Her own body odor hit her nose suddenly, as if she hadn’t been able to smell it until he pointed it out. Humiliation spilled into her. The stolen candy weighed heavily in her pocket. Not much of a meal. “Wait.”
He glanced back.
“I’ll do it.” Waitressing was legit, right?
He led her to a shiny town car. Light from the streetlamp reflected off the windshield like a mirror, blinding her to what was inside. She knew she shouldn’t get in. The car was way too nice for the neighborhood. But what else was she going to do?
He started the car and shifted into drive. The locks clicked down. Jenna jumped. He drove away from the strip mall. She hunched in the leather seat and stared out the window. He pulled into the drive-through at Carl’s Jr. and ordered a burger, fries, and a Coke. A minute later, the Carl’s guy passed a bag through the car window. The aroma of fried grease hit Jenna’s nose, and her stomach flipped out with a loud gurgle.
Grinning, Mick nodded at the bag. “Eat up.”
She ate with the speed of a starving dog.
A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of a door to a cheap chain motel room. Not even the dark of night could conceal the chipped stucco and peeling brown paint.
Her eyes skimmed over the sagging roofline. “Where’s the restaurant?”
“Closed now. You can crash with me.”
Apprehension tightened around her meal. She set the Coke aside. How many other details did he leave out?
They got out of the car. Jenna turned to run as a flash of panic rushed through her. But his body blocked her escape. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Jenna’s arms broke out in goose bumps. The apprehension she’d felt in the car grew. She backed away. “I changed my mind. I want to go.”
He shook his head. “This is what’s gonna happen.” He stepped closer, his pretty brown eyes shrinking down to mean, cold marbles. “I own you now. You’ll do whatever I say, or I’ll hurt you. You try to leave, I’ll kill you. You escape? I’ll find you, and you’ll pay.”
Mick’s hand shot out. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her into the room. He released his hold, and she stumbled. Locking the door behind them, he crossed his arms. “Your new name is Jewel.” He walked to the dresser and picked up a bottle of vodka. “Time to get started.” He handed her the bottle. “Drink.”
Mick put three blue pills in Jenna’s other hand. “These, too.”
Jenna put the pills in her mouth. The vodka set her belly on fire. The back of her throat burned. But she did as she was told. Just looking at him, she knew he’d hurt her if she didn’t obey.
Minutes later, her vision hazed, and her limbs turned lazy.
“What’s your name?” Mick asked.
Terror confused her. “Jenna.”
She saw the violence simmering in his eye, but the backhand still shocked her. Pain sliced through her face. She pressed a hand to her stinging cheek. Lenny had handed out worse, but he was older and slower. She’d been prepared for the blows.
“What’s your name?” he asked again.
This time, she remembered. “Jewel.”
“Good girl.” He smiled. “Say my name.”
“Mick,” she croaked.
He reached out. She flinched, expecting another blow, but he only lifted her chin. “Now it’s time for you to earn your keep. You do what you’re told, so I don’t have to beat you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hannah parked Grant’s truck in the driveway and turned off the engine. The windshield wipers stopped, and light rain misted on the glass. In no rush to go inside and be alone, she checked her phone. It was almost four o’clock, and Brody hadn’t called. But he’d expected to be tied up all day. Though their meeting had been set for morning, the prosecutor had rescheduled for afternoon at the last minute. Hannah fought the urge to dial Brody’s number. Her discussion with the prosecutor had reopened wounds and left her raw.
The text from Grant had only made things worse. He’d messaged her twice this week, and she’d lied outrageously to him both times. But she didn’t want him to come home. She didn’t want him to get upset, not after he’d made such good progress. She didn’t want her family anywhere near Scarlet Falls, but the house felt empty without them.
Since when did she not want to be alone? She spent most of her career either working or alone in a hotel room. Now, returning to that lifestyle held little appeal. She didn’t want months to pass without a hug from Carson. She wanted to be here when Faith hit her next milestone. Something within her had changed, shifted, almost as if there was more room inside her. Empty places that needed to be filled, and only one man who could make her whole.
Brody.
The strength of her need for him left her as shaken as the prosecutor’s news. Under her instability, a thick layer of anger simmered.
Her cell vibrated. Brody. Finally. Her heartbeat skipped as she answered the call.
“How did it go with the prosecutor?” he asked.
“She’s going to let him plead out.” The words tumbled out of her mouth with none of her usual control and measure. Her voice tasted bitter in her throat.
“What?”
“The defense attorney intends to haul Grant and Carson through hell, and there’s nothing the prosecutor can do to stop him. The charges against Grant and the motion for change of venue were just the openers. He has a big song and dance prepared about his client’s psychological state. He’s going to drag this out as long as possible.” Hannah clenched the steering wheel, her knuckles white with frustration.
