Out of Control (35 page)

She laughed out loud. “Do you think that if I knew who he was that I'd be in this kind of trouble? I would've turned this nightmare over to you guys months ago if I could have, believe me. All I know right now is that he calls himself Marcus. If I live through the night, I promise I'll contact you and tell you the whole story.”

“But we—”

“And that's all I can say right now. Thanks for your time.”

She slammed the phone down. Good. That was done, and it felt right. Futile maybe, but symbolically appropriate. She'd reached the end of the line. She checked the clock, calculating how long it would take to cab it to the station, and concluded that she could have five minutes to spiff herself up for the end of the world. She'd be damned if she'd go out to confront her ultimate mortal end looking like a schlump.

The only thing she had to wear besides the jeans and tank top was the dress she'd worn to the wedding. It was too sexy for the occasion, but it would have to do. She wrenched off her clothes and yanked the thing on. Panty lines be damned.

She looked at the spike-heeled sandals, and decided there were lengths to which she would not go, even to avoid edge-of-doom fashion don'ts. It was doubtful Fate would give her a chance to run like a rabbit from Snakey and his buddies, but that was no reason to hobble herself.

The battered red high-tops it would be, then. At least they packed a visual punch, in their own spunky, scruffy way.

Hair. She gelled her already crazed nest-crest until it stood out in snarled tufts. Then she twisted everything she could catch of it into a tight roll, crunchy enough to hold Tamara's hair clip. No need to fuss with the rest of it. It was perfect as it was, sticking out every which way in the nutsoid, probably-on-drugs look of a high-fashion runway model.

She rummaged through her plastic bag for her makeup stash and applied liquid eyeliner and mascara with slutty abandon. With her eyes as hollow as they were, she should go for the deliberately smudged look.

She painted on the lipstick with a bold hand, studied herself critically in the mirror, and dabbed more lipstick onto her pale cheeks, rubbing it in hard to give herself a smidgen of color.

She rummaged in her purse for Mikey's studded dog collar and buckled it around her neck. It barely fit. She slid the medallion around to the back, tucking it inside the band, and pulled some hair loose over her neck to cover it. She checked out the final effect in the full-length mirror, and blinked with her heavy, crusty eyelashes, startled.

Gosh. Well. It was a look. Not one she'd ever dreamed of putting on before, but somehow appropriate for running into the face of doom. The garish spots of lipstick on her pallid cheeks gave her the dramatic look of a tubercular nineteenth-century prostitute, and the studded dog collar was a kinky final touch. She wasn't sure what message she was sending with it, but hey, what the hell. Keep 'em all guessing.

She reached into her bra to fluff up her boobs and tugged the dress down a couple inches. Retro-tech-punk collides with the Addams Family. She decided she liked it. It was a fuck-you outfit. A tiny extra charge of power to put in the balance against this huge fear.

And her five minutes had stretched into seven. No more stalling.

She emptied out the plastic shopping bag. Tucked the mold and the rubbery hand into it, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door.

At first she was afraid her outfit would give her problems hailing a cab, but one screeched to a halt as soon as she held up her arm. The cabbie kept shooting her fascinated looks, but she was too occupied trying not to imagine Davy in pain to be bothered with him. She fished in her purse for the fare. Amazing how her feelings about money had changed since she'd stopped hoping to live through the night. She just needed the price of a bus ticket. After that, her cash had no more relevance than Monopoly money. Once she paid the cabbie, she could throw the rest out the window. Not that there was much left to throw.

Dressed as she was, Rosewell Avenue wasn't the best part of town to get out of the bus and walk ten blocks. Margot realized this as soon as the bus pulled away, revealing the adult book and video store, the men's weight-lifting gym, the dingy massage parlor. To say nothing of the scantily clad ladies who X-rayed her with hostile eyes from their various places on street corners and in doorways. She spun in a circle, clutching the shopping bag to her chest, trying to spot whoever must be monitoring her. No luck. She straightened her shoulders and got her feet moving, counting blocks as she passed them, careful not to return the stares that came her way.

