Terrified (41 page)
It wasn’t Josh. She took one last gasp and stopped crying. She knew who it was. But she couldn’t believe it.
A section of the man’s arm was in there, too. Dried blood had matted down the black hair on his arm, but it didn’t cover his tattoo.
Megan knew the marking quite well.
It was the symbol for medicine—a snake coiled around a staff.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX
H
e woke up on his mother’s bed.
e woke up on his mother’s bed.
At least, that was where Josh thought he was for the first few moments after opening his eyes. Then he noticed all the loose pinfeathers on her disheveled, pale green bedspread. He let out a breath and squinted at the tiny feathers floating around him.
He’d slept on his arm funny, and he couldn’t move it.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out. But now he remembered, and he knew this wasn’t his mother’s room. It was a prison cell.
Before flopping down on this bed and passing out from sheer exhaustion, he’d gone kind of crazy. He hadn’t been able to believe what he was seeing on TV about his mother, and what that stupid Sally Justice was saying. At the same time, so many things that had gnawed at him for years and years had suddenly made sense.
But it was still a shock.
He remembered back when he was a kid, they’d had a terrible problem with ants in that basement apartment for a couple of days. Then he’d discovered the source of it. A bird had somehow gotten in and died in a little crevice between the bookcase and the wall. He’d found the dead thing, covered with ants. It was one of his first times dealing with death. He still remembered how the bird’s corpse seemed to glisten and move because of all the shiny black insects greedily devouring it.
“Well, at least we know why we’ve had all these ants, honey,” his mother had said. “Don’t worry, Josh. I’ll give the birdie a good burial.”
Now he knew the answer to so many of those little dark questions he had about his past. But the answer—the way it all made sense—was horrible and rotten. Worse, his mother wasn’t here to explain it away and make him feel any better.
All this time, she’d been lying to him about his dad and who she was—and about who
he
was. It had all become so clear when that TV show had come on, and he’d watched Sally Justice rant about how evil and conniving his mother was. He’d wished like hell he could say she was full of shit. And he’d wished like hell she would shut up. He’d kept thinking of that blond man with his mom in the framed photos at home, and somehow it had enraged him. No wonder he’d never felt a connection to that guy.
he
was. It had all become so clear when that TV show had come on, and he’d watched Sally Justice rant about how evil and conniving his mother was. He’d wished like hell he could say she was full of shit. And he’d wished like hell she would shut up. He’d kept thinking of that blond man with his mom in the framed photos at home, and somehow it had enraged him. No wonder he’d never felt a connection to that guy.
Josh had started banging on the one-way mirror. He’d figured someone on the other side of it had been watching for his reaction to the TV program. He’d just wanted to get at them. He’d scrambled around the room like a madman, trying to find something to break the glass. But every piece of furniture and every knick-knack had been glued down. Even the pictures had been bolted on the walls. In his frustration, he’d torn the sheets off the bed. He’d screamed and screamed, and ripped apart one of the pillows. It had been raining pinfeathers in that little cell when he’d yanked the bedspread over the bare mattress and collapsed on it. He’d fallen asleep sobbing.
And now that he was awake, he felt as if a truck had run over him. Every muscle in him ached, and his throat was so dry. Josh dragged himself off the bed and tried to shake his dead arm so the blood would start pumping through it again. He staggered over to the door. With every step, pinfeathers rose from the floor and floated around his feet. He found the bottle of water they’d passed through that trapdoor to him earlier. He opened it, and guzzled down several gulps. Then he’d pulled off his shirt, doused it with a bit of water, and rubbed it with the small bar of Irish Spring. He washed off his face, and his armpits. With the damp shirt, he started swabbing the floor to collect all the pillow feathers. For some reason, it was important to him that his cell was clean. It was important to keep busy.
The TV was off now, but in his mind, he kept hearing all the accusations against his mom. He realized his father was the dark-haired man with Lisa Swann in those photos on TV. Dr. Glenn Swann had abused her and cheated on her. After she’d disappeared, he wound up in prison for her murder. Was his dad really so horrible that she’d let him rot in jail fourteen years for a crime he hadn’t committed?
