Aftershocks (33 page)

“Atta girl.” PB sounded strangely pleased, considering how eager he’d been to provoke her with innuendo in the car. His hand closed around her arm again, and this time he guided her, murmuring how many steps she had, and then “door” and even bending to help her lift her foot to step inside.

Once the door closed behind them he whisked the blindfold away. His grin was the first thing Zoe saw. She latched on to it, comforted, but she’d been through enough therapy and read enough clinical articles to know what she was doing. He was not her friend. None of these people were. She could only count on herself to get through this.

When she looked away, she saw a cluttered, ramshackle room very much like the old one, but empty of people. Weak sunlight filtered through boarded-up windows, and straw and droppings in the corners were evidence of tiny inhabitants. They’d taken over an abandoned house, their usual MO. She curled her lip. They didn’t have to live in squalor. They were just lazy and dramatic.

Footsteps sounded from an adjacent room and Patron Rhomney appeared in the doorway. He looked exactly as he had in the car that had passed them, and he smiled when he saw her recognition.

“Zoe, my dear, so good to have you back!” He held out his arms and stepped forward, as if he’d embrace her. She managed not to cringe. He’d never harmed her physically, not personally, so as detestable as he was, she could hide her response. As long as he was quick about it.

But he never reached her. A screech came from behind him, and then billows of thin, fluffy red hair appeared under his arm, followed by Freddie, who looked so much like a Hollywood-style witch Zoe stepped back, bumping into PB behind her. His chuckle reached her ear under Freddie’s gleeful squeals, but his steadying hands only held her in place for Freddie to fall on her.

“My child my child my child! You’re home you’re home you’re home!” Freddie crowded up against Zoe, long nails snagging her hair when she tried to stroke it, her body bony and insect-like with her long arms and legs. She wore a flowered dress that gaped across the chest and hung off her hips. One of her “mother dresses.” Zoe turned away from her fetid breath, coming, no doubt, from the rotted teeth. She’d have thought they got better dental care in prison.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Pat stepped back out of the room, his expression satisfied, as if knowing how freaked out Zoe was right then. Stew moved to stand in front of the front door, and PB, with a huff of disgust, dropped lazily onto the sofa, examining his nails and for all appearances ignoring the spectacle before him.

Zoe couldn’t move, as paralyzed as if a big, mean-looking dog sniffed at her feet. Freddie circled her, muttering in a sing-song that Zoe couldn’t understand. Her nails were jagged and sharp and scratched Zoe’s neck and arms. Freddie plucked at Zoe’s clothing, shaking her head loosely but fiercely, with a grumble about shopping for proper clothes.

“Comecome!” Freddie caught Zoe’s hand and tugged her to a scratchy plaid armchair. “Sitsit! I’ll make you pretty. Preeetttty.” She snatched a brush out of a box next to the chair, as if she’d placed it there for just this purpose. And maybe she had. She’d been odd when she had Zoe before, her eyes lit with an eerie type of glow that made her look crazy. The glow was gone, but the crazy remained. Worse.

Zoe fought. She tried, mentally, not to slide back, but as soon as the brush touched the top of her head she filled with despair. Hatred. Sorrow. Guilt. Longing. Freddie crooned as she stroked the brush through Zoe’s hair, over and over and over. Hot tears singed her face and she thought of her mother, and wished she’d been more understanding, less dismissive and frustrated. She used to picture her mother when Freddie did this. Remembered warm bread baking, her mother’s smile and reassuring hugs. It hadn’t made her skin stop crawling, or her stomach stop hurting, or eased the scream building inside her.

Nor did it help now. All of those things returned as if they’d never gone. She couldn’t remember her life before she got here. She’d had a job, and a fiancé, and friends, and family, and
herself
, but it was all gone, vanished in a void that squeezed those sixteen years to nothing, until all she knew was then and now.

Freddie set the brush down and separated Zoe’s hair to braid it. Zoe squeezed her eyes so tightly that golden suns exploded on a red background, spreading and fading and reforming. She concentrated on them. Focused hard on the shapes, the patterns, until she was immersed in them and could no longer feel the scrabble of Freddie’s fingers at the nape of her neck.

