True Colors (18 page)
“Fuck!” Butch jumped back, out of the splash zone.
She heaved until nothing came up, then remained pitched forward, arms and tied wrists bearing her weight, as though she didn’t have the strength, or presence of mind, to sit back and take the pressure off her shoulders.
Butch wanted to hit her for making a mess. Had to fight against the urge to take out his knife and take a few swipes at her then and there. Not enough to kill her. Just enough to make her sorry. He knew all about punishment and pain. Knew exactly how far to go to make her regret what she’d done yet not far enough to render her unconscious and thwart his pleasure.
He had to remind himself that he had to keep her alive long enough to ensnare John Logan. And have some fun, of course. Eye on the objectives.
First things first: Clean up the mess. He couldn’t work with the stench. And it’d hamper his enjoyment even more to step in that shit in the middle of his work.
Without saying a word, he rolled the pleated metal door upward and stepped out. “Don’t go anywhere,” he told her, and chuckled at his joke. As if she could do more than breathe the way he had her trussed up.
After rolling down the door, he secured it with a padlock and headed to Wal-Mart for a bucket and a mop.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-TWO
A
lex concentrated on breathing through her mouth. The smell and the aftertaste of vomit were the least of her worries, as was the hideously stinging burn on her belly. She tried to think around the buzz in her brain, which sounded like the hum of a fluorescent lamp. Where was she? How did she get here? She couldn’t remember anything that came before the moment the closet door opened and she saw the man who tortured her . . . no, tortured a little boy. That didn’t happen to
her
. Not directly.
lex concentrated on breathing through her mouth. The smell and the aftertaste of vomit were the least of her worries, as was the hideously stinging burn on her belly. She tried to think around the buzz in her brain, which sounded like the hum of a fluorescent lamp. Where was she? How did she get here? She couldn’t remember anything that came before the moment the closet door opened and she saw the man who tortured her . . . no, tortured a little boy. That didn’t happen to
her
. Not directly.
Still, her heart beat erratically with remembered terror, and she twisted her wrists against her bonds, wincing as they tightened. Her legs were similarly immobilized, each strapped to a front chair leg. Even the chair was unmovable, secured to the floor by bolts and hinges driven through the concrete.
Her mind flashed back to another time when she’d been bound and helpless, raging pain in her head and lightning sparking in her eyes. No, wait, that wasn’t her memory. It was Charlie’s. Yet it felt like hers, and the remembered terror tasted acrid.
Shoving away the choking memories, she looked around, blinking in the dim light cast by lanterns placed in each corner of the small space. They must have been battery-operated, perhaps the source of the buzz in her ears. A shiny red toolbox occupied one corner, but she shied away from that for now, focusing instead on where she was.
Concrete blocks formed three walls, the fourth a wide, pleated metal door about the length of a single-car garage. Sealant coated the cement floor, a chemical odor underlying the stink of vomit in the unmoving air. God, a storage unit?
If so, it had to be one in a facility of many, and there was nothing to indicate sound-proofing. She started screaming.
“Help! Help me!”
She shouted for a long time. Over and over, so loud her ears rang with the echoes, adding to the persistent hum inside her aching skull.
“Can anyone hear me? Please help me! Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?”
When her voice gave out, she had hot tears dripping off her chin. She had no idea what time it was. Had to be well after closing time.
The toolbox, its lid thrown back to expose the contents, drew her eye. She couldn’t help it. Call it morbid curiosity. Or a need to know what horrors lay in store.
The box looked new and cast a long shadow in the lantern light. Her head started to spin as she registered the assortment of tools. Power drill. Needle-nose pliers. Ball-peen hammer. Hunting knife.
A cigarette lighter. The silver square kind that people engraved for gifts. Just like the one in the flashback. Perhaps the same one?
And was that a syringe sticking out of the lower drawer?
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
She jerked at her bonds again, groaned at the answering cinch. The man knew how to tie a knot.
She closed her eyes, tried desperately not to see the face of the man who’d tortured a child. Butch McGee, to be exact. No, wait. Tyler Ambrose. The psycho had changed the child’s name, stolen his identity. He couldn’t have been older than eight or nine at the time.
