Faint of Heart (3 page)

She reached for the chain lock, and then hesitated. "May I have your name and badge number, please?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your name and badge number. I won't be able to read it through the peephole."

"My name is Phillip Marsh. My badge number is 0133."

"Thank you. I need to verify something really quick, and I'll be right back."

"Ma'am, this is extremely urgent. Your husband may not have much time left."

Rebecca felt like she was going to vomit. She never let anybody, not even a uniformed State Trooper, much less a plainclothes cop, into her home without knowing exactly who it was, but if Gary was badly hurt...

She reached for the first lock.

Yet this State Trooper looked
wrong
, for some reason. Even with his image distorted through the peephole there was something almost predatory about him.

Knock it off, you're just being paranoid, for God's sake! Gary could be dying!

She unlocked the first bolt.

Did she see a hint of a smile?

Instead of unfastening the second lock, she ran into the kitchen and picked up the phone. She desperately needed to know what happened to Gary, but she also needed to know that this was a real police officer at her door.

No dial tone.

She tapped the plunger several times to make sure.

She'd tried to call Gary less than fifteen minutes ago. The phone had been working fine all weekend, and now, as soon as a strange man showed up on her doorstep, it stopped.

"Ma'am, I can't emphasize strongly enough how important it is for you to let me in. I understand your need for safety precautions, and under other circumstances I would praise you for this kind of behavior, but Gary has been seriously injured, and he may be dying as we speak, and I urgently need to bring you to the hospital."

"I'll be outside in one minute," she said. "I'll meet you in your car."

"Goddamn it, lady, your husband is gonna
die
!"

It was all Rebecca could do to hold in the scream. This was no cop.

But he knew Gary's name. Maybe he'd killed him.

Stop thinking that
!

Her cell phone was in her purse. Where the hell had she left it when she came home? For a split second her mind went blank.

Kitchen counter. Right next to her.

The man pounded on the door, but only a couple of times. Then there was a crash from the living room. Glass breaking. The alarm went off.

Rebecca grabbed her purse from the counter, snatched her keys from the hook, then opened the door to the garage, praying that the phony cop wouldn't hear her over the alarm and would waste time looking elsewhere in the house.

She hurried into the garage, got into the car, slid the key into the ignition, and turned on the engine--simple actions that felt like they took forever. She pressed the button to start the automatic garage door opener. In the movies, people could drive right through closed garage doors, but in real life she'd probably end up with a destroyed vehicle.

The garage door began to rise, moving at a slow speed that was excruciating to watch. She locked the car doors.

She put the car in reverse then tightly clenched the steering wheel as she waited for the garage door to lift enough to drive underneath.

The door to the kitchen flew open.

The man pointed a gun at her.

She ducked down as far as she could and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The car shot backward, the roof scraping against the bottom of the rising garage door.

A gunshot rang out. The windshield didn't explode into chunks of safety glass and no blood jettisoned from her neck, so he didn't appear to have hit the vehicle.

But with the second shot the car swerved out of control. He'd definitely hit a tire.

The third shot hit another tire and the car jerked to the right, smashing sideways into a tree. The airbag deployed. She frantically put the car into drive and stomped on the gas pedal, but the car wouldn't move.

Rebecca flinched at the loud tap on the driver's side window. The man stood there, pointing the gun at her.

"Turn the engine off," he demanded.

She floored the gas pedal again, but the car still wasn't going anywhere, so she reluctantly took her foot away and turned off the engine.

Shit...

"Open the door," he said. He spoke very slowly and carefully, as if straining to keep his fury under control.

Since all he'd have to do is shoot through the window and unlock it himself, she opened the door.

"Get out of the car. Now."

"Please don't hurt me, I--"

"
Now
! You've wasted enough of my time already! And you damn well better hope your neighbors don't show up."

Not taking her eyes off the man, she eased her way out of the car. His eyes, which never left her, were bloodshot and filled with rage.

"How do you shut that alarm off?"

"I can't."

"Lie to me again and I'll shoot your fucking teeth out. How do you shut it off?"

"I have to put in the keycode."

"So do it."

He gave her a violent shove and they hurried into the garage. The alarm keypad was mounted on the wall. As Rebecca reached for it, the man pressed his gun to the back of her head.

"Listen to me," he said, speaking loudly over the alarm. "If you put in anything but the 'everything is fine' code, it'll be really fucking gory. Got it?"

Rebecca hesitated, and then punched in the proper numbers on the keypad. The alarm shut off.