Pull yourself out of this
. It was a command. Weak, but her own voice. Her own power.
You’re not twelve. You’re not helpless. You’re stronger than her. Overpower her. NOW!
Zoe shot to her feet, surprising herself.

Freddie screeched and grabbed at the end of the braid, a rubber band stretched around her fingers. “No no no! Fix it! Fix it!”

“I don’t want you to braid my hair.” Zoe stepped away and turned, bracing her feet and holding out a hand—as if that would stop Freddie. The woman was totally around the bend.

“Excellent!” Pat’s pleased voice sounded from over her shoulder, but Zoe didn’t want to take her eyes off Freddie, who was trying to get around her to secure the braid. Zoe defiantly shook out her hair.

“I have to say, I’m very pleased.” Pat circled in front of her and touched Freddie gently, almost lovingly, on the shoulder. Freddie pouted but settled to the floor next to the chair.

“Pleased about what? I’ll make sure not to do it again.” Zoe was amazed at her cheek. A moment ago, she’d have thought she’d never have the strength to go up against either of them, ever.

“I’m pleased at what you’ve grown to be. I wasn’t sure you would be able to do the job, but you’ve given me confidence.” He nudged her toward the plaid chair, settling onto the recliner next to it. “Please, sit. It’s a request, not an order. For comfort purposes,” he added when she didn’t move.

Ignoring the request felt like childish stubbornness now, not strength, so Zoe did as he asked.

“Thank you. Would you like a drink or something to eat?”

“No.” Instantly, she craved water. But she would never ingest anything these people would give her.

“Your choice.” He settled onto the recliner next to her.

“What now?” She swallowed hard and forced herself to ask a question that had plagued her since she decided to come here, putting as much of a sneer into her voice as she could. “Are you going to punish me for getting you arrested?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Oh, no, don’t worry about that. I know it’s not the best incentive for you.” Before she could ask what he meant, he held out his hand. “Before we get started, please give me your cell phone.”

She stared at his wide, roughed-up palm. He shook it impatiently. “Don’t play games, Zoe. Give me your cell phone.”

“Wait!” Freddie jumped up from where she’d settled on the floor at Zoe’s feet and dashed out of the room, back in seconds with a battered cardboard box. “Here! I saved your toys!” She sank down again and pawed through the box, holding up a yo-yo. “See? We’ll play.” The yo-yo fell out of her hand and rolled across the floor. “Oooh, blocks! You love blocks, baby.” She started stacking them.

Zoe stared. She’d never played with toys with Zoe, who’d been far too old for the kinds of things she was pulling from the box. She turned back to Pat, who nodded sadly.

“Prison wasn’t very good to Freddie, I’m afraid. But that will be rectified. The phone?”

Zoe didn’t know how he expected to fix Freddie. The woman was clearly off her nut, irreversibly damaged mentally. A whisper reminded her of the things she’d read about the totems, and their powers. She’d suspected Pat believed those stories, and this was evidence. It increased the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

But she had more immediate concerns first. She sighed and pulled her phone from her pocket, setting it in his hand. “It’s off,” she told him. “I’m not trying to record you or anything. And it can’t transmit my location while it’s off,” she added, hoping that wasn’t overkill. This was the phone Henricksen gave her, and if she’d read him right, it
could
be tracked without being on.

The phone chimed as Pat thumbed the power button. They all waited in silence as it booted up. He pressed a few buttons, scrolled around, and pierced her with a sharp but smug gaze. “This isn’t your phone.”

“But—”

“Where’s the picture of our friend Mr. Carling?”

Her heart sank. “I deleted it.”

“Hmm. I don’t think so.” He stood, dropped the phone onto the floor, and ground it under his boot heel. Plastic and tiny pieces of the innards skittered across the floor, along with most of Zoe’s hopes. It was possible they’d tracked her location already and the FBI could be entering any minute.

Yeah, right. Things didn’t work that way in real life.

