Authors: Louise Voss
‘Welcome to my house,’ Angelica said to Kate. ‘I trust the Sisters have been looking after you. I’ve brought you some food – miso soup. You should drink it while it’s hot, you must be hungry.’
She offered the tray to Kate, meeting and holding her eyes. Her beauty was unreal; flawless golden skin, high cheekbones, enormous indigo eyes and thick blonde hair loose down her back. For a second Kate paused, held in thrall by the depths of those eyes. Then she reached out a clenched fist and, as if the tray was a volleyball, punched it out of Angelica’s hands and high into the air. The tray spun and arced across the room before clattering loudly to the tiled floor. Hot soup splattered both Angelica and Preeti, marring their pristine robes and dulling their shiny hair into seaweedy clumps. Kate rushed for the door but Angelica was faster – before Kate had even got out into the hallway, she had caught up with her and was marching her back inside, her injured arm bent painfully up behind her
back. The floor was littered with bits of broken bowl, sticky with soup.
‘Oh, Kate,’ Angelica whispered in her ear, pushing her back on to her bed, ‘I’m disappointed in you; we need you to cooperate, and this is not a good start. Now, we are going to leave you here while we perform a special ceremony to mourn our fallen Sister. When we are done, you and I will have a talk. First, though, we will bring you some cleaning equipment – I would appreciate you cleaning up this mess by the time I return.’
‘Fuck off,’ muttered Kate, rubbing her sore biceps, unable to stop herself feeling like a told-off child. Angelica smiled beatifically, standing over her with her arms folded.
‘
Om Shanti
, Sister.’
Angelica left the room and, as the door shut behind her, a horrible thought struck Kate: McCarthy had agreed to talk to his superior tomorrow – today, now – to arrange for Jack to be taken out of the country. But McCarthy was dead.
Jack would still be out there. And, like everyone else in the US, he was in terrible danger.
Heather held out the phone to Rosie and said, ‘Call him.’
‘But I don’t have his number.’
Heather made a hissing noise, like a cat whose tail has been trodden on, and swiftly brought the point of the hunting knife up beneath Lucy’s chin. She held Lucy’s hair in her other hand, balled up in her fist.
‘I’m not lying!’ Rosie blurted. ‘Please. We never exchanged numbers.’
It was true. There had been an unspoken agreement between them, as if they knew that swapping numbers would make their temporary relationship more significant. This way, there was no chance of them contacting each other again. Temptation would be starved of oxygen and opportunity.
Heather pulled Lucy’s hair tighter and pressed the tip of the knife higher, so that Rosie could see that with the slightest added pressure the blade would puncture the skin beneath her daughter’s jaw. One quick movement and the knife would slash Lucy’s throat.
‘Thinking that I’m going to cut her throat?’ the woman said. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were like windows into hell. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. Far too quick. First, like I said, I’m going to slice off those perky nipples. I quite fancy her belly bar – it’s pretty – so I’m going to cut that out too. Her skin is so soft, I want to slice some of it off, take it home. And once I’ve finished playing with her, I’m going to ram this knife up her lovely tight—’
‘No!’ Rosie yelled, launching herself at Heather. But the woman swatted her aside with a muscular arm. Rosie fell hard on her side, smacking her head against a kitchen cupboard.
Heather sat perfectly still, unbothered by the sound of Lucy weeping. Rosie lay panting on the floor, dazed.
‘I’m getting tired of this now. Tell me where the doctor’s boyfriend is right this second.’ She pulled Lucy’s head back harder and made a jabbing motion towards her throat with the knife.
‘He’s at the Coopers Hotel in town.’
Rosie felt all the fight go out of her. Her skull throbbed, her shoulder screamed at her. But she didn’t care about that, she just wanted this fucking psycho-bitch gone, she never wanted to hear Paul’s name again, and she wanted to put her arms around her daughter and to hold her and hope that one day they could forget this ever happened.
‘Good,’ Heather said, the smile returning. ‘Let’s go.’
Rosie looked up at her through tear-blurred eyes. ‘What?’
‘You’re coming with me. Both of you. I might need … what do you call it? – collateral.’
