The Professor (29 page)

Meg desperately groped through the darkness, searching the trunk for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Minutes later, she nearly gave in to renewed despair. She was the only thing in the trunk.

The car slowed and turned. The rear wheel clunked into a pothole and slammed her against the carpet. For a moment, she lay stunned. Then ideas clicked through her mind. Wheels. Tires. Spare tires. Contorting her body, she searched for the spare tire— and the tool kit.

The car stopped.

A noise rumbled under the music. A garage door? The car moved forward and then stopped. The music died. A door opened and slammed, jarring the trunk. Footsteps slapped against a hard surface. They approached the rear of the car.

Meg’s heart slammed against her ribs. She had one chance. She had to be ready.

He wouldn’t expect her to be untied. He might not expect her to be awake. She had one chance to get away. One chance to live.

She held her breath, waiting for the trunk lid to rise. Her muscles tensed and whimpered at the strain.
Breathe. In and out. One shot.

Her hands clenched.
One chance.

The trunk lock clicked. The lid rose slowly. The Professor leaned forward, as if expecting to pull her limp body from the trunk. She surged to her knees. Putting every ounce of her fear and anger into it, she swung at his head.

He recoiled. The tire iron raked across his forehead. Blood spurted and he staggered away from the car. He crouched by the open garage door, hand to his forehead, cursing.

Meg clambered out of the trunk. She sprinted for the door, but the Professor straightened. He sidestepped, arms reaching for her. She spun away from his outstretched hands, back into the garage.

“You shouldn’t have hit me, Meg. Now you’re just pissing me off.” He brushed his hand across his forehead and wiped blood on his trousers.

She held the tire iron like a baseball bat. The cold metal bit into the cut across her palm, but she ignored the pain. “Get away from me.”

Barely daring to take her eyes off him, she flicked glances at the garage interior. On the left side, the door into the cabin led only to another trap. A window centered the outside wall on the right, but layers of paint promised it wouldn’t open easily. Even as she wondered if she could risk looking behind her for another door, he laughed.

“Only one way out.” He edged closer. “Go ahead,” he taunted. “Run. I’ll hunt you down.”

She quickly glanced past him. Lights reflected off water in the distance. A lake? Which one? There were trees. Could she lose him if she made it that far?

He rushed her.

Caught off guard, she swung wildly. He threw up a hand to block the blow. She heard something snap and he cursed. His other hand closed over the end of the rod. The metal slipped in her bloody palm. For a moment, they grappled, then he shoved her. Off balance, they both lost their grip on the tire iron. It clanged onto the concrete floor and flipped under the car.

His hands gripped her arms. Reeling, caught in his embrace, she slammed backward into the car’s fender. He fell with her. His weight hammered her like a sledge against an anvil. Pain crashed through her ribs. She couldn’t breathe.

His body pressed hers, pinning her to the Camaro. Revulsion shimmied over her nerves as he moved, rubbing himself against her. Suddenly, he drew back. Before she could react, his arm slashed across her chest, smashing her onto the hood. His other hand pressed something hard and cold against the base of her throat.

She froze, barely daring to draw in the air her lungs shrieked for.
This is it
.
He’s going to kill me.

Please.
The word formed in her mind. Not now, not when she finally understood what mattered.

“What shall we do first, Meg?”

The superior smirk, the “I-control-your-destiny” expression, sent a jumble of memories of facing down her father through her mind. Defiance strengthened her resolve. There was only one way to survive a bully. Stand up to him. She wouldn’t give this killer the satisfaction of begging.

His arm lifted from her chest. She squirmed, trying to slide away from him.

The blade sliced into her skin. His other hand joined the knife at her throat. “Be still. Don’t make me hurt you.”

She hardened her expression, waiting, watching for another opportunity.

His fingers tightened around her neck, making it hard to breathe.

The blade moved. She felt a chill as the fabric in her shirt parted. The pain came a heartbeat later. A warm trickle slid between her breasts and puddled against her bra.

“I’ve wanted your breasts for a while,” he said. “Your lover can have your heart.” He leaned forward again and fire bloomed in her chest. With a cry of pain, she instinctively smashed her knee toward his groin, but he’d anticipated the move. He twisted and her knee skidded harmlessly across his thigh. His balance shifted with the movement. For a second, the burning pain at her chest released. She whirled to her left, away from him.

“Bitch.” He uncoiled and grabbed her arm.

Desperately, she kicked at his legs and broke free.

Gasping for air, she ran to the front of the car and spun to face him. The Professor stood between her and the garage door. He casually rotated something dark and glittery, then laughed. “I can stand here all day. You’re awake now, but all I have to do is wait. The next wave of that pill will hit you soon and I can do whatever I want.”

