Killing Spree (8 page)

She knew 811 Olive Way. It was close to downtown, about five miles from Ethan’s school. If she didn’t get held up by traffic or too many stoplights, she could make it in time. Gillian turned down one of the side streets to get away from the school, where so many parents had double-parked their SUV’s and children milled around. As soon as the road opened up, Gillian pressed harder on the gas. All the while, she kept a lookout for patrol cars. She couldn’t afford to wait around for an officer to write her a speeding ticket. And if she arrived at 811 Olive Way with a patrol car on her tail, Ethan was as good as dead.

She drove on a bridge over the freeway. I–5 was jammed, not a good sign. It could affect traffic on the side streets. Gillian hit her first stoplight, and impatiently drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel while waiting it out. “C’mon, c’mon,” she murmured. “Turn green, damn it.”

She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard: 3:23.
About ten minutes
. She sat there, trying to remember to breathe. But she kept thinking about Ethan—and the confused, forlorn look on his face as she drove past him. She’d left him there with that crooked cop. What was he doing to Ethan right now?

The light switched to green. Gillian turned onto Lakeview, which ran alongside the congested freeway. The car in front of her took a right, and the road became clear ahead. Gillian sailed through a yellow light, and followed the street as it curved under the freeway and zigzagged up a hill. The speed limit was thirty; but her speedometer hovered just above forty-five. Her knuckles turned white as she clutched the wheel. Someone at the freeway exit started to turn in front of her, but Gillian didn’t slow down. She swerved around them. She ignored the car horn blaring at her.

But she couldn’t ignore the awful feeling in her gut. She kept thinking about Ethan. She shouldn’t have left him back there with that cop. But what else could she have done? Called the cop’s bluff? She’d seen the gun in his hand; she’d seen his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. She had no choice—except to do what he said.

The dashboard clock read 3:28. She had five minutes to cover two more miles. But there were several traffic lights along the way.

Gillian barely hesitated for a stop sign on Belmont Avenue. She turned left and floored it up another hill. Her tires squealed as she took a sharp right onto Bellevue—a long residential stretch without any stop signs.

811 Olive Way
. She wondered who—and what—was waiting for her there. The area had some car dealerships. Gillian didn’t remember any apartment buildings or bars along that block. She wondered where this rendezvous was supposed to take place. The sleazy cop said they wanted her to
do
something for them. She’d already made it clear she didn’t know Barry’s whereabouts. What exactly did they want her to
do
?

Three blocks from Olive Way, she had to slow down for a traffic light. One car, an SUV, was waiting in front of her at the intersection.

The light changed. The SUV didn’t move. Gillian tapped her horn. She could see the driver was a woman—on her cell phone. Finally, the SUV moved, but at a slow crawl. “Get off the phone and drive!” Gillian yelled—to no one, since her window was closed.

She saw a break in oncoming traffic, and quickly cut into the other lane and passed the idiot in the SUV. Gillian sped into the next intersection, Olive Way. She swerved to the right, and then sailed through another yellow light. She glanced at the clock. She should have been there two minutes ago.

“You have exactly fifteen minutes to get to 811 Olive Way. If you’re not there in fifteen, my friend’s going to call me, and I’ll cut Ethan’s throat.”

Gillian was crying. She was in the eight-hundred block, with car dealerships on both sides of the street. But she couldn’t find the address. She passed 805, then 819. No 811. She was like a crazy woman. “Oh, God, please…please…where is it?” she screamed.

She was three minutes late. Ethan could already be dead.

Finally, she turned down an alley between two car lots. Someone emerged from a little alcove off the alleyway, and Gillian slammed on her brakes. He was talking on a cell phone—and smirking at her. Hunched over the wheel, Gillian caught her breath and stared back at the short, dark-haired man who had invaded her home less than an hour before.

