Devil's Kiss (14 page)

The men’s bathroom door slowly opens. My breath catches in my throat.

“Who’s there?” I call out, trying to sound as tough as I can.

A shadow steps out of the darkness.

“Hello, Olive,” says Richard Lees.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, my mouth going dry. His eyes are unblinking and staring at me, and he’s holding a pistol pointed at my stomach.

“You know what I’m doing here,” he replies. “Take your purse,” he orders, flicking his gun toward it.

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” I reply. I just need to buy some time before West gets here. Keep him talking.

Richard cocks his head slightly at me, closing the distance between us. Then, quick as lightning, he backhands me across the face. I cry out, my already tender lip splitting in the same place where Stick got me earlier.

“Take your purse,” he repeats. I slowly reach out and grab it. That mantra of self-defense classes goes flashing through my head: never go to a second location. Easier said than done, especially with fear and pain clouding my brain.

“Outside,” he commands, and I start walking with him trailing right behind me. We walk out the door and into the alleyway. “To the left, the blue sedan down the street.” I peer into the darkness and start walking toward the car. I go slowly, praying that West is about to drive around the corner. The door unlocks with an electronic beep. “Go to the passenger side,” he orders, and I walk around the front of the car to the curb. “Drop your bag on the ground, and put your hands behind your back,” he says, and I turn to see him take out a set of handcuffs.

“Please, Richard,” I beg, tears falling down my face. For some reason the idea of being physically restrained is far worse than the gun on me.

“Turn around,” he commands. His voice is emotionless.

I do as he says, and soon feel the cold metal pinching my wrists. My shoulders sag as I take a strangled breath. I should have told someone out here about Richard. Stupid stupid stupid.

He reaches around me and opens the rear door, pushing me in like I’m a criminal going into the back of his cop car. He leaves the door open then opens the front passenger door and reaches in for something. I see him pull out a roll of duct tape and my whole body starts shaking, as though I’ve been dropped in a freezing lake. I know his gun is in his holster now, but I don’t know what to do.

“Richard, just tell me what you want, OK? You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.

He tears off a piece of tape with his teeth and puts it over my mouth. I feel his hand touching my mouth through the tape, sealing it firmly.

“Lie down,” he says. I eye the backseat of the car and awkwardly ease myself over onto my side. I feel him wrap my ankles together with the tape, winding around and around my black pants.

He’s done, and stands up to shut the door. I’m in the quiet of the car for just a moment before I see him getting into the driver’s seat, tossing my purse on the seat next to him. We pull away from the curb, and I hear him sigh.

“Sorry for all the theatrics,” he says. “But you’ve really gotten in over your head here, Olive.”

I feel like I’m suffocating, even though I can still breathe through my nose.
Calm down. Don’t panic
, I order myself.

“Oh, look, here’s your friend West on his way to pick you up,” Richard comments lightly. I hear the drone of a motorcycle engine approaching the car and frantically try to sit up. “Don’t bother, it’s too dark,” he says.

He’s right. I hear West’s motorcycle come agonizingly close, passing right by us and driving away. Just two minutes too late.

I feel Richard step on the gas a little now, and it feels like we’re speeding. Before long, though, he’s slowing down and pulling to a stop. I hear my phone ringing in my purse, and Richard reaches over and turns it off, then pulls the battery off it and tosses it back into my bag.

“Sit up,” he orders. “It’s important that you see this.” He gets out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind him. I’m alone in the car, but can barely move. I inch myself up, pushing myself onto the rear door by pressing my knees and ankles into the seat. I rise up so that I’m just able to see out the window.

Fuck
. We’re on my block, and I’m just in time to see Richard cross my front lawn and head toward the back. He looks back to the car and waves at me. I glance at the driveway. The Tahoe and Stick’s motorcycle are in the driveway. That means at least Stick, and maybe Stacy, are currently home.