As she remembered her fear . . . no,
his
fear, a
child’s
fear, her heart skipped, uneven and hitching.
his
fear, a
child’s
fear, her heart skipped, uneven and hitching.
The burn on her stomach, just above her belly button, screamed as every breath she took shifted the fabric of her tank against the wound. She could still hear the sizzle of burning flesh, could still smell it. Still taste the absolute terror of a child. No matter your age, fear tasted the same. Like metal. Like blood.
What did Butch McGee want with her?
Maybe nothing, not from her specifically. Maybe, like his tormenter, he’d brought her here for his own fun.
“Logan,” she whispered.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREE
A
s Logan pulled into Alex’s driveway, he noticed the uncharacteristic darkness of her house. He checked his watch, thinking maybe it was later than he’d thought. But, no, it was just after ten P.M. She should have been home for at least an hour, even if she’d had to work late.
s Logan pulled into Alex’s driveway, he noticed the uncharacteristic darkness of her house. He checked his watch, thinking maybe it was later than he’d thought. But, no, it was just after ten P.M. She should have been home for at least an hour, even if she’d had to work late.
He would have come by long ago, but Justin had stood him up. Logan had hung around the Green Iguana for three hours, waiting and hoping the kid would show. Several calls to the cell phone he’d given the kid had gone unanswered. Cold feet, Logan figured. Hopefully, the boy would try again.
As he got out of his truck and slammed the door, he could already hear the dogs going nuts . . . but they weren’t inside. They were in the backyard. Now that was
really
unusual. Alex never left them outside when she wasn’t home.
really
unusual. Alex never left them outside when she wasn’t home.
He let himself through the gate in the fence, barely managing to hold his own against the onslaught of barking and whining.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he admonished as he forged ahead through a sea of fur to the back door and inside. He immediately went to the doggy cabinet. “Pipe down. No one’s going to let you starve. Jesus.”
He filled their dishes as he’d watched Alex do the night before, surrounded by a chorus of huffing and whining.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked. “Did she take off and forget to let you in?” Highly unlikely, but he couldn’t imagine what else could have happened.
Instead of burying their noses in kibble, Gus and Raquel sat down and stared up at him with cocked heads and inquisitive eyes. Phoebe hobbled between him and the door that led into the living room in a doggy version of pacing. Dieter and Oscar took turns nipping at his ankles, and Artemis sat in the living room doorway and whined.
Normally, the whole pack would have attacked dinner with an energy that would make an exhausted man envious. Something was seriously wrong.
Logan walked into the living room, the source of all the furry consternation. Maybe Alex was sleeping on the sofa again. Except his arrival had made enough of a racket, thanks to the chorus of fervent hellos, to wake the dead. Fearing a repeat of the night before—Alex all but comatose on the couch—he flipped on the light in the living room. The sofa sat empty.
He had started to turn back toward the kitchen, when he noticed that four of the dogs had started to mill around the front door, sniffing and whining. Both Phoebe and Artemis sat smack dab in front of the door and gazed forlornly up at him, as if to say, “You know this is wrong, right?”
That was when he noticed the front door hung open a bare inch.
Heart skipping, he stopped himself before he could take the two steps over and open it fully. Alex could have left it open when she left. She wasn’t the most conscientious person about unlocked doors and windows. She trusted her environment—and her half-dozen woofy security alarms. Except she used the front door only for guests. She came and went by the back door, the most expedient route to her Jeep in the garage.
Still...
He took a moment to study the area around the door, his detective brain telling him not to jump to conclusions, while his boyfriend brain screamed at him to get on the phone to his fellow cops at work. Drawing in a calming breath, he shut down his boyfriend brain for a moment. So Alex had done a few things out of character. Their argument this morning could explain everything.
Pivoting, he headed back toward the kitchen and the back door, a crew of panting dogs on his heels, Dieter’s nose bumping against his ass every few steps.
