Out of Control (34 page)

“Ah. OK,” he said gently. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother.” Her bright smile was like a plastic mask.

He walked out into the hot sun, puzzled and thoughtful. Miriam was acting guilty. Bob Kraus had not. He should have brought Sean along. Sean was brilliant at prying info out of females; a skill which baffled his brothers. Davy had never had the stomach to flirt with any woman he wasn't genuinely interested in. It made him feel like a user.

Sean, on the other hand, overcame this obstacle by being genuinely, sincerely, intensely interested in all of them. Plain ones, shy ones, fat ones, thin ones, even the weird ones, Sean found them all fascinating. It was his secret weapon. They melted into goo for it.

He headed towards the car. An engine revved, and he turned to see a gray van with tinted windows pulling up behind him. The side door slid open. Two men jumped out and pointed silenced pistols at him. They had the businesslike air of seasoned professionals.

His stomach dropped. He'd been a pussywhipped asshole for bringing Margot here. He should have kept driving until they were in Mexico. He should have gone to ground, gotten her a new ID, taken her to Europe. There were a million other things he should have done, but here he was staring down the barrels of two guns, and Margot was all alone. Seth and his brothers were too far away to help her.

And behind it, pain twisted like a knife in his gut, keen and sharp.
He hadn't even had the balls to tell her that he loved her.

One of them circled behind him. The barrel of a pistol pressed against the nape of his neck. The other stabbed a syringe into his arm.

Aw, shit
was the last coherent thought he managed to think before icy darkness spread, and everything went away.

D
avy was stuck in a stifling nightmare about blood and snakes and pain. Pounding head, aching body. Someone was shaking him. A sharp blow cracked against his face. He dragged his eyes open to investigate. A face stared into his. He struggled to focus.

A lean, handsome guy in his late thirties, dark hair trimmed short. Smiling. His white teeth and white shirt hurt Davy's eyes. He squeezed them shut against the pain. The man slapped him again.

He opened his eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” he mumbled.

The source of the pain focalized. His arms were wrenched back, bound behind him at his elbows and wrists. His hands were numb.

“Where is Margaret Callahan?” the man asked.

His drugged brain struggled to connect the dots. Callahan. Margot's real name. “I don't know anybody named Margaret Callahan.”

The man slapped him again. “Wrong answer, Mr. McCloud.”

Davy took stock. He was seated, bound to a heavy wooden chair. The guy in front of him was not Snakey, though he was similar in looks. He was older, somewhat slimmer. “Where's Snakey?” Davy asked.

The man looked politely puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“The ninja asshole who's been killing people right and left.”

The man looked amused. “Oh. My younger brother, Faris. So he went on a killing spree after all, did he? You'll be meeting him again later. He's resting up. His last encounter with you left him somewhat the worse for wear.”

“Who are you guys?” Davy demanded.

“You can call me Marcus,” the guy said. “Let's talk about the whereabouts of Margaret Callahan. Or Margot Vetter, if you prefer.”

No point in playing dumb. “What do you want with her?”

“I want what she took from me,” Marcus said flatly.

“She doesn't have a goddamn thing.”

Marcus let out a bark of laughter. “I'm not surprised if she opted not to tell you. Hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake.”

Davy looked around at the sumptuous library, decorated with costly Persian carpets and fine art. “Everything she owns is in five plastic shopping bags in the trunk of her car,” he said. “There's nothing worth hundreds of millions of dollars in those bags.”

“I don't know where she's hidden it,” Marcus said patiently. “That is exactly what I want to discuss with her. As soon as possible.”

“I don't know where she is,” Davy said.

Marcus pulled Davy's cell phone out of his pocket, and dangled it from his fingertips. “We'll discuss that. But I doubt her whereabouts will be a mystery for long, no matter what you say or don't say. I just have to wait for her to get anxious and call you. And then we'll see how much you are worth to her. Are you worth hundreds of millions?”

Davy stared at the guy. So this simpering piece of dogshit was the guy who had ruined Margot's life. God, she deserved so much better.

He braced himself. “Go fuck yourself,” he said quietly.