Frantically, I duck back down and pound the opposite window with my feet. What’s Richard doing at my house? I can imagine my brother and Stacy sleeping in bed, Richard creeping in with his gun and looking over them. Tears of frustration and helplessness stream down my face as I kick and kick the window, trying to break it open. My heels slip on the glass but I think they’ll do more good than bare feet.

I hear a knocking on the window above my head, and my heart leaps. I glance up hopefully, but it’s Richard looking down at me. He beckons me with his fingers, and I reluctantly push myself up to the window again, staring at him through the glass. Dread pools in my stomach. He points toward the house, and I look toward it, frowning. It looks normal, peaceful even. I think I would have heard a gunshot from here, so I don’t know what Richard did.

My eyes flicker up to his face. He’s watching the house patiently, as though he’s waiting for something. I look back toward it. Suddenly, I hear a muffled boom and the sound of breaking glass. I scream through the duct tape on my mouth as I see flames licking out of the windows of the home I grew up in. I watch helplessly as my childhood home burns with my brother inside it.

Richard leans on the door, watching his handiwork for a moment, and then gets in the driver’s seat again. My eyes are still on the house, praying for a sign of movement, for my brother to run out onto the front lawn, coughing the smoke from his lungs, but there’s nothing, only the flames licking the siding. Richard starts the car and I press my face against the glass as we drive, fighting for my final glimpse of the house, until it’s only a crackling orange glow in darkness. I slump down. I don’t feel fear anymore, only cold numbness.

“I know it may seem extreme of me to have you watch that,” Richard says, “But I think it was necessary. Your past is gone now. Over. Ideally, West would have been in that house, too, but maybe still...” he trails off. His words barely penetrate my brain, which feels like it’s full of fog.

“You know I lost my job because of you?” I hear him slam his hand down on the steering wheel as I stare at the back of the driver’s seat. “I mean, fuck, Olive. You really had to go and file a fucking complaint? You destroyed a good cop’s career. I mean, how many drug dealers did I put away? I had a woman send me a Christmas card every year since I caught the man killed her son. Seven years I got that card, and now I’m a fucking civilian again. Can’t help anyone. Except maybe you.”

We drive in silence for a while. How fast do you die of smoke inhalation? Fast, right? You would die of smoke inhalation before the fire would burn you to death right? Couldn’t my brother have maybe died painlessly in his sleep from the smoke? My thoughts run in a frantic loop.

“We’re here,” Richard announces. The car stops with a jerk and he gets out. A second later he’s cutting the tape from around my legs and pulling me out of the car. When I look up, his gun is out again. All I can tell is that we’re on a street in a bad area, judging from the decrepit house that we’re standing outside of. He grabs my arm and pulls me with him toward the side of the house, then down an exterior set of cement stairs toward a basement door.

He opens the door and pushes me in, then pulls the door shut behind us. The room is pitch black. I hear him move around for a second and then a match flickers to life. He walks around the room setting candles alight, allowing me to see the place he’s brought me to. It’s a damp, dingy room. I spot a mattress in the corner and my stomach rolls. The only other furniture is a single chair. He gestures me toward the mattress and I reluctantly cross to it. I don’t know if I even care what he does to me now. I awkwardly sit on it, dropping the last foot without the use of my hands. He pulls the chair toward me and sits on it, facing me.

“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. This house is abandoned, as are most of the houses on this block. I still would rather you didn’t scream, though, and if you do, I will punish you.” With a nod, he takes a corner of the tape and slowly peels it off. I feel it rip skin and clotting blood from my lip with it.

I stare up at him. He looks at me expectantly, as though I’m supposed to say something. What is there to say? He looks me over, considering.

“I understand you’re angry with me right now, and it’s mutual,” he says, “When I first got out here, all I wanted to do was hurt you, to be honest. But then I saw what you were doing, hanging out with bikers, fucking that big dumb one…Olive, that’s no kind of life. What the fuck were you thinking? I can’t have you doing that. So I’ve pulled you out of it, alright? That life is gone, you can’t return to it. I’ve rescued you from it. The least you could do is thank me.”

