Fear

FORTY-TWO

‘You gave me a chase, man.’ Groote knelt down near Nathan, keeping the gun firmly aimed at Celeste’s head. ‘Now. No more fighting, okay? It only hurts us both.’

Nathan’s mouth trembled. ‘No. No.’

‘Thinking about the time we spent together?’ Groote said. ‘I don’t enjoy hurting people. But no pain for you, no gain for me. Talk to me, and I won’t get out Mr. Screwdriver again. At least not on you.’ He grabbed Celeste, who had wriggled free from under Nathan.

‘Don’t,’ Nathan said. ‘Don’t hurt her.’

‘Then help me, Nathan.’ He ran the gun barrel along the top of Celeste’s new haircut. ‘But I want to know where Frost and Miles Kendrick are.’

‘Miles is gone,’ Celeste said before Nathan could answer.

‘Where?’

‘To get Frost,’ Celeste said.

‘You’re cooperative, Mrs. Brent,’ Groote said.

Celeste swallowed. ‘I don’t want you to shoot us.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘An hour. Not sure,’ Celeste said.

‘You were in a tear-ass hurry to leave when you came out of the door,’ Groote said. ‘I heard you loved the great indoors.’

‘Nathan works my last nerve,’ she said.

‘He has that effect,’ Groote said. ‘But you’re working my nerve. You people chose the wrong guy to screw with-’

The phone rang.

‘Let it be,’ Groote ordered.

‘If it’s Miles,’ she said quietly, ‘he’ll expect me to answer. He’ll wonder where we are. I don’t answer, he’ll be on his guard.’

Groote shoved her toward the phone. ‘Answer it. You warn him, I put a bullet in Tin Soldier.’ He grabbed Nathan’s hair, jerked the young man close to him, jabbed the gun hard against Nathan’s temple.

She picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’ She could not believe how calm her voice was.

No answer. She could hear breathing on the opposite end of the line.

‘Yes, we’re fine,’ she said, not wanting to say, Yes? again, wondering, Why doesn’t Miles speak?

‘Is Groote there?’ a voice she didn’t recognize said. A man’s voice, with the barest hint of a Boston accent.

‘Yes,’ she said again.

The line ended. ‘All right, Miles, good-bye.’ She hung up.

‘What did he say?’ Groote said.

‘Letting me know how the search is going.’

‘For Edward Wallace.’

‘Yes. But Wallace isn’t at home. Miles is going to wait for him, bring back food when he’s done.’ She sat down on the bed. Her skin prickled. What the hell was that call, who was that man? ‘We haven’t eaten for hours.’

‘Poor you.’ Groote scratched at the bandage covering his broken nose. ‘I saw you on Castaway. My wife loved that show. I know you can be a tricky bitch.’

‘I played fair and square.’ She couldn’t believe the sudden anger in her voice.

‘Whatever. Your face is known. You’re going to be a problem for me.’

Terror filled her. Now that Groote believed Miles would soon return with the precious Frost, he would have no use for her or Nathan. He wasn’t going to let her out of this room. His gun wore a silencer and his hands were big enough to crush her throat. His eyes, smudged with exhaustion, over the grimy nose bandage, regarded her without mercy.

She could not sit in this grubby room and wait to die, not again, waiting, choked with fear, for a man to walk through those doors and watch him be murdered. Not again.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Nathan asked Groote.

‘My boss wants his property back,’ Groote said. He prodded Celeste with the gun. ‘You. Tell me. Does it work?’

‘What?’ She looked up from her lap.

‘Frost. Does it work?’

‘Why would you care?’

‘Just curious.’ His voice was flat but she saw heat fire his eyes at her question.

‘You mean does Frost work, so is it worth it to kill us? Well, I’m too scared to tell you.’ She put a waver in her voice. ‘If the panic hits me, I start screaming.’

‘No screaming,’ Groote said in a harsh bark. ‘You scream, you die.’

She shoved her palms against her mouth, pretending to stifle a shriek. Two deep breaths and she lowered her hands. ‘I need… my medicine. Please.’

Groote said, ‘Forget it. Just shut up and sit there.’

‘Let her have her antidepressant, man,’ Nathan said.

Groote gave him a kick to the chest that floored him. ‘I don’t want to hear your whining. I am incredibly tired of you people.’