“I wondered why they didn’t check me for weapons,” she said, struggling to sound as strong as she had a moment ago. “Now I know you just wanted to be dramatic.”

He laughed. “Okay, you got me. A little.” He held up his finger and thumb to indicate how little. “But I knew you wouldn’t have weapons. That’s not you.”

She ground her teeth, wishing she could whip out a forty-four and prove he didn’t know her at all. Not that she knew how to use a forty-four. Or could have taken a weapon of any kind on the plane. She stared at the pieces of the phone, shattered like her stupid, last-ditch plan. Now what?

“We won’t be here long enough for the FBI to arrive.” Pat roamed the room, almost pacing but with a more leisurely intent. He paused by an old fireplace with a stone mantle, and Zoe realized the totems were on display there. They looked smaller for some reason, but gleamed among the room’s dinginess, and she was surprised she hadn’t spotted them. Fear trickled through her and she allowed a piece of her brain to pray and beg for the FBI to show up
now
. She really didn’t want to be part of whatever Pat thought they could do.

But then she remembered the key. He couldn’t do anything without the key. If he didn’t already have it. He could have found it since he got out of prison. Or even had someone find it for him while he was still there. She sat, watching, unable to swallow or even breathe very well through the lump of anxiety in her throat, as he stroked a finger over the shapes traced in the gold.

“You recall Jordan Neely.” He wrapped his hand around the center of the totem and squeezed. Zoe’s eyes stung and she blinked hard. Is that how he’d killed him? How he’d kill her?

“Yes,” she said softly.

“You recall the circumstances of his failure?”

Heat flooded her face and burned away the tears. She found herself on her feet, hands clenched. “He
didn’t
fail. He found the totems. And you killed him anyway.”

Pat shrugged a shoulder, but his mouth twitched in a smile that made Zoe want to throw up. “You’re quite correct. But he didn’t obtain the key.”

“You knew where the key was. You were on your way to get it when—” She broke off.

“Yes, when you escaped with my treasure.” He let his hand drop and swung to look at her. “You’re in a similar situation. Jordie needed to obtain the totems to save his brother. He did that, but since he didn’t get the key, he forfeited his life. I knew where the key was then, and I know where it is now. You’ll obtain it for me, bring it back to me.”

Oh, God
. “Or?”

“Or.” He smiled that smug twitch of a smile again and motioned to a room behind Zoe, nodding for her to look around the blanket hanging in the doorway. Slowly, and without an ounce of needing to know what was on the other side, she crossed the creaky wood floor. Slipped her hand between the crooked doorjamb and the ragged cotton blanket that smelled of cigarettes. Nudged the cloth aside just enough to see past it. And retched.

Carling was there. She hadn’t expected it. Pat couldn’t have flown with him, so she’d assumed someone else was driving him cross-country. He looked much the same as he had in the photo, with dried blood on his forehead partially obscuring a deep purple, raised bruise. His hands were tied with narrow rope, then attached to one of the bed’s feet, as were his legs. He had enough slack to change position a little, but not much. He was awake, his eyes dull and hopeless until they landed on her. Then they lit with hatred that sparked an answering guilt in Zoe.

But it wasn’t Carling that made her back out of the room, turn, and gack on PB’s shoes. On the king-sized bed next to Carling, curled in a ball against his back but tethered by one ankle, was a girl about twelve years old.

Olivia
. She could barely hear the noises of disgust around her over her great, gasping heaves. She hadn’t eaten anything for hours so not much came up, but that didn’t stop her stomach from trying to turn itself inside out. It cramped hard, and her head swam, her pulse slamming in her ears. All she could see was Carling, beaten, bloody, and the delicate, vulnerable body huddled next to him.

It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her.

The words kept echoing, louder and louder over her desperation until she realized it wasn’t denial, but assertion. The girl’s hair might not be dark enough. She was curled up, but seemed too small, too short, to be Olivia. She braced her hands on her knees and forced herself to concentrate on the brief tableau seared into her brain. It had been too quick. She couldn’t be sure. And did it matter? She couldn’t let Pat harm any young girl, whether or not she was Kell’s sister.