Connor's Gamble (20 page)

Flinging open the front door, Bethany disappeared from view.  Alyssa's breath caught in her chest, yanking and pulling against her bonds. 
She can't leave me here.
  No sound of the car engine starting, no doors slamming came from outside.  A dozen different scenarios ran through Alyssa's mind, the chair rocking backwards on the two legs precariously.

No!  Don't fall.

A sigh of relief rushed out as the chair righted itself onto all four legs.  Her relief was short-lived though as Bethany sauntered back inside, her arms loaded with what looked like a camera tripod and a loaded backpack.

Alyssa watched every movement as the tripod was positioned in front of her.  A state-of-the art cell phone was attached, placed atop the stand, clamped into position with some kind of makeshift, homemade-looking clip.  Bethany stepped behind the setup, made a few adjustments and nodded.

I don’t understand any of this.  What the hell is she doing?

“What the hell are you doing?”  Alyssa voiced the question aloud.

“Setting the scene.  You and Connor's meddlesome grandmother recognized me, forcing me to accelerate my plans, but that's okay.  I'm nothing if not adaptable.  It's what makes me so good at what I do.”  Bethany looked up from behind the viewfinder on the cell phone.  “And I'm not talking about reporting.”  Again that hysterical laughter flowed from her, the sound sending shivers down Alyssa's spine.

“Almost ready, I think.  I just need to do one more thing.”  Walking around her Bethany once again went to the table leaning against the wall, grabbing up the tape.  She tore a long piece of off, replaced the roll on the table and walked toward Alyssa's chair.  Before Alyssa could blink, Bethany slapped the tape across her mouth, effectively gagging her.  The long strip wrapped across her lips and chin, covering the lower half of her face, effectively cutting off any sound.  Another piece was added, reinforcing the thickness.  Only muffled whimpers were audible, and those just barely.

A cruel twist lifted Bethany's lips in a caricature of a smile, malevolence blazing in her gaze.  “Time to make a movie, dear.  Private showing especially for our dear Connor.”

“No.  No.”  Alyssa mumbled beneath the tape.

Bethany strode back behind the cell phone and pressed a button.  It was recording; Alyssa knew it, her eyes welling with tears.  She couldn't imagine the sight she made.  Hair matted and tangled around her head, duct tape obscuring the lower half of her tear-streaked face.  Naked except for the tiny scrap of fabric of her panties.  She was smart enough to figure out Bethany wanted to torment Connor.  The question was why?

While the camera continued documenting the grotesque tableau, she watched Bethany open the laptop computer she'd brought in with the backpack and other equipment and power it up.  After another minute of taping on the keyboard, Bethany finally shut off the cell phone, a huge grin spreading across her face.  The smile never reached her eyes.  The lack of expression in those dead, soulless eyes terrified Alyssa more than being confined, bound and gagged.  No sound emanated during the recording except for Alyssa's mewling cries behind the duct tape, nothing to give any clue to where this insane woman held her.  How was Connor or anybody else going to find her?

# # # # #

The Silverado's manager solemnly accompanied Connor back to his gran's room and unlocked the door without question.  Connor surveyed the mess, the fallout of the afternoon's disaster. 
Gran
.  Why had Bethany gone after his gran?   No question in his mind his grandmother didn't take those pills willingly.  Had they been slipped to her somehow, put in her food?  Or had she been forced to swallow them?

Whatever the cause, the outcome wouldn't make Bethany happy.  Gran would live.  The doctors wouldn't hazard a guess at the extent of the damage the pills might have caused her.  He'd always thought of her as indestructible, always there, strong, unbreakable.  Now the picture in his head was so different.  Fragile.  Small and defenseless, lying unconscious in that bed in the emergency room.

His phone chirped.  Text message. 
Call me ASAP—Max
.  Remy's brother, Max Lamoreaux was a successful private investigator in New Orleans.  A former cop, he had connections everywhere and could finagle information from anybody, anywhere given enough time.

Dialing Max's number, he paced by the tiny hotel window, watching the light filter through the crack in the curtains.

“Lamoreaux Investigations.”

“Max, it's Connor.  Did you find something?”

“No.  That's the problem.”  Max's voice echoed over the line.

