Deadly Pursuit (31 page)

He stood abruptly. That man shouldn't have had Alison's wallet! She wouldn't be friends with someone who had mean eyes. He must have stolen it from her. Maybe he'd even hurt her to get it. A lot of people did bad things. That's why Ms. Walker was always telling him and the other people he lived with to be careful.

Erik's heart began to beat really hard. Maybe he should call Alison's house. Ms. Walker and that detective and Alison herself had told him not to, but it would be okay one time, if he was trying to help, wouldn't it? He still had her number. He kept it in his pocket, even though he hadn't called her since the night the police had scared him. But having it with him made him feel good.

And if she didn't answer, he could call 911 and ask for that detective named Mitch. He'd been nice. Maybe he'd be able to find Alison and make sure she was okay.

He started to retrace his route to the quick shop. Stopped. He couldn't call from there. That was the phone he'd used to make those calls to Alison, and those policemen had found him somehow.

There was another phone inside the restaurant on the corner of the street where he lived, though. He'd seen it once, right inside the door, when someone was leaving as he passed. But it was noisy in there, with loud music, and he'd heard Ms. Walker call it a biker bar once. He didn't know what that meant, but from the way she'd said the words, he knew it wasn't the kind of place she'd want him to go into.

Still, that would be a better phone to use. In case the police were still watching the other one. He didn't want to cause any trouble. He just wanted to find that detective named Mitch.

Switching directions, he trudged toward the biker bar.

As he approached, he could hear the music through the walls. And the instant he opened the front door, it blasted him in the face. It also hurt his ears, and he almost changed his mind. Then he thought about Alison being in trouble, and he made himself go in. After digging some coins out of his pocket, he slipped them in the phone and carefully dialed Alison's number. After three rings, her answering machine kicked in.

He hung up.

As he felt around in his pocket for some more quarters, his heart began to pound again. He didn't want to call 911. The police might get mad. Or make fun of him.

But what if that man had done something bad to Alison when he took her wallet? You were supposed to help people who were in trouble. That's what his mother had always told him. Jesus had said that too.

He had to call. Even if he was scared.

Heart still hammering, he put the coins in the slot and dialed the three digits.

“St. Louis County 911. What is your emergency?”

He tried to talk, but nothing came out.

“St. Louis County 911. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

Erik took a deep breath. “I think my friend is in trouble.”

“Can you describe the problem?”

“I think she might be hurt. That man had her wallet.”

“Okay.” The lady's voice got nicer. More friendly. “Can you give me your name?”

“Erik.”

“Where are you, Erik?”

He couldn't tell her that. She might send the police again. He squeezed the phone tighter. “I need to talk to that detective. His name is Mitch. He knows her. Can you give me his number?”

“I'm sorry, we don't give out that information. But we'll dispatch a patrol car to your location and you can—”

Erik didn't wait for the rest. He hung up and stumbled through the door, half running down the street toward his house. They must have some magic way to figure out where people were. And he wasn't waiting around for the police. The last time they'd scared him. Bad.

“I'm sorry, Alison.” He whispered the words as he hurried down the street. To safety. “I tried.”

“The K-9 unit beat us.” Mitch swung into the abandoned storage facility and indicated the officer in combat boots and cargo pants, a golden retriever on a leash beside him. He was standing off to one side of the building.

“Let's not keep them waiting.” Cole tightened his grip on the bag containing Alison's things.

Mitch pulled up beside the two patrol cars parked in front of the building and slid out of his seat. An officer approached, lifting a hand in greeting when he recognized the other detective.

“Sorry to hear about your sister, Cole.”

“Thanks.” Cole heaved himself out of the car.

Noting the other man's white-knuckled grip on the bag and his subtle attempt to steady himself against the side of the car, Mitch bought him a moment by introducing himself to the officer.

Once they'd shaken hands, the man guided them to the back of the building. “Your boss pulled in another CSU van. Hank's been here about five minutes.”

As they passed the K-9 unit, Cole gave the bag of Alison's items to the handler. “Hold on a minute while we make sure Hank's got whatever photos he needs.”

“No problem.” The man patted the dog. “Callie's ready to go anytime. You're just trying to verify the presence of your sister, right?”

“Right.”

As they rounded the corner of the building, Hank was on his knees studying the asphalt while the other patrol officer watched from a few feet away. When the technician caught sight of them, he waved them over as he bent to retrieve a sample.