With a flick of the wrist, he closed his cell phone. He strolled over toward the car. Gillian wiped the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and then rolled down her window. “Before we go any further,” she said steadily. “I want some reassurance that my son is all right. I need to talk with him—”

“Shut your hole,” the squat man growled. “You’re in no position to make demands, Mrs. Tanner. You’ll talk to your son when I say you can.” He took a step back and glanced along the length of her Saturn. “Where are the papers for this heap—at home or in the glove compartment?”

Gillian didn’t understand. “They’re here—in the glove compartment. Why?”

“You’re going to sell this car, and give me the money. Consider it your down payment to pay off a debt, Mrs. Tanner. Now, I had a chance to check the odometer a few days ago. The Blue Book value for a two-year-old Saturn with forty-nine thousand miles is about seven grand.” He nodded toward the used-car dealership next door. “So—you go get me some money, Mrs. Tanner. And if you come back here with anything less than sixty-one hundred, I’ll call my buddy and have him slice your little brat a brand-new smile—right across his throat.”

Two minutes later, as Gillian pulled into the used-car lot’s customer parking area, a thin, sporty-handsome woman with short-cropped brown hair stepped out of the building to greet her. She introduced herself as Roseann, and invited Gillian into the office for some coffee. Gillian glanced back across the lot—with the wires overhead, displaying little triangle-shaped, plastic flags that flapped in the wind. She didn’t see the man in the alley across the way. “Um, no, thank you,” Gillian answered distractedly. “I’m in kind of a hurry. The truth is, I—well, I need some money, and I don’t really use my car much. It’s in excellent shape. I think I have all the paperwork you’ll need.”

Roseann gave her a pleasant smile and nodded. “Well, then, I’ll just have our mechanic give your Saturn the once-over. And meanwhile, we’ll step into my office and take a look at all the legal stuff. You sure I can’t get you some coffee?”

Roseann had a tiny office with framed certificates and awards on the wall—along with photos of her Dalmatians. Sitting in front of Roseann’s desk, Gillian didn’t touch her coffee. She couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan. Where were they keeping him?

“Are you feeling all right, Gillian?” the car dealer asked, glancing up from the documents.

Gillian worked up a smile and nodded. But she kept a tight grip on the armrests of the chair. It felt as if the walls of the tiny office were closing in on her. Even when Roseann stepped out to consult with the mechanic, Gillian still couldn’t breathe right. She just needed to get out of there—and see Ethan again.

Roseann breezed back into the office. “I can offer you fifty-four hundred, Gillian. It’s slightly below the Blue Book price, but I feel—”

“I need sixty-one hundred dollars,” Gillian interrupted, her voice cracking. “I’m in a horrible bind here. I have to come up with that amount, no less. And I need it today—before the banks close. I know the Blue Book value is around seven thousand. If I can’t get sixty-one hundred here, I’ll go somewhere else. And I really don’t want to. There isn’t enough time. Please—Roseann, I’m begging you, help me…”

Frowning, the woman leaned back in her desk chair and tapped the eraser end of a pencil on her desktop. She locked eyes with Gillian, and after a moment, her expression softened. Roseann let out a sigh.

Walking away from the dealership’s lot, Gillian didn’t look back at her old car. She was thinking about Ethan, whose stocking cap and gloves were in a bag along with several other personal items that had been emptied out of the Saturn. Gillian clutched the bag to her chest and headed toward the alleyway. She peeked into the little alcove, where the creepy man with the goatee was leaning against a Dumpster and smoking a cigarette.

Gillian opened her purse. She pulled out the check from the dealership, and handed it to him. “I had them make it out to cash,” she said. “Sixty-one hundred. Now, will you take me to my son?”

The man tossed aside his cigarette. He studied the check, folded it, and slipped it inside his shirt pocket. “Screw you,” he said, finally. “Take yourself to him—if you can find where we dumped the little brat.”

Gillian glared at the short, smarmy man. The bag and her purse dropped out of her hands. All at once, she lunged at him and started hitting him in the face. In a blind rage, she kept swinging her fists. Her knuckles stung, and she felt warm, wet blood on them. Whether it was her blood or his didn’t matter. She just kept pummeling his face and chest.