I stare back at him, uncomprehending. What does he want me to do?

“Say thank you, Olive. Say thank you,” he growls. He raises his hand and hits me. The other half of my lip splits open. I keel over, my head landing on the mattress.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and slowly right myself.

“For?” he prompts me.

“For...rescuing me?” I guess. I can’t follow his twisted logic.

“Good,” he nods, pacified, and a hint of a smile even reaches his lips. “Now, I know this isn’t the nicest place to stay, but it’ll have to do for now.”

He looks down at me pityingly, then kneels and spreads my knees apart, pushing himself between them and grabbing me tightly around my waist.

“I get it, you’re mad about your brother. But don’t worry. Soon that’ll fade, and you’ll love me again,” he whispers. His breath against my face feels like poison.

I feel his hand slide up my back toward my neck, pulling me toward him as he leans forward to kiss me. Without a thought, I launch myself straight back onto the mattress and bring my legs up to his face and kick him as hard as I can. I catch him by surprise, and he falls backward. I struggle to get to my feet without the use of my arms so I can get him again before he recovers.

He’s on the ground, his hand by his face, looking in surprise at the blood trickling down his fingers. When he sees me over him, he tries to jump up, but I kick him in the crotch. He yells out in pain and curls protectively around himself. Now that his hands are away from his face again, I kick him square in the nose and hear a satisfying crack. I have to take my chance now. I run toward the door, leaving him prone on the floor. As I reach the door, I turn around, backing my still-cuffed hands up to it, awkwardly trying to twist the handle open.

I see Richard begin to recover and spot what I’m doing. He struggles to his feet and lurches toward me, blood pouring down his face. I feel a surge of panic and finally twist the knob with enough leverage to open the door a crack. I push my way through it and up the outdoor stairs.

I’m halfway up when I feel his hand around my ankle. He yanks it hard, and I lose my footing. Without my hands to break my fall, I land hard on my chest and hips, turning my head so I don’t crack my chin open. His hands are clawing up my legs now, trying to pull me back into the basement.

“Help! Help me!” I scream, as I kick back at him as hard as I can. Now I’m glad I’m wearing heels—hopefully the stilettos will do some damage.

But he’s too strong. I feel him crawl over my back and grab me by the throat, pulling me back toward him. He yanks me to the foot of the stairs, tossing me to the floor of the room and slamming the door shut behind us. I moan as my hip and knee hit the thin carpet. I can feel myself bleeding from the edges of the cements stairs.

I turn over to see Richard advancing on me, anger grotesquely twisting his psychotic features.

“I tried to be nice to you,” he says, his voice deadly quiet, “You just remember that.”

His leg swings back, and I feel his foot collide with my ribs. I know, deep down, that the pain is just beginning.

I’ve always hated hospitals. My mom was in them constantly—for overdoses and god knows what else. They all smell exactly the same.

The door of the Black Rock was unlocked when I got there. Olive wasn’t answering her phone, so I knew something was wrong right away. I sped home and found the place on fire. I got Stick and Stacy out, but they were both unconscious. The fire trucks and ambulances arrived quickly, at least. They were both taken into urgent care immediately, but I still haven’t gotten an update. I feel like I want to jump out of my skin. I stand up and pace around the small waiting room.

I bring my phone to my ear and replay Olive’s voicemail, though by now I know it by heart. Who is this guy from Concord? Why wouldn’t she have told Stick or me about him? As soon as I ask myself the question, though, I know the answer: because Stick was already crazy overprotective. My mind flashes back to the first night she was back in town, when she gave me the fake name. Something she told me, that I never asked her about. I asked her why she was back in town, and she said something about being attracted to the “wrong kind of guy.” So she was running from him—that’s why she moved back home?

I need to talk to Stick right away. It’s been almost two hours—who knows what this psycho’s done with Olive. Finally, a middle-aged doctor pokes her head in, a grim, tired expression on her face.

“How are they?” I ask.