Logan was traversing the short cobblestone walk between the house and the garage when his cell phone rang. He pulled it off his belt absently, more interested in whether Alex’s Jeep was in the garage.
Before he answered it, he glanced at the display and saw Alex’s name and cell number. Shoulders sagging with relief, he stopped walking and answered. “Perfect timing. I was getting totally paranoid. Where the heck are you?”
“Hello, John Logan.”
Logan’s head snapped up, and he turned back toward the garage. He could see through the window in the door that Alex’s SUV was indeed parked inside. Dread clamped hard in his chest.
“Who is this?” Logan demanded.
“The better question would be: What do I want?”
The voice, deep and over-the-top casual, didn’t sound the least bit familiar. “Is Alex there?” Logan asked.
“Yes, but she’s tied up at the moment.” A soft, dark chuckle.
Logan’s heart started to thud like a hammer against his chest wall. “Who is this?”
“This is your worst nightmare, John Logan. I’ve got your girlfriend, and she’s going to provide a little down payment on what you owe me.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing—”
“I’ll make it simple for you. I’m avenging my brother. I’m doing it by sharing some of my own personal magic with your girl. When I’m done, I’ll give you a call back, and we can talk about what happens next. Sound good?”
“Let me talk to Alex. I want proof that this isn’t some kind of sick joke.”
“You’re not in control here. I am. I’ll decide when you can talk to your precious Alex. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up! If you want me, then tell me where you are, and I’ll be there. Alex has nothing to do with—”
“Oh, but she does. You care about her. I cared about my brother. You took him from me. See where I’m going with this? It’s the biblical eye for an eye.”
“Who is your brother? I have no idea who you’re referring to.”
“You will.”
“But your beef is with me. I’m the one who took away your brother. Not Alex. You and I, we can work something out.”
“Of course we can. But you need to suffer first. You need to be frantic, wondering what I’m doing to your girlfriend.” He paused to snicker. “I’ll give you a hint. Alex—I can call her Alex, can’t I? She’s special. I noticed that right away. I’m not sure in what way, but I intend to find out. And are you listening carefully, John Logan? Alex and I are surrounded by some very sharp objects that are capable of cutting very deeply. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you can still recognize her when I’m done.”
“Listen, you twisted son of a—” A click sounded in his ear. “Fuck!”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FOUR
A
rattle of metal against metal brought Alex’s head up, and every muscle went rigid as the door of the storage unit rolled up, revealing Butch McGee holding a mop, a jug of water and an overstuffed Wal-Mart bag. A rush of fresh air washed over her.
rattle of metal against metal brought Alex’s head up, and every muscle went rigid as the door of the storage unit rolled up, revealing Butch McGee holding a mop, a jug of water and an overstuffed Wal-Mart bag. A rush of fresh air washed over her.
“Miss me?” he asked as he strode into the unit and dropped his purchases on the floor. “Christ, it reeks in here.”
He didn’t spare her a glance as he unscrewed the top of the jug and splashed the contents into the bucket. He followed that with a couple of squirts of dishwashing liquid, then dunked the mop in a few times until suds formed and the scent of lemons floated into the air.
“I should make you do the cleanup,” he muttered as he started mopping.
He looked so . . . normal. He wore new blue jeans, a dark gray T-shirt with some kind of writing on it under a long-sleeved denim shirt and bright white Nike tennis shoes that had to be new. His hair, a dark brown with lighter highlights, was cut short, the curl in it suggesting that left to grow, it would get wild and wooly. His eyes when he glanced her way were a lighter color—gray perhaps, or blue. She couldn’t tell in the shadows. She wouldn’t say he appeared harmless, but he certainly didn’t have “kidnapper” written all over him.
“What do you want?” Her voice rasped like the roughest grade of sandpaper.
He shrugged as he worked. “I just want to have a little fun. If you relax and keep an open mind, maybe you’ll have some fun, too.”
Picturing his kind of fun, she started jerking at bonds that only tightened around her already abraded wrists. Pointless, she knew. But she couldn’t help it. She had to do
something
.
something
.
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