Suddenly, his mother was like a stranger to him. Yet he knew she couldn’t have killed anyone. And if she had, he knew there were good reasons for it—like self-defense, or maybe she was protecting someone. Maybe she was protecting him.
He stuffed the damp shirt and pinfeathers inside the empty pillowcase and stashed it in the corner of the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and changed into the new clothes they’d given him—his Mariners T-shirt, khakis, new underpants, and white socks. He didn’t feel like giving them a show by changing in front of that mirror.
Josh had another sip of water, finishing off the bottle. Then he gathered the sheets off the floor, and started to make the bed. He kept glancing at the mirror. The people on the other side of it obviously got a big kick out of watching him react to this news about his mother. They’d broken into his home, attacked his mom, and abducted him. He wasn’t sure what the hell they were up to. But he wouldn’t have put it past them to have killed that woman in Fremont—and set up his mom to take the rap.
It was weird to think the dead woman was his cousin. Did he have any other family out there?
He finished making his bed, and then quietly sat down at the end of it. He stared at himself in the mirror—alone in the cleaned up room, and himself all cleaned up as well.
They’d said on the TV show that his father had been a model prisoner. So—like father, like son. If he was well-behaved, they might let down their guard a little. Maybe one of them would come in and talk to him—and tell him what the hell was going on.
After a few minutes, Josh heard the
whoosh
of the trap drawer opening. He looked toward the door, and got to his feet. He found a cold can of Coke and a wrapped sandwich with a label that read:
whoosh
of the trap drawer opening. He looked toward the door, and got to his feet. He found a cold can of Coke and a wrapped sandwich with a label that read:
Mother’s Cupboard Pantry
Maple Valley, WA
Maple Valley, WA
Deli Sandwich—Ham & Swiss
Maple Valley was about an hour’s drive southeast of Seattle. Was that where he was?
The sell-by date on the sandwich was September 21—that had been almost a week ago. He wondered if it was safe to eat. He couldn’t really be too picky. He was starving.
Sitting down on the bed, Josh opened his Coke, and then raised the can as if toasting the person on the other side of the mirror. He swigged some down, and then started to unwrap his sandwich.
The model prisoner would eat what they gave him.
Monica hadn’t been told to feed him, but the sandwich was sitting in the fridge going to waste. And he’d just cleaned his room—like a good boy. So she felt he deserved a reward. It was tough for Monica to look at him and not think about her son, who was only a few years younger. Her ex-boyfriend’s mother had taken her to court and gotten full custody back when her son had been a toddler. After all the trumped-up abuse charges, Monica had agreed to counseling and rehab to avoid jail. She had restricted visitation rights, but hadn’t seen Jimmy in about six or seven years.
She imagined him looking a lot like the kid on the other side of that window.
If Lyle didn’t like her giving the boy a sandwich and a Coke, well, tough. He didn’t like her smoking in the house, either, but that didn’t stop her from lighting up a cigarette right now. Hell, the basement still stunk from some cigar he’d had earlier. So who was he to tell her not to smoke inside?
She sat in a hardback chair in the basement—facing the window into the kid’s bedroom cell and all the television monitors. She wore her old black cardigan with her smokes in one pocket and her cell phone in the other. In a darkened patch of the glass, she could see her own reflection. She had curly black hair and ivory skin. And though Lyle claimed she was practically anorexic and wanted her to eat more, she still thought she wasn’t thin enough.
She alternated between watching their captive and
Dancing with the Stars
on an old piece-of-shit TV. Upstairs, they had an HD flat-screen. She would have been more comfortable up there, too.
Dancing with the Stars
on an old piece-of-shit TV. Upstairs, they had an HD flat-screen. She would have been more comfortable up there, too.
But tonight, Lyle had left her alone in this creepy isolated farmhouse. He’d also locked away her stash in an old safe in the hallway closet. The safe must have been left behind there when he bought the place. Lyle said he didn’t trust her alone with the kid while she was high. But when no one else was here at night, she got awfully lonely and scared. The only company she had was this teenager locked in that room. So she came down to the slightly sinister basement, where she watched her TV program—along with whatever the outside security cameras were picking up. Seeing another human being on the other side of that window reminded her that she wasn’t alone here—and she was in charge.
