Nerves of Steel (39 page)

Of course, that hadn't saved Fran Weaver.

"You put the drugs in Cassie's coffee."

"Yes.  Fran had told me how dangerous that new combo was.   You know, if Cassie'd just minded her own business, we wouldn't be in this mess," he told Drake.  "In fact, we were supposed to be going out tomorrow night.  We had a date, me and Cassie."

Guess that's not gonna happen.  Drake clamped his lips together before he could say something stupid.  "So what's at this house?"

"I thought you guys, the police, I mean, will think Cassie and you tracked down the lab where the Double Cross was being made.  You know how volatile those chemicals are, so I figure if there's an explosion, then the fire will take care of all the evidence.  It'll give me time to get away."

Sinderson said this last with a note of pride as if he expected Drake to praise his ingenuity.  Even though Drake was part of the "evidence" to be taken care of in the explosion.

"Yeah, they'd probably buy that," he said, "except for the fact that my team already knows all about you."

Sinderson smiled, his teeth white against the night.  "Now you're trying to bluff me, Detective.  Please, I'm not that stupid.  Just pay attention to the road."

Drake did as he was told, furiously trying to think of a way past the man's wall of denial.  Sinderson blamed his deeds on the HMO's, his victims, God's intervention--according to the man's logic, the only innocent party in all this was Sinderson himself.  How to argue with that?

"Take Route 201 east," Sinderson ordered.  Drake turned onto the narrow two-lane highway.  The road was deserted, not even a snowplow or salt truck.  The snow was coming down hard, a blanket of swirling white the Mustang's headlights couldn't penetrate.  Drake geared down as they navigated several steep curves.  He tried to divide his attention between the killer beside him and the treacherous driving conditions.

"You know, I could have been a doctor."  Sinderson settled back in his seat, one hand absently stroking Hart's hair.  "I was smart enough, had great grades.   But I couldn't stand the thought of actually touching people, all their disgusting private places and body fluids.  So I got a doctorate in pharmacology instead.  I thought, a doctor is a doctor.  I'd still be helping people."

"Didn't quite work out that way, did it?"   The Mustang fishtailed on a curve and Drake had to fight to control it.

"Careful, Detective.  Cassie isn't wearing a seat belt.  And neither are you."  Sinderson laughed.  "Now wouldn't that be ironic if we crashed, and I was the only one to survive?"

Drake remained silent but Sinderson needed no further prompting.  "Do you have any idea how many medication errors are made?" the pharmacist asked.  "And most of them are by doctors.  I got tired of covering for them, of seeing them make all the money, driving health care costs sky high while all they cared about was their golf game."

"You know Cassie's not like that."  Drake tried to force Sinderson to make a connection with her.  "You saw how hard she worked to save Fran."

"I know," he admitted.  "Turn here."  He motioned to a small country lane that wasn't marked by a street sign.   "It's out of my hands now."

That was when Drake knew there would be no reasoning with the man.  Sinderson had disassociated himself so far from his actions that he saw everything as a drama pre-scripted, awaiting only the actors to play it out to its conclusion.

A drama that Sinderson had scripted to end in tragic death.

  CHAPTER 64

Cassie couldn't open her eyes or her mouth.   She tried to move her hands, but they were numb.  It was as if her entire body belonged to someone else--someone very far away from her.

She was in a foreign place, a place where sounds transformed themselves into a cacophony of brilliant colors, where sight was meaningless and she couldn't touch anything.  Did she even exist?  Or was she dead?

A loud noise that was a bright starburst of scarlet flame startled her.  It came again, more intense.  She struggled to understand.  She began to feel parts of her body once more, to claim them as her own.  She immediately regretted this as powerful waves of nausea racked her body, and acid burned her throat when she tried to vomit.

Then she felt cold steel pressed against her throat, and in that instant, her body and mind were rejoined.

"Stop it!" the voice commanded.  She knew that voice, didn't she?  "If you puke on me, I swear I'll kill you here and now!"