Mitch had no trouble identifying the small maroon globs that had caught Hank's attention. He'd never been squeamish, but this blood did a number on his stomach. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he took a deep breath.

“I got excellent photos of the two sets of tire tracks. Very clear patterns. Lucky thing we had that heavy rain a few days ago. Washed some dirt onto the parking lot.” Hank continued to work as he spoke. “One larger vehicle, pickup truck size. And a smaller compact car.”

“Like a Honda Civic?”

At Cole's terse question, Hank looked up. “Could be. That what your sister drives?”

“Yes.”

“If she keeps decent car records, we should be able to determine if we have a match.”

“We have a faster way. We've got a K-9 team standing by in front as soon as you're finished here.”

Rising, Hank sealed the sample. “I've got the preliminary stuff done. Let's bring the dog back. See what we have.”

“I'll get them.” The officer who'd greeted them took off at a jog.

Half a minute later, the K-9 team appeared. The handler set the bag of Alison's items on the pavement, sorted through it, then extracted a lacy camisole.

Mitch's pulse stumbled. It looked a lot like the one that had peeked through the V-neck jacket of her business suit the day they'd met for lunch.

This was getting more difficult by the minute.

“Did she wear this recently?” The K-9 officer held up the delicate garment.

“I think so. It was on top of her clothes hamper.” Cole's voice roughened, and he cleared his throat.

“That should work.” The man bent and had the dog take a whiff before letting her get to work.

Callie sniffed around the asphalt, straining at the leash. Within seconds she led the handler straight for the globs of blood, sat down, and perked up her ears.

The passive alert stance answered their question.

Alison had been here.

The blood was hers.

Mitch looked at Cole. The hard set of the man's jaw and the dread tightening his features mirrored his own reaction.

“Do you want me to see how far Callie can follow the scent?”

At the handler's question, Mitch transferred his attention to him. “Yes. But they may have switched vehicles here, so Alison would have been in a truck.”

“Callie's trained to trail. If the victim's scent blew out of a window or through a vent, we might be able to track it for a while. Far enough to give you a direction, if we're lucky. Or would you rather I head over to the mall parking lot?”

“Stay here.” Cole dug a card out of his pocket. “And call me on my cell if you have anything worth reporting.”

“Will do.” The man pocketed the card and urged the dog back to work.

Taking Cole's arm, Mitch pulled him aside. “At least we have more information now than we did a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah. We know Alison's hurt and that she's been abducted.” Cole's expression was bleak. “What we don't know is the important stuff—who took her and where she is.”

And whether she's alive.

Mitch didn't voice that. He didn't have to. He saw the same thought reflected in Cole's eyes.

“We will.” Mitch watched the K-9 team disappear back around the side of the building, toward the road. Following Alison's scent. “We're going to get a break soon.”

“I hope so.”

So did he.

The vehicle stopped.

The vibration of the engine ceased.

Alison's pulse accelerated.

Wherever her abductor's destination, they'd arrived.

Although the jouncing had been painful, she was sorry it had come to an end. As long as her abductor was driving, he couldn't carry out the next part of his plan. Whatever it was.

A car door banged shut behind her, and she stiffened. Since regaining consciousness, she'd worked herself into a sitting position, knees drawn up slightly due to the confined space. She'd also explored as much as she could—enough to know she was in some kind of metal-mesh cage. After working her fingers through the bars, she'd also determined the cage was draped in canvas.

A noise sounded in front of her, and she braced herself. In the darkness, she heard a latch releasing. Hinges squeaked. The vehicle shifted, as if accommodating extra weight.

In the next instant, the canvas was whipped off the cage.

And in the deepening dusk she found herself face-to-face with the man who'd abducted her.

Two things registered at once.

He'd removed his hat and sunglasses, giving her a clear view of his face. His lack of concern about her ability to identify him could mean only one thing.

He intended to kill her.

And the nagging sense of familiarity returned. She knew this man from somewhere. But she still couldn't place him.

“You're awake. Good.” He tossed the tarp into a corner of the bed of what she now realized was a pickup truck. Lowering himself beside her, he rested his back against the side and crossed his legs at the ankles. After retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he lit up and took a long drag. Then he leaned close and blew the smoke in her face.

When she averted her head, he laughed.