“Nothing?”

“Bethany Banks, television reporter for WBRL in Baton Rouge, has a squeaky clean history.  Too clean, actually.  Pays all her bills on time, earns a pretty decent salary.  Everything appears perfectly normal except for one little detail—Bethany Banks didn't exist before five years ago.”

“What?  How's that possible?”  Connor's mind raced through all the possible scenarios.

“On paper everything is in order.  Social Security number, bank accounts, utilities, everything exactly as it should be.  Theresa even talked the station manager into faxing her a copy of Bethany's job application and references.  I'm still not sure how she finessed that one.”  Max laughed at his wife's initiative and Connor heard the underlying pride in his voice.  “Digging a little deeper, nothing adds up.  School listed on her application has no records for a Bethany Banks.  Same with the previous employer.  She's like a phantom who popped up on the grid five years ago.  Before that—nothing.”

Connor paced.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Rubbed the spot between his eyes while the headache pounding in the background gained momentum.

“Max, none of this makes any sense.  Why go after my gran?  Can't be money—she doesn't have much.  A small life insurance benefit that Grandpop left her when he passed.  She lives in a senior center.  I just don't get it.”

“I'll keep checking.  I agree.  Something feels
off
about this whole TV angle about the senior group and their annual trip.  There's got to be more to it.  Connor . . .”  Max's voice trailed off before he continued.  “Watch your back.”

“I will.  Thanks, Max.”

Connor strode out of the room and down to the elevator.  Alyssa—he needed to talk with Alyssa.  Tell her about Gran.  She'd be devastated.  She loved Molly like her own family.  More—her family was the most useless bunch of people he'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

Together they'd talk to the other seniors.  Maybe one of them heard something, saw something.  Desperation clawed at his gut; his hands clenched into fists.  Howls of rage coiled deep in his throat as he fought not to scream to the heavens at his helplessness.

Fifth floor.  Alyssa's room was on the same floor, two doors further down the hallway than his.  His fist pounded on the door, which flew open under his hand.  Racing inside he took in the suitcase thrown open on the bed, the contents scattered haphazardly, spilling over the sides and onto the floor. 
No, no. 
He pushed open the door leading to the bathroom, knowing deep inside she wasn't in there either.  Spinning around, he bolted for the doorway but drew up short when he spied something sticking out from underneath the corner of the bedspread.  Pulled off-kilter on the bed, the corner hung lower on one side, and he almost missed the yellow-and-white paper.

Reaching down, he pulled it free.  An envelope of photos.  His hands shook—he knew what they were before he even looked.  Those damning pictures, the ones that turned his world upside-down and took away everything he loved, leaving him broken.  A man missing half his soul, because its other half was torn asunder when Alyssa walked away.

Four pictures.  Brilliant colors, crystal clear images.  Long red hair flowing in a cascade of curls over the shoulders and down the spine of the woman straddling his lap.  Her face was shrouded behind the fall of hair and the positioning of the camera.  There was no question it was him in the photos, his hands on her hips, his head thrown back.  Eyes closed.

Why the hell are my eyes closed?  Naked woman on my lap, grinding against me, hands splayed on my chest, and I've got my eyes closed?

He flipped from one to the next, each more disturbing than the first.  The one consistent thing throughout each was that single fact.  In every picture his eyes were closed.  His expression in each photo was the same—no expression whatsoever.  Face slack.

Some tiny detail niggled at the back of his mind.  What else was off about them?  Each more graphic, more revealing than the next, the woman's bare breasts pressed against him, his fingers lying near her waist . . . Wait.  That was it.  His hands.  In each picture his hands were the same, draped at her waist, resting on her hips.  Not pulling her closer.  Not grasping her hips, holding her to him.  Not fondling her breasts.  They were limp, loose.  Barely touching her at all.

Think, man.  Look at the facts.  Head back, eyes closed.

His position was unchanged in every photo.  Staged shots, posed for the most dramatic effect for the camera.  It would explain why he never remembered a nude woman on his lap or somebody with a camera.  Unconscious—or drugged?

One more piece of the puzzle fell into place.  Laying the pictures out on the dresser side by side he compared them.  The woman kept her face out of view of the camera in each shot.  That told him one very important fact—if he saw her face he'd recognize her.