She fought to regain control of her mutinous body, to breathe, to force blood through her heart--it was hard work, these mundane processes of living.  As she concentrated, her body stopped its jerking, and the wave of nausea receded.

"That's better."  The voice was so close to her that it boomed and echoed through her mind like a thunderstorm, leaving in its wake the worse headache of her life.

"Don't move."  Suddenly there were foreign fingers on her face, and a searing pain that forced a gasp out of her as something was torn from her mouth, taking a layer of skin with it.  Then a second, more painful tearing of her flesh, but now her eyes could open.

She saw nothing but darkness and red flashes that kept time with the pounding of her headache.  Where was she?  The darkness was complete, she could not tell if she was sitting or standing.

The disorientation caused a vertigo so extreme she could no longer control her nausea.  Rough fingers grabbed her hair, jerked her head to the side as she vomited.  She emptied her stomach with fierce contractions that took her breath away.

She realized then that she was lying on the ground, not outside though, it was too smooth.  A cellar floor?  She tried to concentrate on these tiny details, they seemed important, and they helped to distract her from the agonizing cramps that assaulted her body.

Then it was done.  Her body went slack; she barely had enough energy to breathe.    The foul smelling emesis slid across the floor, soaked into her clothes and hair.

The hand pulled her upright, back against a smooth cold metal object that supported her.  The knife returned to her throat.

"You need to do exactly as I tell you.  Do you understand?" came the voice, softer now but more terrifying.

  "Yes," she finally managed a hoarse whisper.  Her hands were jerked up in front of her, and the knife sliced through her restraints. 

"Do you know what will happen if you don't do as I say?"

The knife edge forced her head backward until she could barely breathe.  If she moved at all she knew what that blade could do.

"Please," she whispered the one syllable, not daring more, but still felt a sharp pain followed by a trickle of blood sliding down her neck.

Her eyes were starting to acclimate to the dark.  The flashing was really a red light that was behind the man and a little higher than eye level.  On a step, maybe?  Then that was the way out.

The man's hand grasped more of her hair, this patch slick with vomit.  He pulled away in disgust, shaking the foul fluid from his fingers, splattering her face with it.

"You're filthy."  

She rubbed her fingers together, trying to get circulation restored.  He left her on the floor and moved away.  The fact that he didn't see her as a threat was frightening.  Was he going to turn and shoot her like he had Fran?  The thought made her choke with bile once more, and she doubled over with dry heaves, listening to his footsteps moving away. 

She counted the thud of what sounded like five wooden steps until the red light began to move upward.  Seven more steps, then everything was black again.

She tried to stand but immediately slipped on the wet plastic drop cloth covering the floor.  She got to her knees, feeling with outstretched hands, tried to crawl in the direction of the stairs.  Her body was shivering so hard she had to clench her teeth shut to stop their chattering.

Think, Hart.  It's a cellar, these stairs are the only way out. 

Sinderson, the memory came to her as if from a distant century.  Her heart began to race as she remembered his attack.  He had grabbed her, and she fought back.   She felt the swollen gash on her scalp, still wet with blood--had he shot her?  No, he had hit her. 

Where were they?  And how was she going to get away?

CHAPTER 65

 Drake wanted to howl in frustration.  How could a simple piece of duct tape prevent him from getting to Hart, condemning them both?  Kwon was right.  The damned stuff should be outlawed, he cursed as he struggled to loosen his hands. 

Once they stopped at the farm house, Sinderson had positioned him with his hands wrapped behind him, then secured him to the door handle, making it impossible for him to move around the interior of the Mustang.

He pulled against the handle.  If he could just get loose from it, he could find something in here to free his hands.  He jerked his body forward, bracing his legs and straining his shoulders until he thought he might dislocate them.  The tape held.

He tried moving his arms back and forth, hoping the friction might loosen the adhesive.  Finally after several minutes of furious effort, he felt the tape give a fraction.  He pulled again, and it gave a little more.