“
Does she think he’ll get the change of venue?”
“No. She’s fairly confident in the judge assigned to the case, but she is concerned about the chances of the verdict being overturned on appeal. Frankly, his argument has merit, and she knows it. Publicity on this case has been relentless.”
“Much of that news coverage was generated by the defense,” Brody said.
“Nobody cares about the source. The only matter under consideration is the possibility of seating an impartial jury. Plus, if Carson is put on the stand, there’s no telling what he’ll remember. This case could drag out for years. He’s six. He should be able to rebuild his life, not be constantly reminded of what he’s lost.”
“There’s enough evidence that Carson shouldn’t need to testify. Surely, the court can protect him.”
“But the defense is insisting. If Carson doesn’t take the stand, that’s one more reason for appeal.” She swallowed, her throat tasting bitter. “So, she’s going to let him plead guilty. She assures me, with murder and the other lesser charges, he’ll serve a minimum of twenty-five years before he’ll be eligible for parole.” But twenty-five years wasn’t good enough for Hannah. He should never see daylight again. Lee wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry.” Brody’s voice held more disappointment than shock. “I wish I could tell you bullshit plea deals were uncommon, but they’re more common than trials.”
“I know, and in reality, the death penalty isn’t an option in New York State, so the maximum sentence would be life without parole. The prosecutor thinks twenty-five years is good enough.”
And she gets the conviction for her statistics.
“But the assault charge against Grant will go away as part of the deal.”
“I know you’re disappointed, but a plea will let Grant and Carson get on with their lives.”
Disappointed? That didn’t even come close. Anger seethed through Hannah’s blood. The prosecutor had all but stated that she didn’t want to spend the next year working on a case with this many complications and unknowns. An overturned verdict hurt her numbers. A plea satisfied her boss. The case would be closed. Her caseload was enormous, and her resources limited. She wanted to put this case away with no possibility that it would land back on her desk in eighteen months.
But twenty-five years?
Lee’s killer could still have part of a life remaining when he was released from prison. Her brother was gone forever. His children were orphans.
“I’m sorry,” Brody said. “It’s not fair.”
“No. But maybe she’s right. Maybe it would be best for Carson and Grant to let this go.” Hannah’s throat tightened. Carson would be thirty-one when the sentence was up. How would he deal with his father’s killer being set free?
“I wish I could be there with you, but I have to go into another meeting with the chief and mayor about yesterday’s shooting. I don’t know when I’ll be available again. I’ll call you when I’m finished?”
“Please.” She wished he were here more than was comfortable. He grounded her. His smooth demeanor offset her turbulence. He could be her ballast if she let him, and the loss of independence that realization represented sent wariness rippling over her skin like goose bumps.
“I will.” Brody said good-bye and ended the call.
Hannah got out of the car. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky. The wind shifted, carrying the smell of wood smoke and falling leaves to her nose. The cold rain refreshed her skin. She’d dressed for her meeting, but the business suit and makeup felt uncomfortable, wrong, as if she were wearing a costume. Her Prada suede pumps hurt her toes. She couldn’t wait to change into jeans and wash her face.
She headed for the front porch. Her body was tired, the beauty of last night with Brody wiped clear by her meeting with the prosecutor. Politics had claimed another victory over justice. This shouldn’t happen. People like Lee and Kate shouldn’t be murdered. Places like Scarlet Falls shouldn’t be tainted by depravity.
The dog barked on the other side of the door. Distracted, she opened her purse to retrieve her key. A movement in the shadow of the house caught her attention. A man stepped into the light and pointed a gun at Hannah’s chest.
Cruel, lean face. Goatee. Mean eyes. It was him. The man who had assaulted her in Vegas.
“Remember me?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hannah’s body went rigid. Sweat poured from her clammy skin. This man had hurt her before, and this time he was armed. Last time neither of them had been carrying, but today he had the advantage. Just as she’d been unable to carry her gun into New York City, her permit did not allow her to bring a weapon into a federal building. She’d locked her Glock in the safe to meet with the prosecutor. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Grant and the family weren’t home.
If he’d been alone, if he hadn’t had an accomplice to ram her car, the scenario in the Las Vegas parking lot might not have gone his way. She scanned him from his boots to the backward cap on his head. The saggy jeans and oversize hoodie said city boy.
He gestured toward her with the gun. “Turn around and raise your hands.”
Hannah pivoted, the heel of her shoe scraping on the walk. She wasn’t dressed for the woods any more than him.
“Move it, bitch.” He poked her back with the muzzle.
“Where do you want me to go?”
“My car is behind the garage. We’re going to take a ride.”
