Blood Money

Chapter Forty-Eight

Sydney Bennett’s pulse pounded, her heart racing at better than two beats per second, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Darkness was her friend, really. It made her harder to find. But each night her mind played tricks on her, the slightest noise setting her off in a fit of panic.

She crouched low behind the overgrown bushes, her back to a wall of rough stucco, her knees to her chin, all too aware of the sound of her own breathing.

Quiet!

She was soaking wet, shoeless, and wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. She’d sprinted all the way from the swimming pool, across a parking lot, and down the sidewalk a good two hundred yards before ducking into the bushes. Voices on the other side of the wood fence around the pool area had freaked her out in the middle of an improvised bath. For the past two days she’d been hiding in a vacant townhouse at Whispering Pines, one of those gated communities where all the units looked exactly alike. It was a brand-new development, but not a single one of the three dozen townhomes had ever been occupied. South Florida was littered with empty developments like this one, residential ghost towns, the remnants of a reckless build, build, build spree that had swept developers into bankruptcy, buyers into foreclosure, and big banks into bailouts. Much of Whispering Pines had fallen into disrepair, overrun by weeds and mold. Some units were at least minimally maintained, the owners apparently clinging to the hope that the market might someday rebound, but even after seven broken windows Sydney couldn’t find a single one that had running water. The developer or the bank or whoever owned the property was keeping up the clubhouse, however, so the slightly green pool was her bathtub.

What was that?

She heard the voice again, the one that had scared her off from the pool. A man’s voice.

Merselus?

She couldn’t tell if it was him, but she knew he was after her, that he’d never stop until he found her. The man was relentless. Obsessed. Maybe even crazy. Though he could also be convincing, even charming. He’d certainly fooled Sydney. He had a business card, a resume, and enough money to rent a private airplane. He also had a plan. He’d led her to believe that the plan was to sell her book, make a movie, and make Sydney Bennett a star. It was all a ruse. If she’d had Internet access in the detention center she could have probably figured out that his talent agency was nonexistent, that he’d never actually sold the books and movies he’d claimed to have sold, that his plan for Sydney was something else entirely.

There it is again!

Sydney held her breath, willing herself into silence. No movement. No sound. Completely still. She knew she could do it. She’d controlled her fears enough to fool him once before.

It had been just their second night together. After a short flight to Palm Beach County, Merselus had taken her to a beach house in Manalapan that, he said, belonged to “a wealthy client” who was discreet enough never to tell the media where Sydney was hiding. It was paradise: her own room, a king-size bed, a view of the ocean, and a private bathroom that was bigger than the cell she’d lived in for the past three years. Merselus stocked the refrigerator with all her favorite food and whatever she wanted to drink. He was a perfect gentleman-until he woke her at three A.M. It was as if he’d written a script and somehow expected her to know it. He’d started with controlled aggression, but pure anger took over as she flubbed her next line, didn’t do what he’d scripted, didn’t go wild with excitement, didn’t play the part of the sex-starved jailbird who craved the way he ripped off her panties, grabbed her crotch, and rubbed her raw. The way he squeezed and pulled at the base of her breasts, as if he were trying to rip them from her body. The way he’d tried to force his whole hand deep inside her, as if she were yearning for more than any one woman could possibly handle. And when his other hand slipped up around her throat, she’d managed to strike back with what little nails she had, short prison nails, carving a deep red line across his face. It only made him crazier, angrier, more brutal. Suddenly, both of his hands were tight around her neck, there was no way to breathe, and Sydney was certain that she was going to die as the intense pounding inside her head and unbearable pressure behind her eyes gave way to blackness.

I hear it.

Footsteps on the abandoned sidewalks of Whispering Pines-they were getting louder. Someone was approaching.

Don’t move, don’t run.

It was the same strategy she’d employed in that bedroom in the beach house after she’d regained consciousness-lie there on the bed, completely still, pretending that she’d yet to recover from Merselus and his attack. And then when she was certain that he’d left the bedroom and gone to sleep. .

Run!

Sydney leaped from her hiding spot behind the bushes and started to sprint down the sidewalk. A scream cut through the darkness, and Sydney ran even faster. There were footsteps behind her, but they were fading, not following. She stopped and turned.

What the hell?

She narrowed her eyes, struggling to see in the moonlight. It was kids-some punks on summer vacation looking for a secluded place to share a bottle of vodka and have a party.

Sydney hunched over, hands on her knees. She was exhausted, tired of running, tired of living in fear of Merselus, tired of taking baths in a fucking green swimming pool.

She caught her breath, stood up, and headed back to the pool area to collect her dirty clothes.

Girl, you gotta find a pay phone.

Jack stared at the television screen, speechless. The Faith Corso Show had reached a new low, if that was possible. Still, Jack had to dig very deep inside himself even to begin to feel sorry for Ted Gaines.

“He deserves it,” said Andie.

They were watching together on the couch, Andie leaning against his shoulder. Abuela was in the kitchen cooking enough ropa vieja to last him six months.

“I need to call the Laramores,” said Jack. “They need to know the adoption is public.”

“Try to make Mrs. Laramore see it as a positive,” said Andie. “I know this is something they didn’t want blasted all over the television. But it needed to come out, after the accusations Ted Gaines made against her.”

“That’s the way to spin it, I guess.”

“Don’t think of it as spin. You’re just doing the best you can.”

“Thanks.”

Jack reached for the phone, then paused. Andie herself had been adopted, and even though they’d talked about it before, Jack had been reluctant to mix the Laramore situation with hers. But any insights into shortcuts on finding a birth mother would be useful at this point.

“I have this long-shot theory about Celeste,” he started to say, but it was interrupted again by what was becoming a familiar string of profanities with rhythm-Theo’s ringtone. Jack still had his phone. He picked it up and checked the number.

UNKNOWN, the screen said, which gave Jack even more reason to answer.

“This is Jack.”

“It’s me,” she said, and he knew immediately it was Sydney.

“Are you on a cell?” he asked.

“No. Pay phone.” Jack could hear the traffic noise in the background.

“Do you have a cell?” he asked.

“Yeah. Merselus gave me an iPhone when he met me at the airport, but I’m sure that’s just so he could listen to every call I make.”

“That’s perfect.”

“No, it’s not perfect,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t even turn the damn thing on because I know he can track me with GPS.”

“Listen to me, Sydney. I’m going to put Andie on in a minute. She can tell you how to disarm the GPS tracking. And then you’re going to turn that phone on.”

“What? No! He is going to find me, and he is going to kill me!”

“Merselus is not going to find you. We are going to find him.”

“How?”

“You need to do exactly what I tell you to do,” said Jack.