Vicious (20 page)

Meeker stared at him and winced. “Jesus, you’re going to let him kill me, aren’t you?” he whispered.

“No, I won’t let that happen,” Leo said resolutely. “I’m going to talk him into calling the state police. Until then, I’ll try to make sure he doesn’t hurt you again. But I’m not going to untie you or loosen the rope or do anything that might help you get away.”

Meeker glared at him. “You stupid…” he said under his breath.

“If Jordan’s acting crazy, it’s because he saw you this afternoon, and it triggered something,” Leo said. “He’s been my best friend for six years. Maybe today I suddenly feel like I don’t know him as well as I thought I did. But I don’t know you at all, Mr. Meeker. And to be honest, I don’t really trust you. I’m going along with Jordan on this.”

“God help you,” Meeker whispered.

The dark look in his eyes was so chilling Leo backed away even farther.

As he turned and hurried up the creaky cellar steps, Leo still had doubts. But he felt good about one thing. He was glad he hadn’t loosened that rope.

Susan was so relieved to see people and traffic and all the bustle—or, at least, what passed for bustle in downtown Cullen. It was a refreshing change from the quiet seclusion of the rental house, which was starting to feel like a prison. Sure, the house was lovely and in a beautiful spot, surrounded by trees and water. But for the last twenty-four hours—especially the last four—she’d felt so damn isolated.

Driving toward the town’s harbor, Susan kept a lookout for Allen’s black BMW. So far, she’d had two false alarms, but had yet to spot the real thing. She routinely glanced in the rearview mirror at Mattie, who seemed mesmerized by all the scenery. “Look it, look it, look it!” he said, pointing out the window at a twenty-foot weathered-bronze sea lion statue in a park, which also had benches, a garden, and a little playground. The town center was full of quaint shops and restaurants. At one intersection, Susan looked longingly at a rambling, white-trimmed, grey cedar-shake building with a turret and a front porch. It was surrounded by a small garden of pansies, and the sign in front, an old-fashioned shingle type, which read:

THE SMUGGLERS’ COVE INN

The Captain’s Table Restaurant

Pool – In-Room Movies – Jacuzzi Suites Available

Susan decided that if Allen didn’t reappear by 4:30, she’d pack their things, leave another note for him, then come back and check into a room here at The Smugglers’ Cove Inn. She and Mattie could eat at The Captain’s Table and watch the in-room movies. She’d wait for Allen there and do all her communicating with Sheriff Fischer by phone.

Why couldn’t Allen have booked them a suite at The Smugglers’ Cove? He’d never asked her where she’d like to stay or given her any choice about this weekend getaway. Ordinarily, they didn’t even pick a restaurant without discussing it first. She wondered why he’d selected that particular house—in the middle of nowhere.

Susan was questioning a lot of his decisions about this trip. That was why she’d driven into town. She had the Pier 12 address of Bayside Rentals on the printout from Allen’s folder. Maybe Chris was still on duty, and he could give her some idea why that particular boat was so important to Allen—that boat they were supposed to sail at noon for at least four hours.

She found parking by the waterfront and kept a tight hold of Mattie’s hand as they headed toward the pier. It felt good to be walking amid other people, to see some of them smiling and waving at Mattie and making a fuss over him. She also spotted a few passersby talking on their cell phones.

Susan realized they didn’t have any cell reception problems in this part of town. She stopped, dug her cell out of her purse, and checked for messages: one from her sister, Judy, and that was it. She had to remind herself that Allen wouldn’t have bothered calling and leaving a message if he thought she was still in the no-call zone.

She dialed his number. Jordan Prewitt had said Allen had headed for town after leaving Rosie’s. If he was anywhere in the vicinity—anywhere outside those damn woods—she’d be able to get through to him. Susan anxiously counted the ringtones. A recording clicked on—and not Allen’s voice. It was the automated response she always got when his phone was turned off or he was out of range. Even though he probably wouldn’t get the voice mail any time soon, Susan left a message anyway. She turned her head away from Mattie and whispered into the cell after the beep: “Hi, it’s me at four o’clock, going out of my mind worrying and wondering where in holy hell you are. Mattie and I are in beautiful downtown Cullen, by the waterfront. If you get this, call my cell. Bye.”

Clicking off, she shoved the cell phone back into her purse and then pulled Mattie along. “C’mon, sweetie.”