“He’s regaining consciousness. He has some second degree burns and issues related to smoke inhalation. The woman we’re keeping sedated—she needed to have a breathing tube put in.”

“Can I see him?” I ask.

“Briefly” she says, “Try to keep him calm. He’s frantic about his wife.”

“Fiancee, actually,” I correct her, “But I’ll do my best.”

I follow her down a white hallway and into a room. Stick’s lying in bed, hooked up to beeping machines.

“Fuck,” I murmur. I can’t stand to see Stick like this.

“Where’s Stacy? They won’t—” he begins hoarsely before collapsing into a coughing fit. I grab a plastic cup of ice chips from a side table and put it to his lips. He carefully takes one and lets it dissolve in his mouth.

“Can we have the room for a minute?” I ask the doctor, who’s still standing at the foot of the bed.

“Sure,” she says, glancing between us.

“Stacy’s going to be fine,” I reassure him as she leaves.

“At least Olive wasn’t home,” he whispers.

“I need you to stay calm, OK?” I caution him. “There’s no other way to say it, but Olive is missing. Some stalker from Concord followed her out here. I need to ask your mom about it, she’s the only other person I think might know about it.”

“Oh my god, oh my god...” he moans. “The fire was him? Thought I must have left the stove on. My mom’s phone...give me your cell. Never remember it unless I’m typing it on a keypad.”

I pass it over to him. “Look, arson investigators will be here soon. Just tell them what you know. The club will be fine. Anything in the house is burned up, anyway.”

“It’s all gone?” Stick asks softly.

“I’m sorry. It didn’t look good,” I reply.

“You pulled me out?” he realizes. “And Stacy?”

I nod.

“Fuck, and after what happened with Olive, what I did. Those pictures...I’m sorry, man. Thank you. Thank you,” he pauses, his eyes going blank. “I was supposed to pick her up. I forgot to pick her up last night. I turned my phone off because I was mad...Oh shit. Oh
shit
.”

“Stick, you have to stay calm right now, OK?” I understand how he feels, but I need to get out of here and find Olive. “Listen, the cops are already involved because of the house, and I told them she’s missing. But I want to find this fucker myself. Jail isn’t good enough.”

“Find him. You find that son of a bitch,” Stick says.

I nod and take off back down the hallway. Ratchet already has the brothers assembled at the clubhouse and I want to have all the information I can before I get there. I call the number that Stick keyed into my phone as I hit the down button on the elevator.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers groggily. Fuck, I forgot how early it is still.

“Christine?” I ask.

“...yes? Who is this?”

“This is Stick’s friend West. Maybe you remember me from when you lived out here? I used to stay with you—”

“West? No, I don’t remember anyone named...Oh! Grady?” she breathes.

God, it’s been years since anyone’s called me by my given name.

“Yeah, Grady, that’s right. I go by West now. I’m in Stick’s motorcycle club with him, and we’re roommates.” Well, not anymore. “I’m sorry to call so early…”

“What is it?” she asks nervously, aware that late night or early morning calls are never good news.

“Well, there’s been some trouble here,” I tell her, “And I think it has something to do with some guy that Olive had trouble with back in Concord.”

“Oh my god, what happened? Why aren’t you asking her?” Christine splutters.

“She’s missing,” I say, as gently as I can. I hear her gasp. “And Stick, he’s OK, but the guy set fire to the house. I need to know everything you know about this guy so I can track him down.”

“Yes, yes...Richard Lees. He’s a cop,” she says.

“A fucking cop? Of course. OK. Richard Lees. Anything else you can tell me about him?” I ask.

“I never met him,” she says, “Olive didn’t tell me that much about him. I think she was embarrassed, felt like she had done something wrong, somehow brought it on herself. They dated, he was controlling, I think he may have hit her even. She tried to break it off, he started stalking her, she filed a complaint against him. Oh my god...You have to find her. Do the police have anything yet?”

“They’re doing what they can, but I have to be straight with you,” I say, “I’m going to get this piece of shit myself.”