Suddenly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the Dumpster. It knocked the wind out of her. Gillian stared at him and blinked. Only then did she notice the blood streaming out of his nose, coating his teeth, and mingling with his goatee.

“You sorry bitch,” he growled. He drew back and punched her in the face—again and again. Gillian felt the hammerlike blows. But she couldn’t see; everything was just bright, blinding flashes against a murky black. She couldn’t hear beyond the ringing in her ears. After the first couple of punches, she felt nothing—except her mouth filling with blood.

She would have fallen down if he hadn’t pinned her against the Dumpster. He paused for a moment. Gillian coughed, and sprayed blood. Her head throbbed, and she tried to get her vision back. That was when he delivered a sucker punch to her stomach. She lurched forward and fell to her knees. She couldn’t get a breath. She thought she was going to die.

She was vaguely aware of him shaking out her purse and taking money from her wallet. “Seventeen bucks?” he said, disgusted. “Shit…”

She couldn’t hear any more; just fragments past the high-pitched ringing in her ears. He said something about this down payment buying her a little time. Then he started to walk away.

Gillian was still on her hands and knees—on the cold, filthy pavement. She finally got a breath, and managed to call to him: “Where’s…my…son?”

He ignored her, and kept walking.

“WHERE’S…MY…SON?” she shrieked. But the man was gone.

A loose piece of paper from her purse fluttered past her. Gillian grabbed it, and tried to focus on the printing. Blood from her hand smeared on the white paper. It was a listing of the night class she taught at the community college. Ruth Langford was on that list—along with her address, e-mail, and phone number. She’d already had Ruth over to the apartment once—a few weeks back. She’d asked the retired police detective for some technical advice on her new book. Gillian needed Ruth’s help again.

The creep with the goatee had taken all her bills, but he’d left behind some change. Gillian gathered the coins from the pavement. She managed to pull herself up.

At a phone station a half block away, Gillian called Ruth. Passing motorists gaped at her from inside their cars. Gillian knew she was a sight, beaten and bloody, leaning against the Plexiglas shell of the phone station. The bagful of personal effects from the Saturn was at her feet. She heard a click on the other end of the line. “Yes, hello?”

“Ruth? This is Gillian McBride. I—I need you to do me a favor—”

“Gillian, you sound awful. What’s wrong?”

She started to cry. “Ruth, I need you to help me find my son.”

Ruth eventually found him. He was at home.

The stocky, blond cop had approached Ethan, saying his mother was needed to answer some questions at police headquarters, questions about his dad. The cop had instructed Ethan to take the bus home, and wait for his mother there. Ethan had done what the policeman had told him to do.

Ethan was very mindful of Ruth too. He rode in the car with his mother’s friend to the used-car dealership on Olive Way.

Roseann had wanted to call an ambulance. But Gillian said she was all right. She used the bathroom at the dealership to clean herself up. She tossed several bloodstained paper towels in the garbage. Gillian found herself telling the same lie Barry had used on her shortly before they’d left Chicago. She convinced the saleswoman that she’d been mugged, but assured her there was no need to worry about the check from the dealership because she’d hidden it in her bra.

The lie about a random mugging was passed on to Ethan as well. But Gillian told Ruth the truth.

“The sooner you dump this in the lap of the law, the better off you’ll be,” Ruth whispered. They sat at the kitchen table. Ruth nursed one of the surviving Heinekens from the six-pack that was dropped. Gillian held a bag of frozen peas to her face—to lessen the swelling. They spoke in hushed tones, because Ethan was in the living room watching TV.

“I’ll be with you when you report it,” Ruth continued. “I’ll make sure they do right by you, hon. We’ll see to it that Internal Affairs pounces all over this crooked patrolman’s ass. And then we’ll go after these
Sopranos
-wannabes who’ve been hounding you—”

“We can’t,” Gillian argued, shaking her sore head. “Obviously, these people have police connections. Going to the cops right now could only make matters worse.”