Captives

NINETY-EIGHT

What if they were waiting inside for him?

The corridor was deserted, just as the stairs had been during his tortuous climb. Maybe they were waiting in the flat itself.

Scott hesitated a few paces away, the thought turning over and over in his mind. He reached for the knife and pulled it from his belt, inserting it in the door frame close to the lock.

He had to take the chance.

Scott moved the knife gently but firmly and the lock finally slipped.

He stood close to the door, listening for any signs or sounds of movement. Satisfied that there were none, he pushed the door open and stepped inside the flat, closing the door quickly behind him.

The place smelt damp. Cupboards were open and furniture lay overturned, the way it had been the day they arrested him. Scott stood looking around for long moments, pressing one hand to his temple as a particularly vehement stab of pain lanced through his brain. He gritted his teeth, thought for a second he was going to pass out. When it cleared, he moved into the bedroom. There he pulled open his wardrobe. His clothes were still there, at least. He tried the bedside cabinet.

The Beretta was gone.

He slammed the drawer shut, realising that the police had obviously kept it. Bastards. He sat down on the edge of the bed, acutely aware not only of the pain from his head and his leg but of his weariness, of the stench he was giving off. He decided a shower would remedy both those problems and stumbled through into the bathroom, spinning the cold tap and scooping water to swallow two more aspirins. Then he turned on the shower and pulled off the shirt and jeans he'd been wearing, finally standing naked.

Scott turned to the bathroom mirror and looked at his reflection. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken through pain and lack of sleep but it was the bandage to which he addressed his attention. With infinite slowness he began to peel it off, finally dropping it onto the floor. There was a piece of gauze on his forehead, held in place by two pieces of surgical tape. Carefully, the noise of the shower filling the room now, Scott removed them, pulling the encrusted gauze pad free.

The wound in his skull was less than two inches long, running from just below his hairline, diagonally towards his right eyebrow. The wound was caked with congealed blood and the dark stitches stood out even more vividly against the paleness of his flesh. He looked more closely, the breath sticking in his throat.

The wound was pulsing gently.

As he put his forefinger to it, he noticed that his hand was shaking.

The wound throbbed rhythmically, like a small heart, but the steady beat was not that of his pulse.

It bumped gently to its own tempo.

Scott swallowed hard, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of pain hit him.

Make it stop.

He moistened a piece of cotton wool and cleaned some of the dried blood from around the wound. The pain was intense. He rubbed both hands across his face and stepped beneath the shower, allowing the streams of water to wash the accumulated filth from him. He closed his eyes briefly, then looked down at the cut on his calf. It was deep and had bled profusely but he could attend to it himself. Besides, it was only a dull ache compared to the excruciating agony inside his skull. He washed quickly, seeing blood swirl around the plug-hole as he stepped out, switched off the shower and began to dry himself.

He found some bandages in one of the bathroom cabinets and hastily wound one around his calf, securing it with a stout bow. The wound on his forehead, he discovered, could be covered by a large plaster. Careful not to press too hard on the wound, he affixed it, leaning on the sink for support. He swallowed more aspirin and found, to his joy, that the pain was subsiding. He splashed his face with cold water and dried it carefully, satisfied the plaster was in place. Then he wandered back into the bedroom and slipped on a shirt, a fresh pair of jeans and a pair of cowboy boots.

He slid the knife down the side of one boot.

He crossed to the phone, checking that it was still connected.

He dialled Carol's number and waited.

Waited.

Nothing.

Three times he tried it. Three times he was greeted by the ringing tone.

Finally he pressed down on the cradle, listening to the monotonous buzz of the dial tone for a moment before punching new digits.

Ray Plummer's phone rang.

And rang.

And was picked up.

'Hello.'

He recognised the voice immediately.

'Hello. Who is this?' Carol Jackson wanted to know.

Scott gripped the receiver in his fist then, with a loud roar, slammed it down the force of the impact shattering the plastic phone in two. He picked it up and hurled it across the room.

Fucking slag.

Dirty fucking slag.

He got to his feet, pulling on the leather jacket he'd taken from the wardrobe, and headed for the door.

The knife bumped against his leg as he walked.

The drive to Plummer's flat would take him less than an hour, he guessed.

But first, he had other tasks to perform.