“Not a smoker, Alison? No, I guess not. You're too busy arranging people's lives to have any bad habits like that.” He took another drag. Blew the smoke her direction again.

This time she didn't flinch.

That seemed to amuse him. “Used to my smoking already? I guess I'll have to find some other way to annoy you.”

Sliding to the rear of the truck, he lifted the lid on a small toolbox and withdrew a knife. With a long blade.

Alison stopped breathing.

Scooting close to her, he stuck the blade through the cage. She cringed and tucked herself into the farthest corner.

“Now that's the kind of reaction I like to see.” He grinned and slowly twisted the knife. “I want you scared, honey. Real scared.” Withdrawing the blade, he ran a finger down the edge, his gaze locked on hers. “This worked so well on that mutt of yours, I just might have to test it out on something bigger.”

She stared at him, her suspicions confirmed.

Her abductor and bingo man were one and the same.

As the image of Bert's mutilated body flashed through her mind, her stomach heaved. Bile rose in her throat, blocking her windpipe. Her fingers clenched and her body went rigid as she gasped for air. What little light remained in the evening sky began to fade as blackness sucked her down, down, down.

All at once, the gag was ripped from her mouth. She was pulled forward, and the man began to beat on her back. The bile loosened, and she began coughing and choking it up, still trying to breathe.

When the man released her at last, she fell sideways. Chest heaving, head pounding, she finally managed to draw some air into her lungs.

Totally spent, she lay on the bottom of the cage as tremors shook her whole body. She could sense the man looming over her, but she didn't have the strength to look up at him.

“This party is just getting started, honey.” He rattled the cage, and she groaned. “I'm not going to let you die on me. Yet. You catch your breath while I get ready for round two.”

The bed of the truck jiggled. He'd moved away. For now.

From her prone position, she examined the surrounding area. From what she could tell in the fading light, they were in the middle of nowhere. Tall, dense trees and shrubby brush lined the rutted, barely discernible road where he'd parked the truck. No light penetrated the gloom. There was no sign of human habitation.

It was just the two of them.

And he'd be back soon.

For round two.

In a macabre game that was destined to only get worse.

Bev turned into her apartment complex and drove slowly through the lot. With the dusk deepening, she should have no problem getting in and out undetected. There were no cop cars around, and even if the police were still looking for her, they thought she was a blonde. This would be a piece of cake.

Parking in a spot close to the entrance, Bev did one more scan, then slid out of the car and removed the latex gloves Daryl had insisted she wear, tucking them into her purse. He'd said her outside key worked, so she slipped it in the lock and let herself in.

As the familiar musty odor assailed her nostrils, she wrinkled her nose. She'd always hated that smell. But after spending the past few days in Chuck's stinking trailer, it didn't seem as bad. Not that she'd ever be moving back here. She'd have to start over again somewhere else, with nothing. So what else was new? She'd never had much to begin with. All she wanted to keep were a few personal items in the apartment.

And Stan could help her get them.

After making her way down the hall, she took the steps in the dank stairwell to his second floor corner apartment, where he spent most of his time planted in front of the boob tube. She'd been up there often enough, exchanging favors for a break on her rent, and knew his patterns. Right about now he'd be watching ESPN. Probably a boxing match, if he could find one.

As she approached his door, she heard what sounded like a sportscaster on TV. Stan never changed.

Smoothing her hair with one hand, she knocked with the other.

No response.

She knocked again.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm comin'.”

A few seconds later, Stan pulled the door open. As usual, he was wearing a white undershirt that accentuated his paunch.

He looked her up and down, making no attempt to hide the lascivious gleam in his eyes. “Can I help you?”

Bev tried to suppress her grin. Even Stan didn't recognize her, thanks to her great costume. Patting her hair, she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I came to inquire about an apartment.”

He cocked his head and squinted as he scrutinized her. “Bev?”

She chuckled. “It took you long enough.”

Leaning past her, he checked the hall. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing here? The cops have been crawling all over this place.” He scuttled to the window that overlooked the parking lot and peered through one of the broken slats in the miniblinds.

“Chill out, Stan. You didn't recognize me, did you? Why should they?” She sauntered into the living room. As usual, the place was a sty. Empty pizza boxes were stacked in one corner, a pile of newspapers covered the top of the dinette table, and the sink was full of dishes encrusted with dried food.