Hannah followed the driveway around the house. On her right, the lawn rolled into the creek and woods beyond. The detached garage sat off the left side, at the edge of the trees that surrounded the property. Her brother used the building for tool storage rather than parking. They walked behind the small building. A Buick sedan sat between the garage and the forest. What could she do?
He pulled a car key from his pocket and pressed the button on the fob with his thumb. The trunk popped open. Stepping to Hannah’s side, he pointed the gun at her temple. “Get in the trunk.”
So he could incapacitate her, take her to a secluded location, and proceed with the torture-rape-kill scenario she bet was in his mind? She wasn’t going to cooperate with that plan.
“From now on, you belong to me.” He grinned, confidence and malice filling his dark beady eyes. He motioned toward the trunk with the gun.
Hannah considered her options. He stood three feet from her, too far away to disarm him. She took a step and turned toward the trunk. She glanced over her shoulder. Excitement lit his eyes, and fear gathered behind Hannah’s sternum. Getting into that trunk meant certain death. Her gaze flickered to the woods, her best chance for escape.
She shifted her weight as if preparing to climb into the vehicle, then she kicked out behind her. Her foot caught his hand, knocking the gun out of his grip. It landed a few feet away and slid in the grass. He lunged toward the weapon. Leaving her Pradas behind, Hannah sprinted for the woods. After several days of intermittent rain, the ground was slippery under her bare feet. She zigzagged through the trees. Behind her, she heard huffing and crashing as gangsta boy lumbered into the forest like a tank on a Formula One course.
Hannah swung right and doubled back toward the garage, her gray-on-gray ensemble blending into the autumn-bare woods. Slowing, she took care to avoid patches of dried leaves. She paused to take stock and track the sounds of twigs snapping to the man moving a hundred feet away. Ducking behind a group of evergreens, she picked up a short, sturdy branch and waited, hoping the dense greenery was enough to conceal her body. His footsteps came closer and closer. A bead of sweat rolled down Hannah’s spine. Her lungs bellowed, and her head spun from the sudden exertion of her sprint. She wasn’t in prime condition. Too much work and not enough exercise in her life.
He passed the trees. Hannah lunged. She swung the branch at his head. He ducked, avoiding a direct blow. He lifted the gun in his hand. Before it leveled on Hannah, she dropped the branch and twisted. Both hands came down on the gun, swinging the barrel toward the ground. Applying pressure to his wrist, she turned the weapon toward him, twisting it out of his grip and pointing it at his face.
“You won’t shoot me,” he said smugly.
“Wanna bet?”
He grabbed for the weapon. Hannah pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
“It ain’t loaded. After that scene at the car, I figured you’d try something.” He pulled a knife from his pocket and dove at her legs, sweeping both arms toward her knees for a tackle.
Hannah dropped the empty gun and sprawled her legs back. Her hands, arms, and body weight came down on the back of his shoulders. Off balance and surprised by her response, he hit the ground face-first. Still pressing down, Hannah spun on his back. She slid one arm under his chin to encircle his neck and locked him in a choke hold. Squeezing her elbows together, she applied pressure to the sides of his neck and cut off the blood supply to his brain. He flopped on the dirt. Hannah held on. Twenty seconds later, he went limp.
She wiggled out from under him and patted him down. His pockets were full of interesting items. She opened his wallet. His Nevada driver’s license said his name was Mick Arnette. She stuffed his wallet, knife, car key, and cell phone into her pockets. She pulled a few plastic strips from the front pocket of his jeans. “Zip ties. How handy.”
She used them to secure his wrists behind his back and bind his ankles together. Then she ran for the garage, visible through the trees. He’d be awake in a few minutes, and it was time to turn the tables on this scumbag. He was going to tell her what he did with Jewel. Was the girl still alive?
As she’d learned from her meeting with the prosecutor, criminals knew the law well enough to use it to their advantage. Once she called the police, Mick would clam up and demand a lawyer.
She opened her brother’s garage and scanned the walls of construction tools. She spied a coil of yellow nylon rope. Looping it over her shoulder, she spotted a come-along hand winch on a shelf. She read the label. The cable puller had a four-ton lifting capacity. That ought to do it. A short length of chain was coiled next to the hand winch. Perfect. Taking both, she jogged back to Mick.
Wrapping the chain around a nearby tree, she snapped the hook on one end of the come-along to two thick links. The nylon rope went around Mick’s ankles. Hannah looked up and located a sturdy tree limb about twelve feet overhead. A few tosses put the other end of the rope over the branch. She took up the slack in the rope, made a loop, and tied it off. Then she hooked the other end of the hand winch to the loop in the rope. She cranked the handle back and forth, ratcheting Mick’s feet off the ground. She worked the hoist until he was hanging upside down with his head about five feet off the ground. The blood rushing to his head would wake him up.