"I sincerely hope you made the right decision," the man said. "Stupid untrusting bitch. I'll laugh my ass off if your husband
does
die before you see him."

Rebecca's eyes widened. "Gary's really hurt?"

The man grinned. "Ohhhhhh yeah. He's hurt bad."

"Where is he?"

"You may not ever find out. Because of your dumb stunt, we don't get to have the leisurely talk I'd planned. Now that you've put that code in, are they going to send somebody to investigate the alarm?"

Rebecca shook her head. "No." It was the truth, unfortunately.

"They had better not. If I see a cop, I'm going to start shooting, even if they're giving a parking ticket. Where's your cell phone?"

"It's in my purse."

"And where's your purse?"

"In the car."

"Let's go get it." Keeping his gun pointed at her, the man walked her back to the car. He reached inside and took the purse from where it rested on the passenger seat, then removed the cell phone. "I'd better not find a 911 call in your history. That would be terrible for both of us."

He pressed a couple of buttons on her phone and then nodded, apparently satisfied. He put the phone in his pocket then gestured with the gun. "My car's parked at the end of your driveway. Get moving. If it were up to me, I'd shoot you just for the hell of it, so don't give me any reason to give in to that temptation."

Rebecca began to cry as she walked down the driveway, which wound around in such a way that she couldn't see the road until right before she reached the end of it. She desperately wanted to keep the tears contained, didn't want him to enjoy her weakness, but the best she could do was withhold actual sobs from the man. Her whole body shook, both from the cold and the fear.

The car was a beat-up, rusty blue thing that looked like it would barely be able to support their weight, much less drive. The man stepped past her, took out a set of keys, and unlocked the trunk.

"See, you were going to get to be all comfy up front, but now I'm a little concerned that people may come looking for you. So guess where you get to ride, sweetie? Hope you don't impale yourself on the tire iron." He threw open the trunk lid, and then pointed the gun at her once again. "Hurry up."

She considered succumbing to the unbearable urge to fall to her knees begging and pleading. Not because she thought it would do any good, but perhaps she could distract him enough to take him by surprise. She didn't have high hopes for her chances of beating him in a physical fight, but she had to try
something
, didn't she?

No, not a good idea. Her neighbors may not have thought anything of the gunshots (target practice wasn't exactly rare in this area), but then again, they might decide to come over and investigate. She doubted very much that this man was bluffing--he seemed like he'd happily shoot anybody who wandered over to see what was going on. And if she didn't go with him, she might never find out what happened to Gary.

She climbed into the trunk, squeezing next to a cold, damp garbage bag.

"Sorry about the smell," said the man. "It usually takes me a few days to remember to stop at the Dumpster."

He grinned, saluted her, and then slammed the lid of the trunk shut.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alan was tempted to purposely hit a few bumps and potholes, just to rattle his captive, but he wasn't sure the piece of shit he was driving could take it. And then Stephen would have a hissy fit over the car, and Alan really wasn't in the mood to listen to that crap right now.

What a disaster. This should've been ridiculously easy:
 
Pretend to be a cop then grab her when she opened the door. Granted, it would've been a better scam if Stephen's cheap-ass budget allowed for a real police car or even a fucking state trooper uniform, but still, he never anticipated that she wouldn't open up for a cop bearing news about her husband.

Hopefully the alarm and the gunshots wouldn't come back to bite him in the nuts. Of course, he had no intention of telling Stephen about the complications, but the bastard kept track of every bullet.

He could almost hear Stephen's cigarette-fried voice now, demanding to know how he could be so careless. What was he supposed to do besides break the living room window? Stand outside whacking off while she grabbed a cell phone and called for help?

Cell phones were a real pain in the ass in his line of business/pleasure. Apparently there was a way to block them, but Alan didn't much care for technology. Cutting phone lines was about as high-tech as he liked to get.

If Stephen gave him too much abuse, though, Alan swore the son of a bitch was going to get a knife in the eye. He'd taken about as much from that psycho as he could for a while. He was still kind of pissed about what happened three weeks ago, having to stand there getting Stephen's nasty saliva on his face while the guy popped a few dozen blood vessels screaming at him.

To be fair, he'd pretty much deserved that one. The kidnapping of Martha Irvin, an attractive forty-year-old, had gone perfectly, but she'd just been too damn tempting sitting there in the passenger seat, hands bound and mascara smeared from crying. He'd tried to control himself, going so far as to punch her a few times to get it out of his system, but it hadn't worked. He'd pulled into a rest area, dragged her out of the car and into the woods, and laughed the entire twenty minutes he worked her over with his knife. She only struggled for three of them.