 

She paced, chewed her nails, tore at her hair. It couldn't take long to talk to those self-important blowhards at Krell. A half hour to shop at the mall, fifteen to get to Krell, an hour to talk to the blowhards, fifteen to come back, and that was being generous.

He'd been gone for over three hours.

The queasy, crawling feeling was driving her nuts. Of course, she'd had that feeling more often than not for eight months, but it was measurably worse than usual. Verging on the screaming, writhing level.

She had been grabbing and hanging up the phone for the past hour. As the minutes passed, she clutched the receiver for longer and longer, finger floating over the number pad.

Why not? Worst case scenario, he would be irritated with her for being hysterical and needy. Could she live with that? Hell, yes. If she could handle him being furious, she could handle him being irritated.

What she could not handle for one second longer was this yawning vortex of fear, big enough to suck up the entire known universe. And since her entire known universe at this moment was Davy, well, that clinched it. There were limits to a girl's self-control.

She grabbed the phone and dialed his cell number, praying for him to be in range. It rang, praise God. The line clicked open.

“Davy? Is that you?” she asked. “Can you hear me? Hello?”

There was a brief pause. “Margaret Callahan, I presume?”

Next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the floor, her legs having folded up and dumped her ignominiously onto her butt.

It was hard to force out words when there was no breath behind them. “Who am I speaking with?”

“With someone who has been wanting to meet you very badly for eight months now,” said the silky voice. “You've been very elusive. It's been driving us mad.”

“Why do you have Davy's phone? Where's Davy?”

“He's here, with me. We were just discussing your location. He's been unhelpful so far. I was about to take the gloves off, so to speak, and voilà, the phone rings. Ms. Callahan, you have a sixth sense.”

“Let me talk to him,” she said.

“Certainly. Mr. McCloud? Your lady friend wants to speak to you.”

“Margot?” It was Davy's voice, hoarse and ragged.

“Oh, God, Davy, what has that bastard done to—”

“Listen to me. Run. Hang up the phone and run like hell.”

“But I—but you—”

“Don't waste time. Hang up the phone and run. Don't even talk to this asshole. He's not worth it.”

“Davy, I can't—”

“It's me again, Ms. Callahan,” said the soft voice. “I'm touched by your lover's devotion, but I don't recommend taking his advice. Not if it is of any interest to you how many pieces I cut him into.”

She'd thought she'd known what fear was, but she'd never seen it until this moment. Never even imagined it. “Are you Snakey?”

“Snakey?” The voice rumbled, a low, fruity chuckle. “I love his new pet name. It suits him so well. No, but Snakey is here, and eager to see you again. You made such an impression, Margaret.”

She barely kept her voice steady. “What do you want from me?”

“Very good, Ms. Callahan. Short, to the point, no histrionics. I like a practical woman. But you know what I want.”

“No. I don't. I swear to God—”

“The part where you insist on your ignorance bores me. Let's skip it. It would be unlucky for Mr. McCloud if I got annoyed.”

She could have screamed, she was so frustrated. She must be under a curse, condemned to blindly grope for a key to the blank prison wall in front of her face. “Humor me,” she pleaded. “Be specific. I want to cooperate. This is too important to risk any misunderstandings.”

The mystery voice let out a theatrical sigh. “This is an unsecured line, Ms. Callahan. Don't be obtuse. I want back what's mine. You were the last one to have it. Does that ring a bell?”

“But I—”

“I will give you some instructions. I don't recommend contacting the police. They are unlikely to believe you, and even if they did, I would know, and McCloud would pay. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Listen carefully, then. The number 313 city bus leaves the central station downtown at twenty minute intervals. You will take the one that leaves at 6:05. It runs down Wyatt Avenue for four miles, then turns south at Trevitt. Are you following me?”

“Yes,” she said. “6:05. Bus 313. Wyatt, Trevitt.”

“The second stop after the bus turns onto Trevitt is at Rosewell. Get off, and walk ten blocks south. There will be a freeway overpass. On your left is a small grocery and an auto parts store. There is a pay phone between them. You will receive further instructions there. If we are convinced that you are alone and haven't been followed.”

“Wait,” she said. “If I can't—”

“There is no can't, Ms. Callahan. If you don't arrive on schedule with my property, McCloud will die. Badly.”