‘My pill’s in my purse. In the next room.’ She slapped at her chest, as if she were beating back a howl climbing into her throat. ‘I have sedatives too. For Nathan.’

In his frown gone straight, she saw Groote make the decision she calculated he might; he could force a pharmacy down their throats, keep them under control. Groote put the gun on Nathan, hauled him to his feet. ‘Come on, Tin Soldier. Try anything and you get a bad dent.’

She walked to the next room, Groote and Nathan a step behind her. She walked to her purse.

‘Wrong,’ Groote said. ‘Pick it up by the bottom, Mrs. Brent, dump it on the floor. No surprises.’

She did as he asked and her junk tumbled in a pile on the greasy gray carpet: lipstick, the extra rubber bands Miles had brought her, her money clip, a black notebook, an empty pill vial, wallet, her cell phone, switched off as Miles had ordered so the wireless company couldn’t get a reading on her location. She crouched among the junk.

‘Hands away from the cell phone. Kick it to me,’ Groote ordered.

She obeyed. He crushed the phone under his heel, breaking the keys and the screen.

She cranked open the pill vial. Empty.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m – I’m out.’ But she fidgeted, put her knee over the money clip.

‘Stupid,’ Groote said. She stayed kneeling.

‘Get up, Tin Soldier, on the bed, I’m tying you two up.’

She got up, closing her fist around the clip. She worked the money loose, let the clip drop to the floor. Between the soft, worn bills the sharp bite of her razor nipped at her finger. She folded it in her hand.

Groote didn’t see. He shoved her on the bed across from Nathan. ‘If one of you moves, you die,’ Groote said.

Tie me first, she thought, please. Because Nathan could help her fight him when Groote drew close to her.

But he tied Nathan first, pulling the phone cord loose from the wall, securing Nathan’s hands and feet together, ripping a pillowcase, jamming a near-choking length into Nathan’s mouth.

She told herself: Don’t flinch.

There wasn’t another phone cord in the room, so he snapped loose the curtain cord and came toward her.

She knelt on the bed and stuck her hands out in front of her, as though prepping to be handcuffed, and before he could reach her she said, ‘I have most of the five million that I won. It’s yours. Just let us go.’

And because he thought she was about to beg, not fight, he paused. ‘I don’t give a shit about your money.’

‘I can’t be tied up. Because of what happened to me… when my husband died.’ Not a problem to put fear into her voice. But she was more afraid of what would happen if she didn’t stop him. ‘Don’t tie me. I know where Frost is. Right now.’

‘Where?’

She raised her chin. ‘I don’t want Nathan to hear.’

She figured Groote would steer her into the next room but he was too eager, he leaned closer to her and she might not get close again so she slapped at him. Except the razor was tight and true between her fingers and the blade scored a garish red thread across his face, along his cheek, close to the eye.

He stumbled back in shock and she swung at him again, but he clubbed her arm aside with a low animal grunt that rose into a scream. She darted the razor toward his throat. Groote belted a fist into her temple and she tumbled off the bed. He levered his foot hard on her wrist, forced her fingers open, and the razor slipped free of them.

‘Date with pain.’ His voice sounded broken. ‘That’s right, you cut me, bitch, it better not scar, it better not scare Amanda…’ His voice stopped and she fought him, biting, kicking, his hands clamping over her mouth, and he carried her, headfirst, into the bathroom. He held her upside down; her feet brushed the plaster ceiling.

‘Where is Frost? Where is it?’

‘I don’t know-’ she started to say, and then she saw the open toilet rushing toward her face. She managed a startled gulp of air before he drove her face into the shallow water.

Celeste struggled but he pinioned her legs with his own, her hands with one of his massive arms, and held her head at a precise angle and her face rammed against the porcelain. He’s done this before, she realized in shock.

‘You know! Tell me! Where is it?’ he yelled.

All she could do was keep kicking, make him fight to drown her.

The air exploded from her lungs as though seeking release and she choked, breathed the water, and then he let her go. She fell to the cold tile, spluttering, coughing, tasting her own blood from her lips.

‘Mrs. Brent? Are you well?’

The voice from the phone. Above her stood a fiftyish man, hair dark as coal, skin pale, with the biggest gun she’d ever seen pressed against Groote’s head.