Sting (7 page)

Leading him, Joe said, “Okay.”

“Why'd he do that? Why not just kill the girl, too? Which would have been quicker and neater.” He shrugged. “Maybe he has a soft spot for the ladies.”

Joe thought about it for a moment, then, grumbling again, said, “Don't count on that, either.”

A
s the car slowed and then rolled to a stop, Jordie pressed her spine against the back of the seat and used it as leverage to sit up. If he didn't like it, too damn bad. “Where are we?”

Her best guess was that it had been close to an hour since he'd stopped to blindfold her. It seemed that they'd been driving in circles, but without her sense of sight, she could have easily become disoriented.

Without saying a word, he opened the driver's door and got out.

“Where are you going?”

Her question went unanswered, but she could tell by his footfalls that he was walking away from the car, treading cautiously. What was he doing? What was he about to do?

Seized by panic, she struggled to free her hands and feet. To no avail, of course, but she had to do something or she would go mad with anxiety.

She jumped in fright when the trunk popped open, which he must have unlatched remotely using the key fob. As she heard him returning to the car, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“Checking things out.”

“Please take the blindfold off.”

“I'm busy.”

He walked away again and, a few seconds later, the silence was broken by the noisy clanking of metal against metal, followed by a scraping sound and a squeal that sounded like rusty hinges.

He came back to the car and replaced whatever he'd taken from the trunk. It landed with a heavy thud. A tire tool of some sort? He didn't bother closing the lid of the trunk before getting back into the driver's seat and engaging the gears.

“What was that racket? What were you doing?”

The car rolled forward slowly, its tires crunching over gravel. She knew the moment they entered some sort of enclosure. Even with the blindfold on, she could tell they were no longer in sunlight, and the air quality changed, becoming musty and dank, smelling faintly of motor oil and mice.

He stopped the car, turned off the engine, and got out. He was gone for a minute or more, but she could hear him moving around, then he returned to the car and opened the backseat door. When he touched her cheek, she flinched.

“Easy,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to turn your head.”

“What for?”

“I thought you wanted the blindfold off.”

She hesitated then turned her head away from him. He untied the bandana and caught it as it fell away from her eyes. As she blinked him into focus, he was tucking the corner of the bandana into the front pocket of his jeans.

Neither spoke as he squatted in the wedge of the open door and reached in to unknot the bandana around her ankles. As he straightened up, he looked into her face but didn't say anything. He motioned her out of the car. It was awkward to do with her hands bound behind her back, but he made no move to help her, probably because she had rebuffed his previous attempts.

Once on her feet beside the car, she made a slow pivot to get her bearings. When she came back around to him, she said, “The view isn't worth the long drive it took to get here.”

“Still mouthy.” He stepped behind her and snipped off the plastic cuff, then unwound the bandana he'd used to pad her wrists.

As she massaged feeling back into them, she asked, “What is this place?”

“Looks to be some kind of multipurpose garage. Today, it's a hideout.”

The corrugated tin roof had seen better days. The walls were constructed of wood, unpainted and weathered. Daylight squeezed in between the vertical slats and shone like tiny spotlights through the knotholes.

For the most part, the cavernous space was empty, but a large oil stain in the center of the concrete floor indicated that at one time it had housed a piece of machinery or a vehicle of some sort. A stack of bald tires occupied one corner. Some fishing gear including a net hung from pegs nailed into one wall. There was also a bow, the string attached at only one end. She didn't see any arrows. An outboard motor lay on its side against one wall. The end of one of its rusty blades had broken off, and the engine casing was covered with grit and cobwebs.

When her gaze came back to Shaw Kinnard, he was inserting a battery into the back of a cell phone. Her heart spiked with optimism. “Is that mine?”

“Mickey's.”

“Where's mine?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he said. “I hid it, but not in the same place that I hid its battery or the car keys.” He spread his arms. “You're welcome to search all you want. You won't find them, and even if you did they wouldn't do you any good.” He raised his shirttail to reveal that his pistol, without the sound suppressor, was still holstered on his belt. He watched the phone's screen, waiting for it to boot up.

“The police can trace cell phones,” she said.

“Yes, but this has a disposable SIM card. Brand-new. Mickey put it in yesterday morning before we left New Orleans for Tobias. He's called only one person on it, and only one person has called him.”

She didn't have to guess who. “Are you going to call him now?”

“No. I'm gonna let him call me.”

“What if he doesn't?”

“He already has. Five times.” He turned the phone to where she could see the call log. Caller Unknown had in fact called several times. “He'll call.” He slid the phone into his breast pocket, where he had secured the slip of paper with the phone number on it.

“That moron with the skull on his shirt can verify that everything I told you was the truth, that he was only trying to pick me up and that I didn't know he was sneaking me his number. You can call him using Mickey's phone.”

“Bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because by now the police will have questioned everybody who was in the bar at the time of the killing, including him.
Especially
him, since the two of you were so chummy. His phone was probably confiscated during questioning. So if I call the number he wrote down for you, and it
does
turn out to be his, a cop will be on the other end.”

“But with a disposable number—”

“The police have their ways and means. I'm not taking any chances.” He frowned ruefully. “Sorry. You probably had your heart set on me making a mistake. I don't make mistakes.”

His sympathetic, patronizing tone infuriated her. “You'll make one.”

He looked even more regretful over her self-delusion.

“You have to sleep at some point.”

“That's true.” He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the door of the enclosure, which he'd left standing open after driving the car through. “You need to see this.”

The door was wide, like a barn door. A broken padlock dangled from a loose hook, which accounted for the loud clanging; he'd taken a tire iron to it. The oversized hinges were corroded with rust.

He pulled her through the opening to the outside. “Take a good look at the middle of nowhere.”