Her father’s survival drills had been crazy, but at that moment she was thankful for every brutal second.
He shook his head, his eyelids fluttering.
She smacked his cheek. “Wake up, Mick.”
He stirred and blinked at her. His eyes moved in wild arcs, and his body twisted like a worm on a hook. Hatred shone from his eyes, but there was also apprehension. Good.
“You and I need to have a conversation,” she said.
“You’re going to regret this.” He struggled, his body swaying. “Go fuck yourself.”
“I hardly think you’re in a position to make that sort of suggestion, Mick.” Hannah took his knife from her pocket and waved it in front of his nose. “Here’s how it works. The person who isn’t hanging upside down from a tree gets to ask the questions. You need to start talking.”
“I’m not telling you anything. You’re going to let me down, and you’re going to do what I say.” Spite, gleeful and malicious, pinched his face. “If you want to see your friend alive again.”
That must mean . . .
She was alive!
Hannah didn’t let her relief show on her face. She channeled her contract-negotiating expression—similar to emotional Botox. “Just tell me where she is.”
Mick’s body went still. “She?”
“The girl.”
“What girl?” His face reddened as the blood flowed into his head.
“Jewel.”
He laughed. “You’re hung up on that little whore? She’s long gone. I have no idea where she is.”
“What did you do with her?” Hannah asked. Then discomfort rode up her spine as she realized the full impact of his statement. “Who were you talking about?”
“Check your e-mail.” Glee lit his eyes.
What had he done?
Hannah took her phone from her pocket and opened her e-mail. She had fifty-seven new e-mails. She scanned the list, stopping on a message from [email protected]. Clicking on the attachment, she gasped. Staring back at her was a picture of Chet, bound, gagged with duct tape, and apparently unconscious. She studied the photo. The picture was zoomed in close. Where was he? She couldn’t see much of the background. Just grass and weeds under his head. A dark red wall of some sort behind him. He could be anywhere.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Like I’m going to tell you.” He sneered. “My brother is watching him. If I don’t call by eight o’clock, he’ll kill the old man. He’ll enjoy doing it.”
An icy ball formed behind Hannah’s ribs. She took his phone out of her pocket.
A lock screen appeared. “Pass code?”
“Like I’d give you that.” The arrogant bastard actually smirked. “Let me down and untie me. Then I’ll tell you.”
Right. Not. Hannah debated for a minute. She could call Brody. He’d bring the police. They’d start a formal search for Chet. But would Mick talk to the police? She doubted it. She had a feeling he knew the Miranda warnings by heart.
She waved the knife. “My father was an army ranger. He taught me how to do all sorts of interesting things, like rig snares and hunt game. By the time I was twelve, I could skin and field dress a deer.” She reached up and touched his solar plexus with her forefinger. “You make a cut from the deer’s sternum to its crotch. That’s the tricky part. The cut has to be deep enough to get through the hide and abdominal muscles, but you don’t want to puncture the intestines. You need to pull those out intact so their contents don’t taint the meat.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The brief shimmer of fear in his eyes gave her hope that he’d tell her where his partner was keeping Chet.
A predatory, egotistic smile split his face. “Nice bluff, counselor. But you aren’t like me. You aren’t going to cut me. You have morals. You care about doing what’s right. And you’d go to prison for it.”
A small voice inside her wanted to make him pay. He was the worst example of humanity. He preyed on helpless young girls and old men. He wasn’t worth the air he breathed. Once he was arrested, the courts would take over. He’d be one more cog in an overcrowded wheel. He was a plea away from a short sentence.
But she couldn’t do it. She’d fight to defend herself or another, but she couldn’t hurt a man hanging helpless from a tree, no matter how much the man deserved it. Her father and her brother had fought and sacrificed for freedom and democracy, not vigilante justice. But now she truly understood the anger and frustration that had driven Grant to pound on their brother’s killer.
Damn it.
She couldn’t let him go, and she couldn’t make him talk. That left one option. She had to trust Brody.
Hannah pulled out her own cell and dialed Brody. His voice mail answered. She called the police station. A man answered the call. “Scarlet Falls police. Sergeant Stevens.”
“If you call the cops, I’ll never tell you,” Mick said. “If the old man dies, it’ll be your fault.”
Hannah ignored him. “I need to talk to Detective McNamara.” Hannah stared at the photo of Chet. There must be a clue in the picture that could tell her where Chet was tied up.
“Detective McNamara is unavailable.”
“Please, interrupt him.” She gave the sergeant her name. “It’s an emergency.”
“Better hurry,” Mick chided. “It’s fucking cold out here today. The old dude won’t last long. When we grabbed him, he already looked half dead.”