Her ribs throbbed in time with her breathing. She pulled the shirt’s cut edges together as fear coiled around her. She’d thought she was clear of the drug.
He has to be lying.

“I’ve seen all the variations. Sometimes it’s only a few seconds of clarity. Others are like Emily and you—aware for a while.”

Panic throbbed in the cuts and sent tendrils of horror sliding down her spine.
What had Emily gone through? Everyone knew he’d tortured her.

She braced herself against the car, denying the terror. She’d made it this far. She wasn’t going to give up now.

“You can’t escape,” he taunted. “I’ve thought of everything. How to set you up, lure you in—and all of it right under the cops’ noses.”

He leaned against the door frame and smiled. “It’s like a chess game. It takes strategy, thinking—something too few people seem capable of. I plan a series of seemingly insignificant moves, then
poof
.” He flicked his fingers open and closed. “You’re mine. And now nobody knows where you are. Nobody’s going to save you.”

“Mick will,” she said defiantly. Ignoring the fire in her ribs and chest, she straightened.

“He doesn’t even know you’re gone,” the Professor scoffed. “I set my message to deliver at six. That’s after-hours. He’ll have already gone home. He won’t know to start looking until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Hope flared. The Professor knew nothing about Mick. He’d still be working at six.

“Too bad you never got a phone. A good-night call could’ve saved you.”

He didn’t know about the cell phone. When she didn’t answer, Mick would know something was wrong.

“Even if he checks his e-mail over the next few days, he’ll never find you here.”

Next few days? He wasn’t going to kill her?

“I see the confusion on your lovely face. Believe me, I intend to enjoy our time together. You’ve been an enormous nuisance. I’ve had to change too many of my plans because of you.”

He touched his forehead. Blood from the cut trickled down his cheek. “Have you ever tasted blood?”

He raised his hand to his mouth. His tongue slid over the crimson smears on his fingers. “Each person’s is unique. I wonder how yours will taste? Sweet? Or spicy with fear?”

His meaning stilled her breathing and drained the blood from her face. Panic froze her. The fire in her chest multiplied, spread in her imagination to other body parts. Just like Emily. He meant to torture her, as long as he could. As long as she stayed alive.

She fought the trembling that started in her legs. She had to get out of the garage. But she’d lost her weapon. She couldn’t get past him without one.
Think
, the rational part of her brain shrieked. There had to be another way—something else she could use. She chanced another look around the small building.

“Meg, Meg.” He shook his head, as if disappointed. “I already told you. There is no other exit. It’s just you and me and all the time in the world. For me, that is.”

There was a pile of gardening tools against the far wall. He’d easily beat her to them if she tried to reach them.

Fool him. Use his expectations.
It was her only chance. She knew what it felt like when the drugs hit her. She could fake it.

She swayed, as if the concrete under her feet had suddenly rocked, and reached for the car to steady herself. Head sagging, she leaned heavily on the hood.

“You lose, Meg.”

She jerked her head up, shaking it as if to clear her dizziness.

His eyes held a predatory excitement.

“No.” She straightened and pretended to lose her balance, staggering a step.

He eased down the left side of the car. “Who knows, maybe you’ll enjoy what I’ve planned. We both know I will.”

How close should she let him get?
She backed away slowly, stumbling
occasionally, until she reached the corner of the Camaro. She stopped and swayed, facing him across the hood.

“We’ll let your smug agent friend enjoy it too. I’ll send him pictures, each step of the way. Anything that happens to you is really his fault. He couldn’t do his job. He expected other people to do everything for him. Men like him are users, Meg. Parasites. Haven’t you learned anything? They take the easy way out. You can’t depend on him.”

She sprinted for the pile of tools. She grabbed the closest handle and kept running. The pile clattered to the floor behind her.

Free of the garage, she spun, looking for the Professor. He was nearly on top of her. Only feet away, he lunged forward, reaching for her.

She swung the handle like a club. The shovel’s blade slammed into his face.

He screamed as the metal spade crushed his cheekbone and ripped open a gash. His eyes, which had been locked onto hers in triumphant expectation, went wide with shock.

Reeling backward, his hands cradled his face. Blood streamed down his cheek and neck. Cursing, he stumbled over the tools scattered across the garage entrance.

“God damn you,” he roared.

“Kill the lights,” Mick ordered.

Compton toggled off the rooftops and the headlights. Without being told, the younger agent slowed and reversed the cruiser into the driveway closest to Bradley’s cabin.

The small building stood in a clearing several hundred yards away, at a bend in the road. The front was dark, but a fan of illumination spread from the rear. From this angle, he could see the drive swung past the house and entered from the lakeside. The garage door must still be open, spilling light into the backyard. Another structure, maybe a newer boathouse, sat farther down the drive, closer to the lake.