Her heart sank, because the landscape beyond the derelict structure couldn't be more accurately described—and it looked exactly the same as the swampy landscape they'd left hours before. He must have been driving in circles all night, not only since he'd blindfolded her, but from the time he'd stuffed her into the car and left the beer joint on the banks of the bayou.

The narrow gravel road on which they'd arrived bridged a ditch at least twenty yards across. It was filled with water so opaque and ominously still that its depth was impossible to gauge. On the far side of the ditch, the road disappeared into a grove of cypresses and hardwoods that blotted out the daylight, creating a deep twilight beneath branches draped with forlorn-looking clusters of Spanish moss.

“And behind us…”

He pulled her along to the corner of the building, which she saw backed up to a body of water similar in viscosity to that in the ditch. It wound through stands of trees and around spits of land, creating a seemingly endless labyrinth of channels extending all the way to the horizon in every direction.

“You see what you're up against if you try to escape? That water is a virtual science project. I don't recommend taking a dip.”

When he hitched his chin in the direction of the swamp, her eyes were drawn to the C-shaped scar, which was even more evident now that his scruff was hours older. Associating that scar with his arrogance, his dominance, she channeled her anger toward it. Then she looked him in the eye and said with defiance, “I'll think of something.”

He merely shrugged, turned his back on her, and headed for the door. “I'm hungry.”

His dismissal of any threat she might pose made her feel hopeless as nothing else had. She was no longer bound hand and foot, but he wasn't concerned that she would attempt an escape. The likelihood of her succeeding was nil, and if she died while attempting it, he would collect his fee from Panella, and probably be glad that he hadn't had to expend another bullet.

When he reached the doorway he stopped and, looking back at her, tipped his head toward the opening. She remained where she was. He stood there waiting. No impatient tapping of his toe. No gestures of exasperation. Just
waiting
. A man supremely confident of her obliging him.

His attitude rankled, but staging a rebellion now would get her nowhere. It would only cost her energy she needed to conserve. However, she'd be damned before he saw her cowed. Acting as though it was her idea, she walked toward the door, then past him and through it. He pushed it closed behind them.

“Can't you leave it open and let in some fresh air?”

“No.”

“It's stifling in here. And it stinks.”

“Then hold your nose. The door stays shut.” He moved to the trunk of the car and took out a handled grocery sack, then brought it over to her and held it open for her inspection. “Mickey did the shopping, so I can't vouch for the choices. Take your pick.” He jiggled the sack.

Inside it were a variety of single-serve canned goods. “I'm not hungry,” she said.

He bent his head low so he could inventory the selection. “Sardines. Beanie wienies. Chili mac. Ravioli. Tomato soup.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“And a box of plastic spoons.”

“
I'm not hungry.
” She turned her head to glare at him. Which was a mistake. Because it brought her face so close to his they were almost touching.

His flinty eyes sparked, then dropped their focus to her parted lips. “You sure?”

His whisper had the texture of fine-grade sandpaper. She felt it like a stroke low on her belly, and, for a heartbeat—much too long—every nerve ending sizzled with awareness of him. He was body heat, and tensile strength, raw masculinity and leashed power, and her breathy reaction to all that panicked her.

She averted her head and stepped away. “Yes, I'm sure,” she said, her voice husky and lacking the forceful positivity she wished it had. Wished she
felt
.

He remained as he was for a five count, then shook a plastic spoon from the box of picnic utensils, took a can of food from the sack, and replaced it in the trunk.

He carried the items over to an empty wooden crate, upended it, and sat down. Wincing, he reached beneath the hem of his shirt, pulled the pistol from the holster, and set it beside him on the crate. Then he peeled back the lid on the can and dug in. Hunched over, he spooned the food into his mouth with an aggressive efficiency meant to satisfy an appetite, not to savor, or even to taste.

Jordie backed up to the hood of the car and sat down on it. From that safe distance, she watched him. After a full minute had elapsed, she said into the silence, “Why haven't you killed me?”

“Told you.”

“I don't believe you'll do it.”

Keeping his head down, he froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth and held it there for a beat before he completed the motion and took the bite. “Believe it.”

“I don't.”

“Look, just because we nearly lip-locked—”

“No way in hell.”

He briefly looked up. “Whatever. You're my bread and butter. Worth two hundred grand at least, and I think there's much more to be had.”

“So why haven't you called Panella?”

“If I contact him first, I lose bargaining power. He's got to be worried over why he hasn't heard from Mickey and why Mickey hasn't answered his calls. I'm letting him stew.”

“How much are you going to ask him for?”

“None of your business.”

“My life isn't any of my business?”

“Not the price tag on it. That's between Panella and me.” He watched her for a second or two, then said, “You've known all along it was him.”

“Yes.”

“Why'd you let on otherwise?”

“I was in denial.”

“Dangerous place, denial.” He resumed eating.

“I don't suppose he told Mickey where he is.”

He snorted at the absurdity of that. “No, but he doesn't know where I am, either. Or, more to the point, where you are. His butt will stay chapped until he gets confirmation that you're dead.”

Her thoughts were shifting and reshaping as rapidly as storm clouds, making coherency difficult. But she latched onto one word. “
Confirmation?
You no longer have to produce my body?”

“Never did. How could I deliver your body to him when I don't know where he is, and he's not about to divulge it? I only told you that to keep you…cooperative.”

“Terrified.”

“Then it worked.”

Her cheeks turned hot with anger and embarrassment over being so gullible, but she wanted to keep this conversation going. The more she learned, the better armed she would be. She just needed to brush up on her lie-detecting skills, because he was an accomplished liar.

But assuming he was being at least partially truthful, she asked, “What kind of confirmation will he require?”

“I'll know when I ask him.”