things a lot easier.”

The door supporting her back fell away. She tumbled out into slightly fresher air, smacking her head on the floor in the process. She tried to open her eyelids but they wouldn’t budge.

“Angie, can you hear me?” A cold hand touched her cheek. “She’s burning up.”

“Damn. That means she’s still alive.”

“She needs a hospital.” Arms slipped around her back and under her legs.

“A hospital? Are you nuts? We want to kill her, not save her. If we just dump her in the reservoir, she’ll die without any ties to us.”

Someone lifted her in an awkward manner. Her legs and arms dangled in the air and her head lolled to one side. A memory stirred of another time she was carried. Different then. Strong, muscular, caring.

“Hank,” she murmured.

“She’s awake,” a familiar voice said.

She should know that voice. It was close, closer than the other.

“I’m taking her to a doctor. When we started this, you said no one would get hurt. You said no one would find out.”

“No one will find out if she disappears. We wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t kidnapped her in the first place. Now I have to clean up after your mess, and I will. Just put her down.”

By the jostling, she guessed the one carrying her was moving.

“Put her down, Burroughs. I’ve got your gun. I’m warning you.”

“You’d shoot me? Just like that, you’d—”

Her rescuer turned abruptly. A shot rang out and the floor smacked her back and thighs. A sharp pain ripped through her arm. Something softer than the floor but equally uncomfortable cushioned her head. Her thin grip on the conscious world slipped away.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

HANK POUNDED HIS fist into a ball of dough, sending tiny clumps of flour to the ceiling. Where the hell was she? He mechanically folded the abused dough in half and turned it for another pounding.