He was fascinated by all the boats and the screaming, swooping seagulls. He kept stopping to peek between the planks of the pier’s wooden walkway at the water below them. The spicy aromas from Col. Mustard’s Hot Dog Hut competed with the smell of fish and salt water. Just beyond the hot dog stand was a little brown shack with a blue and white metal sign above the door:

BAYSIDE RENTALS

C
HARTER
B
OATS
– T
OURS
– M
OORAGES

The door was open, and Susan peeked inside. It was a dusty little room with a computer monitor and a keyboard on an old metal desk. In front of it was an empty chair on wheels with silver tape over part of the seat pad. Framed faded pictures of sailboats on the wall surrounded a large stuffed blue marlin that had seen better days. There was one window, and outside of it, Susan could see a tall, slim Asian man smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell phone. He was good looking with short, spiky black hair.

He glanced her way and then came around from the other side of the shack. Susan guessed he was in his mid twenties. He wore shorts, boat-sneakers, and an aqua blue sweatshirt that had
Bayside Rentals
over the left breast. By the shack’s door, he tossed his cigarette in a coffee can full of sand and butts. He still had his cell phone in his other hand. “Hiya,” he said. “Can I help you folks?”

“I’m looking for Chris,” Susan said.

The man smiled. “Look no more. I’m Chris. How can I help you?”

“Well, you already have. I’m Susan Blanchette. You know, the woman with the emergency at Twenty-two Birch? Thanks so much for phoning the police for me earlier today.”

He nodded. “I’m glad you’re okay. You gave me a little scare there for a while. How’s
The Seaworthy
working out for you folks?”

“We haven’t had a chance to take it out yet,” Susan said, pulling Mattie a little closer to her. “We were planning to go sailing at noon today. But my fiancé, Allen Meeker, who rented the boat from you, he went out on an errand and still hasn’t come back yet.”

Nodding, Chris glanced at something on his cell phone.

“Anyway,” Susan continued. “I’m getting pretty worried about him.”

“Well, he hasn’t been by here,” Chris said with a shrug, his eyes still on his phone.

Susan suddenly felt a little stupid for thinking this total stranger could tell her something about her fiancé’s decision-making processes. Meanwhile Mattie tugged at her arm and rocked from side to side out of boredom.

Susan cleared her throat, hoping to tear Chris’s attention away from his cell phone for a minute. “Ah, Chris, this is probably a silly question. But is there any reason someone would want to go sailing at a particular time today, specifically from noon until four? Is there anything going on this afternoon I might not be aware of—like a solar eclipse or something?”

He shoved his phone into his pocket. “Not that I know of.”

She worked up a smile. “I read that e-mail you sent to Allen. It sounded like there was a mix-up with another boat. Apparently he was very much set on leasing
The Seaworthy.
I’m curious. Did he indicate why he had to have that particular boat?”

Chris ran a hand through his spiky black hair and frowned at her. “Our best vessel,
The Orcas Pearl
, a Catalina 309 cruiser, suddenly became available, and I thought Mr. Meeker would like that. It’s usually more expensive, but I was going to charge him the same price we charge for
The Seaworthy
. I thought I was doing him a big favor securing him the better boat. But—um, well, he wasn’t happy. In fact, he got really pissed off….”

Wide-eyed, Susan stared at him. “I—I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Did he say why it was so important that he have
The Seaworthy
?”

Chris shook his head. “No, but he sure got all over my case for making the switch. I tried to explain he was getting a better deal. But he didn’t want to hear about it. He kept calling me a ‘fuck-up’ and threatening to get me fired.”

Susan automatically pulled Mattie closer—until his head was against her leg. Then she covered his other ear.

“Sorry,” Chris muttered. He pulled his cell phone out again, glanced at it, then wandered back into the small office.

With Mattie at her side, Susan stepped up to the doorway. “I apologize for my fiancé,” she said. “Considering how Allen treated you, I’m extra grateful you helped me earlier today.” Susan glanced around at the old, faded photos of sailboats on the wall, and she thought she recognized
The Seaworthy
among them. The name, written in the corner of the picture frame, confirmed it. “Is there any feature that’s unique to
The Seaworthy
?” she asked him. “Maybe something this other boat doesn’t have?”

Chris leaned back against the metal desk. “They both handle pretty much the same. The cabin space is bigger on
The Orcas Pearl
, and it’s a newer boat. The only thing
The Seaworthy
has that the
Pearl
doesn’t have is an old computer with Internet access. It was a novel feature when the boat was built twelve years ago. But with iPhones and notebooks, it’s not really such a hot thing anymore.” He shrugged. “Though I guess some people must still use it. We just had somebody call the day before yesterday to make sure the Internet connection still worked on
The Seaworthy
.”