“You find him, and you put him down,” she says. I can hear the anger and bitterness in her voice, matching what I heard in her son’s just minutes ago. Christine is no wilting flower, that’s for sure.

“Call me if you think of any more information,” I say, and hang up.

The clubhouse isn’t far from the hospital, and I make the drive there in record time, my knuckles turning white as I grip the handlebars. I have to find her. The lot in front of the clubhouse is packed with bikes. When I let Ratchet know that someone had fucked with one of our brothers and kidnapped his sister, every brother and prospect mobilized. Richard Lees has no idea what he’s started.

I turn off my bike and walk quickly through the front door. Heads turn toward me as I enter. I’ve been in tents in the desert of Afghanistan before important missions, and this is exactly what that feels like.

“What do we know?” Ratchet asks from his seat at the bar, mercifully skipping any preamble.

“Richard Lees. Cop from Concord, New Hampshire,” I inform the men. “Stalked Olive for a while out there, followed her out here. I think he may be driving a blue sedan, I’ve got the plate numbers. Noticed it following us a few times, and saw it last night leaving the Black Rock.” I mentally kick myself for not following it.

“Stick and Stacy?” Ratchet asks.

“Recovering,” I tell him.

Ratchet nods and stands up. “We’ve got other chapters coming in. The car’s our best lead, so they’re covering the highways as they drive in, and we’ll go over every inch of this town until we find it. Use any contacts you have. If this guy’s a cop, the police will be all over it, so if we want to find him first, give him real justice, we’ll have to act fast.”

I repeat the license plate number for the brothers over and over until every one of them has it memorized. Ratchet brings out a map and I break up the town into sections, just like I’d do if we were tracking insurgents. Guns are loaded and tucked into waistbands, and my brothers head out to track Richard Lees down. Only Ratchet and a couple prospects are left in the clubhouse. The president takes me aside.

“I hate to say it,” he mutters, “But if he’s hidden the car in a garage, under a tarp, or ditched it, we don’t have a shot. You tried her phone?”

“Rang a few times, now it’s going straight to voicemail.” I feel my cell vibrating in my pocket. “Wait, hang on...” I check the caller. It’s Olive’s mother.

“Christine,” I say.

“It’s my fault. I told him where she was. I didn’t know...” she sobs.

“Christine, calm down. What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I called the station, and I asked to speak to his partner, and it wasn’t the same man who came to see me,” she sputters. “A man came to see me, to follow up on the complaint that Olive had filed. He said his name was Carbee, but actually it was Richard Lees. Carbee is his partner. We spoke today and he said that Richard was fired. No one’s talked to him since.”

“So Lees who came to your house, gave you a fake name, and you told him what?” I press.

“I let him inside my house! And I told him where Olive was! It’s all my fault. I was so stupid,” she cries.

“He’s a predator,” I tell her firmly, “Preying on people is what he does. He would have found her somehow.”

I hear her sniff and take a deep breath. “I have his photo. His partner sent it to me. I’ll text it to you.”

“That would be a big help,” I say.

“You care about my daughter?” she asks.

“Very much,” I respond quickly, surprising myself.

“Good,” she says softly, “It makes me feel better that someone’s looking for her who cares.”

“I should go. I want to get out there,” I say.

“Right. Texting you the photo now,” she replies.

I hang up, and a moment later, I get a text. I open the photo and examine it. Must be Lees’ graduation photo from the police academy. He looks normal, good-looking even. You never can tell. I quickly forward the photo to all my brothers. I realize Ratchet is watching me.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“I’m going to focus on the bad stretches of town. If I wanted to hide someone, that’s where I’d go. Somewhere where people wouldn’t report seeing something strange.”

“I know tempers are high,” he says, “But if you find this guy—”

“What?” I ask, frowning at him. He better not be about to tell me to turn this fucker over to the cops.

Ratchet trains his hard eyes on me. “Just don’t forget to make it look like an accident. You hear me?”