The teenager sat down on the end of the bed and opened his Coke. He looked into the mirror on his side and raised the Coke can as if toasting her, the little wiseass. But she kind of liked him for it anyway.
Puffing her Marlboro, she slouched in the chair. It wasn’t very comfortable. What they needed down here was a beanbag chair. She’d tell Lyle. They also needed a dog or something to keep her company when he was away. She didn’t think she could take too many more nights like this. He’d promised her it would be over soon. They weren’t supposed to hold on to this kid much longer. They’d planned on killing him tonight or tomorrow.
But she wasn’t sure if Lyle was telling her the truth about that. Like most of the guys in her life, he was turning out to be a total liar. She’d first met him seven weeks ago at the used CD store where she’d worked. Her prick of a boss had just bawled her out and fired her, because she’d stolen some of the inventory to sell it for drug money. Lyle stepped up to the counter, told her boss he had no right to talk to an employee like that. Then he caught up with her in the doorway as she was about to leave the store. He said he was a lawyer, and she might be able to sue—or at least, collect unemployment. It all depended on whether or not she’d signed a contract when she’d started with the store. He took her to lunch to discuss her rights. That was the start of it.
The funny thing was, he never mentioned being a lawyer again. By the time she figured out he’d been lying, it didn’t matter. They were already a couple. He was charming, he was reasonably handsome, and he didn’t try to rehabilitate her. Instead of stealing her drugs like most of her exes, Lyle bought them for her. But he never got high. Monica thought he should have, because he was so tightly wound most of the time.
When her landlord threatened to kick her out, Monica accepted Lyle’s invitation to come live with him at his farmhouse near Maple Valley, even though she’d only known Lyle two weeks, and his place was kind of in the sticks. The isolation drove her nuts sometimes, it was so dull.
Then Lyle shared with her his plan to make a lot of money. He wanted to kidnap the son of a big-shot doctor. All she had to do was drive the getaway van and occasionally follow around the kid’s mother to make sure she didn’t contact the cops. Half the surveillance work was already done for her, because Lyle had given the mother a cell phone with a tracking device in it. They knew where she was all the time.
But now Monica realized he’d lied to her about why he was stealing the kid. It had nothing to do with ransom money—and everything to do with some weird love-hate obsession he had for the kid’s mother. In his living room and dining room—and in the darkroom under the stairs—he had a ton of pictures of her and her son. Lyle had told her it was for research so he could get their habits down and know when it was best to take the kid. But the photographs went all the way back to before the kid was even born.
He’d told her that once they got the money, he’d kill the kid and bury him. But then he decided they should abduct the father, too. They’d gotten about ten grand the guy had been carrying on him, but that was all. She wondered how they were going to make any money when he’d kidnapped the cash-cow dad. Where was this big ransom payoff coming from?
Then, early this morning, Lyle had totally surprised her when he’d hauled the father out of the moving van in the barn and tied him up in the basement. She’d sat upstairs listening to Lyle beat the guy to death with the small baseball bat. He’d recorded it all on that scratchy old tape recorder of his. He’d cut him up in the bathtub in the cellar. Then late this afternoon, he’d carried the guy out in four separate garbage bags, which he’d loaded into the SUV.
That had been around five o’clock this afternoon. Lyle had told her to check in on the kid occasionally. He’d planned on being back by ten.
Monica thought about packing up and getting out of there—just disappearing. But she didn’t have any money. The ten grand was locked in the safe along with her drugs. Besides, if she tried to get away, Lyle would just track her down. So far, he’d only hit her a few times. She didn’t want him pulling out the baseball bat for her.
So—for now, she would stick around and do what she was told.
She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, which also had his cigar butt in it.
Dancing with the Stars
went to a commercial, and the kid was sitting at the end of the bed, eating his sandwich.
Dancing with the Stars
went to a commercial, and the kid was sitting at the end of the bed, eating his sandwich.
Monica was about to light another cigarette when the teenager suddenly sprung to his feet. He dropped the sandwich. The can of Coke tipped over on the bed. Wide-eyed with panic, he grabbed his throat. It looked like he was choking.
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