Cracking the window, he strained to hear. He slashed a finger at the rookie and Compton cut the engine. It took a moment for the silence to fill—water lapping at the shore, insects, light wind ruffling the pine.

He scanned the cabin’s windows. Were they dark or blocked by paint or fabric? Was Meg inside? What was Bradley doing to her?

He jerked his thoughts off that track.
Focus.

He turned his head, taking in the surrounding area. If Meg managed to get away, where would she go? The lake blocked her escape behind the house, the natural flight path she’d take from the open garage. If she ran into the woods, it would be another battle to find her, but the trees would provide good cover as the police moved in.

His cell phone buzzed, vibrating in his pocket. For a second, he ignored it. It was only a matter of time before Frank figured out what he’d done and ordered him back to Greenville. A quick glance showed the 803 area code and number of the Department of Natural Resources.

“O’Shaughnessy.”

Ridley’s voice was tense. “We pulled back to the twin bridges. We have two boats inbound. What’s your location?”

“Two hundred yards from the target. Agent Compton is with me. He’s calling for support from Newberry Sheriff’s and alerting SLED.”

Mick caught Compton’s eye and nodded. The younger agent picked up the ops radio and scrolled the volume. Voices and static filled the car as Compton keyed in, gave their location and requested backup.

Mick crammed a finger into his ear to block the radio chatter. “I see light behind the house. Did you see any activity?”

“We saw a civilian car on Hodges Road. This time of night, this time of year, we’d have noticed it anyway. If this is your guy, we didn’t want to get too close and spook him, so we backed off. We kept glasses on the building as long as we could. The car pulled into the garage.” He described the driver.

“That’s him,” Mick said.
Where’s Meg?
“You pulled back, when?”

“Maybe two minutes ago.”

A lot can happen in two minutes. People can get hurt. People can die.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.
It hasn’t happened yet. Figure out how to get her back.

“Compton?” He quirked an eyebrow at the rookie. “Sheriff’s ETA?”

The younger man spoke into the radio. “Confirmed suspect at our location.”

Moving his finger off the Transmit button, he answered Mick’s question. “Nearest
patrol is nine minutes out. Dispatch notified the chain of command.”

They were back in the official loop. Sort of. That meant he had minutes before Frank found him.

“The network is diverting in this direction,” Compton added, still listening to the radio.

“Okay.” Mick returned to the Department of Natural Resources agent. “Cruise in slow.” An incoming call beeped in the background. “Let Dispatch know you’re here and available.”

He clicked to the new call.

“What in the
hell
do you think you’re doing?” Frank’s voice was low and furious.

“My job.”

“I told you—”

“To stay out of Clinton and the manhunt. I did what I’m supposed to do, Meyers. I found Bradley’s cabin.”

“He doesn’t own—”

“Under a corporate name. I played a hunch. I talked Compton into checking it out. We’re good on this. It’s straight up. Compton’s gone by the book every step.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do. Bradley’s here.”

“How do you—?”

“Shh.” He caught a murmur of voices, muffled by distance and the building. “I hear something.”

Two voices. Male and female. Relief drenched him.
She’s alive. She’s talking, arguing.
The cadence alternated, but he couldn’t distinguish the words.

“She’s here, Frank. She’s alive.”

Hang on, Meg. Slow him down. We’re here.

“Christ, Mick.” Frank continued to swear softly. “You sure?”

“I hear her.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. We’re nearly there.”

He had a sudden vision of the cottage surrounded by SWAT, a hostage negotiator, flash bangs and storming the building, but the central image was Bradley swiping a knife across Meg’s vulnerable throat as the team burst through the door. “Tell them not to do something stupid, like get her killed.”

A clatter rocked the night.

He jerked toward the cottage. A figure burst into the wedge of light behind the garage. Meg! She whirled and swung something like a baseball bat at another figure. A scream split the air.

“Shit.”

He dropped the phone and slammed open the door. In two steps he was full-out running. Arms pumping. Feet churning.

Meg. Gotta get there. Now.

“God damn you,” Bradley roared. The killer sprang forward, arms outstretched. “You bitch.”

Meg dragged her arms back, as if trying to lift the heavy shovel into position, but the killer jerked forward and caught the handle. For a moment, they grappled, then Meg released the tool, turned and ran.

Not that way, Meg. You’re trapped.
He dodged trees, staggering over a rough spot. His hand reached for his holster and pistol.
Too far. Too far away. Get closer.

Behind him, he heard the patrol trunk open.
Get the shotgun, Compton. And screw the beanbags. Get ammo.

The Professor threw the shovel aside and ran after the fleeing woman.