“But how do I—”

“Good luck. I look forward to meeting you.”

The connection broke, leaving her adrift. That cold, sick feeling was rising up again, as if she were going to black out or barf. She flopped onto her back, propped up her knees, forced herself to breathe.

She did not have the luxury of freaking out.

It had to be the mold and that ghastly rubbery hand the guy wanted. Why, she could not begin to imagine. It was hard to think with her brain squeezed by a fist of fear, but beneath the fear was something new. Sharp, burning anger. It steadied her.

That evil son of a bitch was hurting her Davy. She was going to do everything in her power to make him stop. And make him pay.

Davy had told her to run. Very noble and heroic of him, and she adored him for the gesture, but her life would be worth nothing if she ran off and left the man she loved to die. There was just no point. She might as well just throw herself under a bus and be done with it.

The only card she had left to play in this game was herself. She would stick that icky thing into her shopping bag, put on Tamara's hair clip, and follow the guy's instructions.

And hope like hell, if nothing else, for a chance to kill him.

She dialed the number Davy had left her for Sean. He picked up instantly. “Yeah? Who's this?”

“We're in trouble,” Margot said flatly.

“That was quick.” His voice without laughter was unrecognizable.

Margot recounted Marcus's phone call and instructions. “I'm going to the rendezvous,” she concluded. “There's nothing else I can do. Nothing you can do either, but I thought at least you should know.”

“We're on our way,” Sean said. “Me and Seth. We took off just a few hours after you guys did. Just the time it took to throw our arsenal together and hit the road. We've still another hour and a half or so to San Cataldo, but we'll get there as soon as we can.”

She was dumbfounded. “How did you guys know where we—”

“How do you think Davy found you?” Sean's voice was impatient. “Do you still have Mikey's dog collar on you?”

“Uh, yes,” she said, startled. “Should I—”

“Fuck, yes. Keep it on you. Better yet, just wait for us. Stay clear of that scumbag. That's what Davy would want.”

“Staying clear wasn't one of the options the scumbag gave me,” she told him. “They've got Davy. They'll hurt him if I don't go.”

“Shit,” Sean muttered. “You have a weapon, at least?”

“Who, me? Hah!” Margot said. “Gotta run, Sean. Good luck.”

“Margot—” Sean began, but she hung up on him and called the operator. “Give me the San Cataldo Police Department, please.”

She waited forever. “Dispatch,” a woman's voice finally said.

“Hi. I urgently need to speak with whoever was in charge of the Craig Caruso and Mandi Whitlow murder investigation.”

“Hold the line, please.”

She stared at herself in the mirror as she waited, noting dispassionately how awful she looked. Face bone white, eyes hollow, jeans and tank top dingy and wilted. A voice snapped her attention back to the phone. “Detective Sam Garrett here,” said a deep male voice. “You have information regarding the Caruso case?”

“I'm Mag Callahan,” she said.

There was an astonished pause. “Where are you, Ms. Callahan?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that right now,” she said.

“I've been trying to figure out who framed me for the last eight months. I think I've found the bastard, or he's found me, I should say. I also doubt that I'm going to survive the encounter, so I wanted to go on record first as saying that I'm not a murderer. OK? Write it down. Tell everyone.”

“Uh…”

“And neither is Davy McCloud,” she added, for good measure.

“Who?” Garrett sounded baffled.

“My boyfriend,” she explained. “He's been framed for murder, too. And if that wasn't bad enough, now he's been kidnapped, to control me. By the same filthy scumbag who killed Craig and Mandi.”

“Hold on. I'm confused. You say that your boyfriend has been kidnapped, and that you are—”

“You're not the only one who's confused, Detective,” she said. “I've been confused for months. I'm sorry I can't explain better. I'm on a real tight schedule, and I'm afraid they're hurting Davy. I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up. If you find me in a Dumpster somewhere, the guy who killed me is the same one who killed Craig and Mandi. And he's not working alone. He's got a sicko ninja-type assassin working for him. OK? Got that straight?”

“Who is this man, Ms. Callahan?” Garrett's tone was that of a man trying to reason with a demented person. “Help me out here.”