The chirp of his phone alerted him to an incoming text.  He pulled it out of his pocket.  A viscous string of expletives broke free as he cursed the display.

Connor, sweetie, I have something that belongs to you.  See attached.

Fingers punched the keyboard and the graphic display elicited another round of language that turned the air blue.  Alyssa's tear-stained face filled the tiny screen on his phone, hair matted and tangled around her face.  Her eyes were huge, damp from crying.  Silver duct tape covered her mouth and her naked shoulders were pulled back at an unnatural angle.  Gut instinct told him they were tied behind her.

Another text beep sounded.  Anonymous with the number blocked—just like the first one.

“Son of a bitch!”

Surprise, Connor.  Betcha weren't expecting that.  Get in your car.  You have 5 minutes.
  The message ended.

Bolting for the door, Connor raced down the hall to the elevator, stabbing frantically at the button.  Where the hell was the elevator?  Forget it.  Slamming open the stairwell door, he practically flew down the steps, taking three at a time, until he reached the lobby level.  Bursting through, he ran across the foyer, outside, and straight through the sliding front doors before pulling up sharply.

“Damn it!  Damn it!”  He didn't have his car; he was on this god-forsaken bus trip from hell.

Chirp.  Text message alert.

Oops.  I almost forgot—you don't have a car.  Ha!  Better find one.  You don't have much time.  I'll play fair—you've got half an hour to find one.  Start driving north—TTYL.

“No!”  Connor slammed his hand against one of the pillars of the covered circular drive outside the front doors of the Silverado.

Ring.  The phone vibrated in his hand.  He stared at the caller ID screen, his heart thudding like a jackhammer tearing into concrete. 
Remy
.  Hands shaking he answered the call, his breath ragged—he couldn't speak.

“Connor? You there?”  Remy's voice sounded over the line but still Connor couldn't find words. 
Alyssa.  Have to find her.  Have to save her.

“Damn it, Connor, answer me!”

A deep inhalation of breath, slowly blown outward helped him focus.  “I'm here.  Remy, it's all gone to hell here—somebody snatched Alyssa.”

“What?  When?”

“Don't know.  I got back from the emergency room, went to Gran's room.  Thought maybe I could make sense of what happened, figure out some clue why that bitch Bethany wanted to hurt her.”  He rubbed his hand across his face, before running it through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.  “Didn't find anything.  I needed to see Alyssa—tell her about Gran.  Her door was open, but she wasn't there.  The place was a mess.  Suitcase on the bed, clothes thrown all over the place,
but she wasn't there
.”

“Max called me, let me know what he'd found.  More like what he didn't find out about Bethany Banks.  She's a ghost who literally showed up five years ago.  Nothing and then bam, she's there,” Remy broke in.

“I've never met this woman before she showed up here.  Everything for this damned interview was arranged with Gran and the people at Whispering Pines.  What the hell is Bethany up to?”

“Wish I knew.  I'm on my way, should be there in thirty, maybe thirty-five minutes, depending on traffic.”  Remy's tone brooked no argument.

“Make it as fast as you can, Remy.”  Connor's voice cracked at the words.  “Thanks.  Just . . . thanks.”

Connor's chest tightened, friendship and love for his cousin filled his spirit.  Remy was the kind of friend you didn't have to ask to come; he showed up ready to rock and roll.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he raised his head and looked around.  It was early afternoon, the parking lot half-filled with cars.  At a casino there was never a down time, people came at all hours of the day and night.  He watched an older couple get out of their sedan and head toward the Silverado entrance.  Ambling past them, hands in his pockets, he purposefully walked straight to the car they'd just exited.  Tried the door. 
Of course it's locked.  Look around, idiot, find something to smash the window.  Then you can hot-wire the damn thing.  How hard can it be?

Two rows over he spotted a rock on the ground in an empty parking slot.  He jogged over and snatched it up, checking all the cars around him.  Maybe he should pick an older car, one without so much fancy computer hardware.  There.  A behemoth, pale puke green with more rust than paint sat in isolated splendor, dents, nicks and a rolled-down passenger side window.