Paul sat in his hotel room, staring at his phone. He couldn’t stop thinking of Rosie, the way she had looked at him as they’d said goodbye. It would have been so easy to go home with her. To let her take him to bed. A double dose of guilt twisted his insides: guilt towards Rosie – had he led her on, unwittingly? – and towards Kate, because he’d been tempted, he couldn’t deny it. But he hadn’t acted on it. And he would never see Rosie again. The way that realisation made him feel brought a fresh twinge of guilt.
He tried to call Kate on the number she had phoned him from earlier that day, but it rang and rang. No doubt they were all asleep, her and the other scientists. Or in the lab, working through the night. He tapped out a text and sent it, even though she had told him she had no signal.
I miss you, sweetheart. xxxx
He couldn’t think what else to say.
His rental car was parked downstairs. In the morning, he would head off to LA to try to find Camilo Diaz. He had no idea how he was going to get into the quarantined city. Maybe they were only stopping people getting out. Whatever, he would think of a plan on the way.
He lay down on the bed, hoping to feel the gentle tug of sleep. But he felt like he’d drunk twenty cups of strong coffee. A parade of faces flickered in his head: Kate, Rosie, Stephen, Jack, Jon Watton …
Morning seemed a very long way off.
Heather marched Rosie and Lucy through the house at knifepoint, into the garage where she found a roll of parcel tape that she used to secure their hands behind their backs.
‘No screaming when we get outside,’ she warned. She had allowed Lucy to pull on a wrinkled sweatshirt over her sliced shirt. Rosie tried to catch her daughter’s eye, to let her know that everything was going to be OK, but Lucy appeared to be in shock; she had no more awareness of what was going on around her than a sleepwalker.
Back through the house and out the front door. Heather hissed, ‘Walk towards the SUV.’ There was no one around. It was gone midnight; any nosy neighbours would be in bed.
Rosie considered screaming. But she knew that by the time anyone roused themselves to investigate, the psycho-bitch would have slit their throats and driven away.
Heather opened the back door of the SUV and shoved them into the cavernous interior. She sat in the driver’s seat, placed the knife on the dashboard and pressed a button to lock the doors. The roads were quiet, just a few cabs cruising around looking for business.
Rosie tried to speak to Lucy, to ask her if she was all right, but Heather snapped, ‘No talking in the back. And if either of you kids says “Are we there yet?” I’ll cut your tits off.’ She rocked with laughter.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the Coopers Hotel, Heather pulling into a quiet space in the corner of the parking lot. She got out and locked the doors, then started to walk away. She’d gone a few paces when she stopped and slowly turned to face them, drawing a forefinger across her windpipe and showing them her teeth.
The moment we get out of this
, Rosie thought, turning to press herself against her daughter, whispering to her that everything would be OK,
the moment we escape
,
you’re a dead woman
.
‘Talk to me, Lucy, please,’ she implored. But Lucy remained silent, staring into space. Her eyes were glazed, her jaw slack. Rosie felt a new wave of panic rise through her. She had to get Lucy out of this, get her to a hospital.
She wriggled back towards the window, pressing her forehead against the glass, straining to see through the darkness. What was going on in the hotel? Would Paul be murdered while he slept, or would he put up a fight? And what did this woman want with them anyway? It had to have something to do with Mangold, with the questions Paul had been asking. Oh God, why had Paul walked into her diner? And why had she allowed herself to develop feelings for him? She cursed herself.
She had one priority now. Getting Lucy out of this.
A man walked across the parking lot, close to the hotel.
‘Hey!’ Rosie yelled. ‘Help! Help us!’
But the man couldn’t hear her. The glass must be soundproofed. She couldn’t manoeuvre her arms to bang on it. Maybe if she could get to the horn … She struggled to get through between the front seats, surprised that Heather hadn’t thought of this – all she needed to do was press her head against the horn at the centre of the steering wheel.
Getting through the gap between the seats without use of her arms wasn’t easy, but she scrambled through and managed to right herself so she was kneeling on the driver’s seat. She leaned forward and pressed her head against the horn.
The door yanked open.
She heard Heather say, ‘Nothing to see here,’ then a strong hand grabbed her beneath the chin and thrust her into the passenger seat. The door slammed. Rosie looked up to see Heather staring at the horn, like she knew she’d fucked up.
