Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (57 page)

Bric
k’
s sinister chuckle at his so
n’
s sick wit sends cold chills ripping through me. 

“
You prick
,”
I say, easing my hand from inside my hoodi
e’
s pocket.  If
I’
m going on that gurney,
I’
m going with the only weapon I have, my razor blade.  This time, I wo
n’
t use it to cut myself. 
I’
ve taken a lot of abuse over my cutting.  The only one who understood was Ang. . . . 

My loathing turns to white-hot anger.  I want to lash out at my frien
d’
s murderers, but ca
n’
t afford to lose control, and I do
n’
t even know which one did it.
 “
You killed Angie, did
n’
t you, Stoke?  And Meera
?
”

“
Bring her to me
,”
Brick orders, his voice calm.
 “
Sh
e’
s stalling
.
”

“
Come on, you pathetic little pricks!  Tell me which one of you killed her
!
”

Brick turns to me.
 “
If you must know, I enjoyed your little frien
d’
s screams
.
”
 
He makes the sucking noise again.
 “
My, she was tasty.  Vanilla ice cream, I think, but no cherry
.
”
 
He guffaws.

Taking deep breaths, I close my fist on my razor and count to keep my focus and slow my racing heartbeat.  Bric
k’
s in control. 
I’
ve stalled, yes, but
I’
ve not disrupted his plan to add my teeth to his collection:
I’
m going to die.  Yet I have to fight.

“
You will not get by with this
,”
I say, hearing even as I say it how ridiculous my comment sounds.

“
Come
,”
Brick says, again patting the gurney.

It looks foreboding, like the ones they use on death row to give prisoners lethal injections.  I
t’
s not the black Mylar straps, open and waiting to embrace me.  I
t’
s not the stainless steel tray of dental tools resting beside the gurney.  Wha
t’
s making me panicky is the feeling of being helpless. 
I’
m back in that closet with Robin, holding him. 
I’
m trying to block out the sounds of my parent
s
’ screaming.

“
Berta, think of your daughter instead of your habit. . . .  I ca
n’
t stop my life for her
.
” 

And the
n—
gunfire. 
Boom!  Boom!

I realize now why
I’
ve been so angry, why I ca
n’
t trust LEOs, why I cannot let Stoke and Brick Verbote do what the
y’
re planning.  That night, my mom pulled me and Robin from behind our laundry basket in the bathroom closet, and she stumbled with us in her drug-dazed stupor from the burning trailer.  Afterward, the deputies took me and Robin from her.  We watched them cuff her and stuff her into their cruiser, while we screamed and cried for our mommy.

When they pulled our da
d’
s charred corpse from the trailer and drove off with our dad in that ambulance, we were
n’
t supposed to see, but we were Colbys, curious and watchful kids.  How were we to know they were doing their job?  Doing what the dough-faced women at Childre
n’
s Services, who the deputies turned us over to, thought wa
s—
right?

That night, so much of my and Robi
n’
s future was stolen.  Our family was broken.

But
I’
ve got so much to live for.  My dreams, my brother, and my mom, Berta Colby.  Ther
e’
s also my dream of making my tryout video for the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition.  It feels odd to think of that right now, considering, but I realize why it matters. 
I’
m a fighter.  Having a crippled ankle and a family tha
t’
s dysfunctional are just two more obstacles in my path, and every time I find an obstacle: I start thinking of how
I’
m going to overcome it.

Like right now, as Stoke approaches to drag me to that gurne
y—
and to Brick. 

“
Nooo
!
” 

Kicking Officer Barbie hard, making a final attempt to rouse her, I go limp in Stok
e’
s arms, kicking and biting as he drags me to my feet, still bound by duct tape at the ankles.
 “
You bastards will have to fight for these
,”
I scream, baring my teeth.
 “I’
m not giving them up easily
.
”

Officer Barbie lets out another low moan.  It sounds like sh
e’
s comin
g‘
round.  My gaze lands on her, but I move it quickly away. 

“
Where am I
?”
I demand.  If I do
n’
t make it out of here alive, I need to leave her something she can use to escape.  Knowing where we are might help her, or not.  But i
t’
s my last ditch effort.
 “
Where have you dragged me to
?
”

But Brick merely snorts, and then walks over to help Stoke drag me to the gurney. 