Drake strained forward, his breath coming so fast it condensed on the windows and formed little clouds in front of him.  Despite the dropping temperature of the interior of the car, sweat poured from his body, soaked though his clothes.  He pulled forward again, but both the tape and door handle still held.

Goddamn it!  He tried not to imagine what was happening to Hart.  He couldn't let her die just because he was too stupid to figure a way out of this.

He resumed his struggle with the duct tape.  Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, he felt the tape loosen from the door handle.  He pulled forward, trying to keep tension on the tape, then again began to slide his wrists back and forth as fast as he could.

After several minutes of sustained effort, the tape parted.  His wrists were still bound, but he was free of the door.  He turned in the seat, moving across the gear shift to the passenger seat.  It had been forever since he'd cleaned the glove compartment, his Swiss army knife should still be in there.  He remembered a picnic last spring, trying to impress a grad student with his choice of wine and using the corkscrew on the knife.

Finally he ended up sitting backward on the front passenger seat, one leg over the gear shift, the other wedged against the door.  He flipped the glove compartment open, pulling the lid forward as far as he could, the edge digging into his back.  His shoulders and elbows sent sharp messages of pain informing him that his body wasn't designed to move this way. Drake ignored them, forced his numbed fingers to search the compartment.

He shoved aside several maps and what felt like a service manual.  His fingers groped toward the bottom of the deep compartment.  If not the knife, then a pair of sunglasses he could pop the lenses out of, anything, he prayed.  Finally his fingers brushed up against something metal. 

 Drake blew out the breath he had been holding.  Thank you, God.  He stretched his fingers, strained to open the knife blade.  It took several attempts and some acrobatics, but finally  he flipped the blade free of the handle, cutting his fingers in the process.

Now for the tricky part.  He slid the knife through his fingers until it was aimed with the blade up and began to saw through the duct tape around his wrists.  He almost dropped it once, and sliced himself several more times, but his hands were so numb he barely felt it.  Then the tape split.

The blade that had just saved his life seemed a fragile weapon to go up against a madman with.  He made his way through the snow to the rear of the Mustang. 

The snow had stopped, and the night was quiet, there were few clouds obscuring the stars and moon.  Nothing moved inside the house.  Drake opened the trunk and removed the carpet that covered the tire changing tools.  He grabbed the jack handle, hefting its weight.  It would do, he thought, pocketing the knife as well.

He crept toward the house, keeping his body low until he got to a window.  Between the slit in the curtains he could see a living room, furniture covered with drop cloths, a dingy rag rug on the floor and yellowed squares of wallpaper where pictures used to hang.  He drew back when he noted movement at one end of the room.  A wooden door opened.  Sinderson came through it and closed it again, locking it.  That was where Hart had to be.  He heard water running and crept to the front door, hoping the sound would cover his movements.

The front door was unlocked.  Drake took a deep breath, opened it, slid through and shut it again before too much cold air could come through.

The water stopped running.  He pressed himself against the wall that bordered the living room.  He looked through the archway and saw Sinderson carrying a bucket that he set down beside a door.  Sinderson took the Chief's Special from his waistband and opened the door.

Cassie braced herself against the back of the steps.  They had treads but no risers.  She could reach through and grab Sinderson's legs when he descended.  It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best she could come up with in such a short time.  The only weapon she had was her belt wrapped around her right hand, the buckle pointing outward.

If she got close enough, she could put his eyes out.  If she got close enough, she would also either be shot or stabbed. 

A blinding light startled her, and she covered her eyes.

"Come out where I can see you," Sinderson called from the top of the stairs. 

"What are you going to do?" She stalled while her eyes adjusted to the new light.   

Stupid question, she already knew the answer.  With the lights on she could see that the cellar had a concrete floor covered with sheets of plastic.  There were vats of fluid set up on a long table.  Several plastic drums labeled hydriodic acid and red phosphorous were arranged along the back wall.

 "Come out now, or I'll get your friend and shoot him in front of you."  Sinderson's voice seemed filled with regret.  "Don't make me do it that way, Cassie.  I want to make it as painless as possible for you both."