Amazing, how different Davy's penetrating gaze was to these jerks' clumsy attempts to intimidate her. The difference between real power and feigned power. Davy was for real. Heroic and brave. Telling her to run away while they were hurting him. Oops, none of that. Sobbing uncontrollably was not the plan, not with three blocks between her and an unspeakable fate. One foot in front of the other. Cracked sidewalk beneath her feet. Broken glass, syringes, used condoms, cigarette butts. The roar of the freeway overpass got louder. Sweat trickled down her back. The colors burned her eyes, the odors tickled her nose. Exhaust, pot smoke, pee, rotting garbage. There it was, just as Marcus had said. The auto parts store, the grocery. The phone between them rang as she stared at it. She walked towards it, and reached for the receiver with all the enthusiasm one might have for handling a poisonous snake. “Yes?”

“Margaret Callahan?”

“That would be me.”

“A gray van will pull up behind you in thirty seconds. Get into it.”

“But I—”

The phone went dead. She dropped it. It swung back and forth on its metal-wrapped cord like a black plastic pendulum. Marking the time to the end of the world. Thirty seconds passed. An engine hummed. She turned. The door slid open in a gray van. A man with a black ponytail was crouched in the door. He grinned at her. “Margaret Callahan?”

She nodded. He held out his hand for the bag. She handed it over.

The man peered inside it, and passed it to someone in the front seat. He turned back, his eyes dragging over her body. “Get in.”

She stared at him, paralyzed with dread.

“If you ever want to see your boyfriend again,” he added.

She got in.

M
arcus had been holding himself back.

Davy was plenty dazed and battered from the blows to his face, but he knew damn well how much worse it could have been. Marcus was saving him for later. Maybe for Snakey. Or maybe he was waiting to have Margot for an audience. Best not to think about that.

The library was empty now, but for himself. There was a flurry of activity elsewhere in the place, barely audible. The house must be huge.

Marcus had gagged him before he left the room, and with the nosebleed he was having, that was a torture in itself, struggling through bubbling liquid for each labored breath.

The door burst open. Margot was shoved into the room, blindfolded, arms fastened behind her. She stumbled to her knees and fell forward onto her face. One of the goons who had nabbed him at Krell crouched on top of her, straddling her, and pulled out a knife.

He looked up and gave Davy a big, shit-eating grin as he dragged the tip of his knife slowly down Margot's spine, to the plasticuffs that bound her hands. Snick, and the knife snapped through them.

Davy started at least trying to breathe again.

The goon wrenched Margot to her feet and tugged the blindfold off. Holy shit. That crazy makeup of hers was surreal.

Margot blinked and dragged in a sharp breath as she saw him. She lunged towards him. “Oh, my God, what have they—”

The goon yanked her back. “Huh-uh.” His thick arms snaked around her from behind and cupped her breasts, pinching and squeezing. “Oh, nice,” he crooned. “The boss said I could have all the fun I wanted with you, as long as we do it in front of him.” He jerked his chin towards Davy. “Fine with me. I've never minded an audience. Kinky is fun. We'll have a fine old time.”

Davy finally understood the torture Marcus had in mind. So this was the main event. Marcus had wanted him sharp and alert for it.

Margot's eyes locked with Davy's for a moment that was both timeless and horribly brief. Suddenly she changed, as if a switch had flipped inside her. The naked emotion in her eyes that had pierced through him transformed into a brilliant, strangely unfocused smile.

His Margot disappeared. In her place was a smiling, sexy doll.

She twisted, pressing her breasts against the guy's hands to accentuate her cleavage, and flung her head back against his shoulder. Her eyes glittered as if she had been drugged.

He prayed to God for a chance to rip these sadistic sons of bitches into tiny, bloody pieces. The anger built inside him until the pressure hurt more than any physical pain he'd ever felt.

“You know, if we're going to get to know each other so quickly, you should tell me your name,” Margot said huskily.

“Karel,” the guy said huskily. He pinched her nipples.

Margot smiled even wider. “I think kink's fun, too,” she said. “You want to know a secret, Karel?”

“I love secrets.” Karel stuck his tongue in her ear.

A low ripple of laughter shook her. “Back when I was in college, I made extra money lapdancing,” she confided. “I had more regulars than I could satisfy, night after night. I was really good.”

“I just bet you were.” Karel's hand slid down to her crotch.