“
Please do
n’
t touch me, Brick.  If you ever cared for me as . . . as your employee, please do
n’
t touch me
.
”
 
Feeling hot tears threatening to erupt, I bite down on my teeth, cringing when Brick strokes my jaw line.  In one hand, h
e’
s holding a bowl of dental paste, which h
e’
s been mixing.  This, I know from experience, will go into my mouth, and h
e’
ll use it to make impressions, like those he made of Meer
a’
s and Angi
e’
s teeth.  Bu
t—
I fight a wave of nause
a—
will he make the impressions before or after he extracts the two teeth he needs for his collection?  Will he do it before or after
I’
m dead?

“
You really are a slow learner
,”
Brick says.
 “
Just like Francine
.
”
 
He shakes his head in didgust.
 “
You do
n’
t know why I picked you, do you
?
” 

Using two thick fingers, he forces my mouth open, and then shoves his fingers inside, forcing my head back.

“
No
,”
I say, gagging, fighting to avoid his intrusion.  Knowing what h
e’
s got planned, remembering Meera and Ang, I ca
n’
t bear his touch, his fingers.
 “
Wh
y’
d you pick me
?”
I manage to choke out without gagging.

“
You look like her, Alaina.  You look like Francine.  And
,”
he adds
,“
she was a whore, too, just like you.  A dancing whore who loved to show her naked body for me
n—
and money
.
”

“I’
m not a whor
e
—” 

I jerk my head back and chomp down, ejecting his fingers from my mouth.
 “
Who in hell is Francine
?
” 

“
Ahhhh, your teeth are perfect
,”
he says, ignoring my question and fondling my teeth.  His fingers, long thin surgeo
n’
s fingers, shove back inside my mouth with a rough grim precision.

“
Wha
t’
s your race
?”
he asks.

I’
m stumped.  I mean, no one knows
I’
ve got African American blood, although I never try to hide it, since
I’
m proud of my grand daddy, proud to carry his blood.  But wh
y’
s Brick asking? 

Then I realize what h
e’
s doing.  He did it in the lab when he acted as my mentor. 

Wha
t’
s her race?  Caucasoid or Negroid? 

H
e’
d asked me questions like that when h
e’
d shown me Meer
a’
s impressions.  When I thought he was helping me learn about Meer
a’
s anthropological background, he was actually getting off watching me examine her.  Same as he did then, h
e’
s controlling me now.

“
You killed Meera, did
n’
t you?”
              While Stoke holds my arms behind my back, Brick continues poking about in my mouth, but does
n’
t answer my question.

“
Alaina, do you realize Detective Hawks and the FBI will come to me asking for bite mark impressions
?”
Brick says, chuckling.
 “I’
ll even help him compare your bite marks to Megal
o’
s other victims
.
”

“
Tha
t’
s sick
!
”

I ca
n’
t help myself.  I shiver at the irony.  Brick will make impressions of the bite wounds he, or Stoke, or both of these sickos plan to make on my body.  The thought terrifies me.

He pulls his fingers from my mouth.
 “
H
e’
ll recognize your bite, Alaina.  H
e’
ll think of your lips.  H
e’
ll recall kissing you.  Does that excite you?  Hmmm
?
”

Imagining my shoulders ending up like Meer
a’
s and Angi
e’
s, flesh gnawed from my bones, I want to cry, to beg for my life.

“
Why?  Why are you doing this
?
” 

I
t’
s a stupid question born of futility.  I think of us: Bric
k’
s victims.  Angie Miller.  She was a young girl from a broken home with no one looking out for her, no family.  Me, ditto.  And Meera with her tattoo indicating her caste.
 “
I
t’
s a Hindi symbol
,”
Brick had said.
 “
The tattoo identifies her caste.  Sh
e’
s merchant, not Brahmin.  It tells us sh
e’
s from India
.
”

We were lost girls, American societ
y’
s throw aways.  We were girls no one cared about, perhaps like Bric
k’
s Francine.  At least tha
t’
s what Brick had thought, and tha
t’
s why he picked us.  Proving him wrong,
I’
d searched for Angie.  NPD had started searching for her, too, and for Ang and Meer
a’
s killer.  I close my eyes. 

Is Aidan looking for me?  Is anyone looking for me?

“
Yo
u’
re fucked up
!
”

I glance toward Stoke.
 “
Why do
n’
t you help me, you fuck
!
”

He shrugs, glances toward Brick.
 “I’
m here to help, to be a good son
.
”

“
Yo
u’
re . . . his son
?
”
 
Headsmack.  I shoul
d’
ve guessed. 
I’
ve heard of serial killing pairs, of father and son killers.  This is as scary as it gets.
 “
Stoke,
c’
mon.  W
e’
re friends.  We played together as kids before yo
u
—”