Mick tore across the yard separating the two cottages. “Bradley,” he yelled.

The man’s figure jumped as if shot, pivoting toward Mick’s voice. Meg sprinted ahead, then circled away from the dead end of the lake and dock. The movement brought her closer to Bradley instead of farther away.

“Police. Get down. Now.”

The killer laughed. Turning, he angled across the arc of Meg’s turn. She pivoted, looking for a way past him. She was trapped between Bradley and the lake, being herded toward the smaller building.

He pounded across the drive.
Closer. Closer.

“Mick,”
Meg shrieked.

He tore his gaze from Bradley, shifting sideways. Meg’s terrified face glowed in the light from the garage. Feet flying, she changed course again, trying to circle her captor.

Bradley lunged forward. His hands closed around Meg’s arm and she screamed.

“Let her go,” Mick roared.

The killer jerked her into his chest and spun. His hand whipped to her neck. “Back off,” he yelled. “I’ll kill her.”

Mick didn’t pause. Before Bradley could plant his feet and solidify his grip, Mick lunged and slammed into both of them. His hand angled up to shove Bradley’s hand from Meg’s throat, but the man’s fist was moving already, slashing toward him.

Pain lanced across his shoulder. He barely registered it.

They hit the ground, Meg sandwiched between them, in a flurry of arms and legs and bodies. Meg screamed. The men yelled. Everyone hit everything, elbows, fists and knees flashing.

Movement above him registered.
Knife
. A fist rising to strike.

He lashed out and grabbed Bradley’s wrist with both hands. A black blade glittered in the available light.

He pushed, forcing the knife into the air, away from all of them. Beneath him, Meg writhed with thrashing limbs, trying to break free. She kicked, using the strength of her legs, but she was hitting him as often as she did Bradley. With a grunt, he released one hand and shoved, pushing her from the melee.

Bradley abruptly twisted, hammering a fist into Mick’s exposed ribs, nearly breaking free. “Bastard. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill all of you.”

The knife hovered in front of his face, the sharp tip inches from his eye. He shoved the killer’s wrist, forcing the blade aside. His fist slammed into Bradley’s already bloody face. Cartilage exploded with a satisfying crunch.

Bradley roared with pain and anger. Arching off the ground, he tried to reverse their positions. His fist battered at Mick, but rage had carried him beyond feeling.

Dimly, he recognized the killer still held the knife. His hand tightened, squeezing the tendons in Bradley wrist until the fingers flopped, useless, and the black blade fell away.

With his other hand, Bradley hammered into his face, his ribs. Knees and feet thrashed.

Blood pounded in Mick’s ears. All that registered was Bradley. The Professor, the man who’d threatened Meg, the killer who’d tormented his woman, lay underneath him. Mick’s fists pummeled, answering Bradley blow for blow. Rage added power. It seemed endless, a physical volcano of hatred unleashed on the other’s body.

“Mick.” Meg’s voice reached him. “Mick, stop.”

Her body floated over them. Her hand tugged at his shoulder. Mick angled his head, glancing up at her. Another hand wrapped her waist. “Step back.”

Compton.

The rookie made no move to end the fight. He simply pulled Meg clear.

Reason seeped into a corner of Mick’s mind. Bradley lay limp beneath him. Sirens shrieked in the distance. Mere minutes had passed, but the bloodlust had suspended time.

Bradley moved. He raised defiant fists and battered Mick’s ribs in a quick tattoo. Pain flared across his torso.

“Pussy-whipped,” the killer taunted. The words tumbled from split, bloody lips in a mangled face. “Can’t be a man and finish it.”

Mick stared into the man’s eyes. Hate shimmied through him in a visceral tangle. Killing Bradley would be easy.

So easy.

The seduction was there. He felt the lure at the same time revulsion flamed through him. Giving in to the compulsion would make him no better than the animal underneath him.

He placed his hands on Bradley’s chest and pushed off, deliberately crushing the breath from the other man’s lungs. Rising, Mick said, “Get up.”

A bloody, pathetic excuse of a human stared up at him, gasping for air. “Go to hell.”

Mick planted his hands on his hips and fought to control his breathing and his rage. Forcing his anger aside, he sucked in air. Bradley wasn’t worth losing anything over—his career, his beliefs, Meg. The man was nothing.

Compton stepped forward and leveled the shotgun at Bradley. “On your face. Hands on the ground. Above your shoulders.”

Bradley spit at them, a bloody mess both agents ignored. Still cursing, the killer rolled onto his stomach.

Mick reached for the cuffs clipped to his belt. Moving forward, he dropped to one knee and slapped the first bracelet around the Professor’s wrist. “You’re under arrest…”