“Was it Allen—Mr. Meeker—calling?” Susan asked.

“I don’t know who it was,” Chris replied, shaking his head. “I didn’t recognize his voice. He hung up as soon as I told him it was working fine.”

“But if it wasn’t Allen, who…” Susan didn’t finish. He’d already said he didn’t know who had called with that inquiry. Susan numbly stared at him as he started fiddling with his cell phone again. Then she glanced over his shoulder at the old, faded photo of
The Seaworthy
on the wall.

“Well, thank you,” she murmured—though he clearly wasn’t listening. She took Mattie by the hand and started back toward her car.

Moira woke up shivering from the cold.

Panic-stricken, she rubbed her bare arms and shoulders and realized someone had stripped her down to the waist. She still had her jeans on, but no shoes or socks.

Moira didn’t have any idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. The room was so dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face. It smelled damp and moldy. She was curled up on a bare mattress or a futon—she wasn’t sure which, but it felt low to the ground. She blindly patted around for her missing bra, T-shirt, and sweater.

When she finally sat up, it felt like something hit her between the eyes. Her head throbbed so badly she was nauseous. She would have thrown up if she’d had something in her stomach. Moira kept feeling around for her clothes until—at last—she found her sweater and T-shirt. But she still couldn’t locate her brassiere.

Then she remembered the man who had helped her out of the pit.
“It feels like you’re wearing a bra,”
he’d said.
“Are you wearing a bra?”

Shuddering, Moira clutched the sweater in front of her breasts and kept searching in the dark for her bra—though she knew it was useless. Her handsome rescuer, the man calling himself Jake, had taken it. And he’d brought her to this black, cold place.

Moira heard a whistling noise and something flapping—like a boat’s sail in the wind. She wondered if she was anywhere near a harbor.

Feeling around for the edge of the bed, she realized that she was right about the mattress. It was on an icy-cold cement floor. Something crawled over her hand. She recoiled and let out an abbreviated shriek. Moira wasn’t sure if it was an incredibly large bug or a small rodent, but she scrambled to the opposite side of the mattress. She tried to get to her feet, but a bone-grinding pain shot up from her left ankle, and she fell back on the mattress again.

Catching her breath, she heard another sound: footsteps. Then there was a clank. The sound was in the room with her. When she turned in that direction, she saw a door opening—and a dim light pouring through it. For a fleeting moment, she could see the small, grimy, windowless room that was her prison. Beside the doorway was an empty metal bookcase—the only other piece of furniture besides the mattress.

The door opened wider. A shadowy figure appeared at the threshold.

Recoiling on the mattress, Moira clutched the sweater in front of her breasts. “Where am I? What—”

She didn’t finish. A bright flash blinded her.

By the time Moira realized someone had taken her picture, she heard the door clank shut and then footsteps retreating. She quickly put on her T-shirt and sweater, but they weren’t much protection against the unrelenting cold. She was still shivering.

She almost called out for the man to come back, but thought better of it. Moira started to cry. She tried to figure out where the door was. Even though she’d heard the lock clank, she still needed to know. It was the only possible way out. But all Moira could see now were ghost spots from the flash—and darkness.

And all she could feel was dread for the next time that door opened.

“I spy with my little eye something that begins with a
D,
” Susan said.

“Dog!” Mattie exclaimed, wiggling in his child seat in the back.

“No, there aren’t any dogs around here,” Susan said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “It’s the same first letter as dog, the same,
deh…deh…
” She nodded toward a deer-crossing sign at the side of the road ahead. They were headed down Carroll Creek Road toward the house.

“It’s a
deer
, sweetie,” she finally said. “See the picture of the deer on that sign?”

“Mommy, are we gonna go home soon?” Mattie whined.

“Soon,” Susan said. And she refused to get her hopes up that Allen was there, waiting for them.

She’d called the police while still in downtown Cullen and left a message with the woman who had answered the phone at the police station. She must have been Cullen’s version of the 911 operator.

Fischer had said he’d check in with her in two hours. “My fiancé is still missing,” Susan had explained to the woman on the line. “And it’s been more than two hours, so I’m just following up with the sheriff. My little boy and I may relocate to one of the inns in town and wait it out there. I’ll let you know.”