‘Goddamn bitch,’ she said. She was panting with rage.
‘Where’s Paul?’ Rosie asked. ‘Have you killed him? Please God—’
Heather slapped her. ‘Shut up. Just fucking shut up,’ she screamed, and her loss of control was far more frightening than her earlier contained rage.
Rosie instinctively knew that to disobey would mean certain death. Heather was shaking with fury, her knuckles white where she clutched the steering wheel, sweat dripping into her eyes. A rank smell filled the car.
It took a minute or two for Heather’s breathing to return to normal.
‘The bastard’s already checked out.’
Rosie felt relief flood through her.
‘Checked out thirty minutes ago.’ She banged the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. Then she pushed open the door and dragged Rosie out into the parking lot. Rosie struggled, but Heather had a firm grip on her, and she opened the back door and shoved her in. Rosie landed with her head on Lucy’s lap.
‘Please, let us go,’ she pleaded.
Heather was back in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. ‘Uh-uh. No way. You’re coming with me. Wilson told the hotel clerk he was heading to LA. That’s where we’re going.’ She banged the steering wheel again. ‘Shit, man. Angelica’s going to be
pissed
.’
Glencarson Prison, where Camilo Diaz had been living in minimum security exile for the last twenty-three years, was in south-east Los Angeles – within the quarantine zone. Paul tapped the address into the satnav. It was a ninety-minute drive; if he didn’t get turned back at the roadblock, he would arrive at the prison around 2 a.m. – not exactly visiting hours. But he couldn’t stay here a minute longer. He felt an urgent need to get going. By leaving now he’d ensure that, in the event they did try to turn him away at the roadblock, he’d have other options. Under cover of darkness, he might be able to sneak along the perimeter
of the quarantine zone until he found somewhere to break through. Daylight would leave him too exposed to try it.
Setting off, he made a vow to himself. If Camilo Diaz couldn’t help him, if this turned out to be a dead end, he would abandon the hunt for Mangold and go find Kate. Maybe that’s what Stephen would have wanted: not for him go in search of vengeance but to be there for Kate, get her and Jack out of the country, away from all this madness.
Logically, he knew that was probably right.
But the hunger for retribution still burned inside him.
When he was younger, Paul had dreamed of visiting LA, picturing himself cruising wide open highways against a backdrop of palm trees, hot winds and endless blue sky. Now, driving through the night towards that city of dreams, he wished he was back in grey, homely England with Kate.
He wanted to put his arms around her, to feel the warmth of her body against his, the soft tickle of her hair on his face. He craved the sound of her voice, that mid-Atlantic accent that he found so sexy. More than anything, he longed just to have her there. She made him feel calm, centred. Until he met her, he’d been going through the motions: working, spending money, watching himself get older, trying not to think about any of it. All that had changed when he met Kate. In a way, it was Stephen who had brought them together. Desperate to find out what had happened to him, they’d raced around the country, chasing down clues, facing danger … falling in love. It would have been easy for the passion to burn out, extinguished by the daily routine of work and child-rearing. Instead, he discovered that sharing a normal existence with Kate – and Jack, whom he adored as if he were his own son – made him love her even more.
The coast road was eerily deserted. Beyond the cliffs, the sea was a black mass. He made a silent vow to return here one day, with Kate and Jack, to see it when the sun was shining, when things were better. If things ever got better.
Just east of Malibu, as the highway passed through Topanga State Park, he heard a rumbling ahead of him. His first thought was
earthquake
, but a minute later he came upon a great convoy of army trucks, eighteen or twenty of them, heading towards the city. This was followed by a roar from above as a helicopter’s navigation lights appeared above him, first one then another, following the line of the highway. A few minutes later he saw the first sign: QUARANTINED AREA. TURN BACK NOW, with the universal biohazard sign illuminated in neon. A glow on the horizon materialised into the distant lights of Los Angeles.
Guts twisting, Paul kept driving. Within minutes he came upon a wall of trucks. Striped barriers manned by National Guard troops blocked the road. He slowed down, passing yet more TURN BACK and biohazard signs. Overhead, a helicopter circled, its searchlight pinpointing his car. Two soldiers, guns slung across their chests, began to walk out towards him.