She flinched as he grabbed it, and swiftly controlled herself. “Sometimes I miss it,” she went on dreamily. “Feeling a man's eyes on me while I dance naked. If you want, I could put on a special command performance, just for you, Karel.”

Davy's lungs burned with the need for air, his muscles burned from straining against the bonds. He hoped to God she had a plan.

Karel looked doubtful. “I don't need any help getting hard.”

She rubbed her bottom against him. “That's obvious,” she purred. “I just wanted to give you something…special.”

Karel reached back, pulled out his gun, cocked it. “I think you're fucking with me, Margaret,” he said. “Don't try to be smart.”

Margot's bright red lips curved in an inviting smile. “If I didn't like playing with fire, do you think I'd be where I am right now?”

“You have a point.” Karel spun her around to face him and kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. “You like it like this?” He pressed the pistol between her breasts, and slid it up to her throat.

She didn't flinch, so Davy flinched for her. She just kept smiling, as a pistol dug up in the soft spot beneath her chin. The guy kissed her again, and bit her lip, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Just remember,” he said. “The boss has what he needs. You're expendable now. And after trouble you've caused, I think you're chances of getting expended are real high.”

Margot pouted her soft, red lips at him. “You're no fun. I don't want to think about that. I'd rather think about you. This might be my last chance to…you know, have some fun. Let's make it count.”

“You bet,” Karel crooned, groping her crotch again.

“Let me dance for you,” she coaxed. “Let's start out like that, for old times' sake. I'll be so good. The best you've ever seen.”

Karel grabbed a chair and sat down, his gun trained on her. “OK. Go on. Impress me. Just don't do anything stupid. Or I'll hurt you.”

She started to move. Davy watched her, with a blend of fear and fascination. She was terrifying, with that wild glow in her eyes. She shimmied and swayed, humming a bluesy tune low in her throat. She moved closer to Karel, began to dance behind his chair.

The pistol went up. She stopped in her tracks.

“Right back in front of me, bitch,” Karel said. “Right where I can see you. And get the dress off.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. She began again, slowly, sensuously tugging and wriggling her overdress up over the slip, over her hips, her belly, her breasts, her neck. The dress covered her head. She seemed to struggle with it for a moment, and when she finally pulled it off, her hair had shaken loose, a wild, shaggy halo.

She swung her leg over Karel's lap, straddling him. The slip rode up high on her thigh. Karel pushed it higher, stroking her hip with his gun. Margot's hand flashed up, towards Karel's face. Suddenly the guy's eyes went wide. His gun hand went slack, flopping to his side.

What the fuck?
Davy watched, astonished, as the weapon thudded to the carpet. Karel's head lolled back, mouth open.

Margot scrambled off him, backing away. She ran to Davy, prying out his gag. “Oh, my poor baby. Did they hurt you bad? Are you OK?”

He coughed, tried to swallow. “Goddamnit, I told you to run!”

“I don't follow orders well, in case you haven't noticed,” she said crisply. “Great to see you again, too. Did you miss me?”

“What the hell did you do to him?” he demanded.

“Later,” she snapped. “I have to find a knife and cut you loose.”

“They took mine. Fuckhead had one, though. Check his pockets.”

She sprinted over to Karel and rummaged through the pockets of his cargo pants. Seconds later she was kneeling behind Davy's chair, sawing away at the tough plastic.

“Did you really lapdance back in college?” he demanded.

She choked on her nervous laughter. “You are such a dog. You just lost fifty points for asking such a stupid, irrelevant question.”

A disembodied voice came from a loudspeaker on the wall. “Step back and drop the knife, Margaret.”

 

The doors burst open, on both sides of the room, and several armed men spilled in. A handsome dark-haired man sauntered in after them. “That was even more entertaining than I expected,” he said. “I said to step back. Put the knife down, get up, and walk towards me. Or I will have McCloud shot immediately.”

Margot looked around at the guns, laid the knife down and did as she was told. She might have known it couldn't be so simple. Now she'd played the last card she had to play. Oh, well. She'd expected this.

Time for Tamara's chilly, calming mantra. No hope, no fear. Her knees trembled under her, but she tried hard to keep her back straight.

The man raked her with critical eyes. “Your style has changed.”

“Have we met?” Margot kept her voice cool. “How on earth could you know my style before?”

“I saw pictures of you. I studied you, before the Caruso event. I admired you then. So elegant. You look like a crack whore now.”

Margot shrugged. “Being on the run from both sides of the law is hell on a wardrobe,” she said. “I take it you're Marcus? The sick son of a bitch who murdered poor Craig and Mandi?”

“Oh, harsh words!” Marcus chuckled. “Actually, Faris did the physical deed, the fellow you call Snakey. He's my younger brother. He's the warrior of the family. I'm just a mild-mannered scientist myself.”

Margot's gaze swept the battery of guns trained on her, and Davy's battered face. “Yeah, I'm so sure,” she muttered. “Meek as a lamb.”

“You cut quite a swath with men,” Marcus said in a teasing tone. “Poor Faris, and Karel, too.” He nudged Karel's shoulder. The unconscious man slid sideways off the chair and flopped heavily to the floor. “And McCloud under your spell. You're a real femme fatale.”

“Hardly,” Margot muttered.

“You don't need her anymore,” Davy said. “Let her go.”

Marcus motioned to his men. “Gag him again. He bores me.” He turned back to Margot and shook his head ruefully. “I meant to teach McCloud and Faris both a lesson by having them watch you with Karel. They're such primal, possessive types. But as usual, you swept the rug from beneath my feet.” Marcus bent down to pick up the tiny spray pin she'd let fall to the carpet while looking for Karel's knife. He turned it over in his hands and slipped it into his pocket. “Clever little thing.”

“You have what you want,” she said. “Let us go.”

“You know I can't do that,” Marcus chided. “I'm sure you knew that even before you came. You're not stupid.”

Stony fatalism propped her up in place of hope. She might as well die with her curiosity satisfied. “So Craig was working with you, then?” she asked. “You guys were running some kind of a scam?”

“No. He did not work with me. He worked
for
me,” Marcus said sharply. “That little distinction is exactly what got him killed.”

“I see,” she murmured. “He found a way to fool Krell's sensors?”

“The perfect technique,” Marcus said. “Graceful, streamlined, and it took everything into account, the optical scanner, the ECG, the thermal and pressure sensor, pulse oximetry, electric resistance, the ultrasound, all of it. He truly was a genius.”

“Using a fake hand?” she asked. “Like the one I brought to you?”

“Oh, no. Better. We made a double-layered gelatin glove. The gummy hand is just to quality test the reproduction of the minutia. The BioLock Identipad rejects everything but a warm, live hand with blood pulsing through it. Craig found a way to give it one. He was so gifted. And not just with his brain.” Marcus chuckled. “He even sacrificed his virtue to get the last piece of the puzzle. That bad boy.”

“What puzzle?” Margot struggled to follow him.

“Priscilla Worthington,” Marcus said impatiently. “My esteemed stepmother, the Bitch of Buchenwald. The mold you just provided.”

Realization dawned. “Oh. Wait. Does this Priscilla have long black hair and black lace thong panties?”

“Black hair, yes. As for her panties…” Marcus shuddered delicately. “I don't want to know. My tissues recoil at the very thought.”

Margot's feminine instincts told her he was itching to brag. Surrounded with meatheads like Karel and psychos like Snakey, there was probably no one to appreciate what Marcus saw as his genius.

She should use his vanity and solitude to play for time. She tried to look fascinated. “So what will you do with the mold now?”

His gratified smile indicated that she'd read him right. “I've been planning this for years,” he said. “Tonight, the video surveillance at Calix Research Laboratories will mysteriously fail. To access the top secret laboratory, the two people with the highest security clearance must present their handprints at the same time. Tonight, according to the Krell BioLock Identipad, they will both do so. They will then remove ten vials of R-8424.” He noticed Margot's clouded, doubtful gaze. “It's a flu virus,” he said helpfully. “Very virulent. Quite nasty.”

Margot's blood would have run cold if it had not already been the consistency of icy sludge. “Dear God,” she whispered. “You're kidding.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Marcus giggled at her reaction. “I've seen to it that neither of them will have an alibi tonight. Who knows who they will sell the virus to? No one will be able to answer that question. It's like a game of Russian roulette, but no one will know who is holding the gun.”

“You're risking a world epidemic…for
money
?” Her voice cracked with horror. “What the hell is in it for you?”