Parker 04.5 - The Hunters (6 page)

“Hey!” Paulina said, leaning forward again. “That was my stop. This isn’t NASCAR, pay attention.”

“My apologies,” the driver said, “I must not have seen it.”

“No kidding, Stevie Wonder.” Paulina cursed under her breath. The next exit wasn’t until Ninety-sixth Street, and then he would have to loop all the way back downtown. Just like Ted Allen to hire a car service and get a driver dumber than a pile of bricks.

Traffic moved along steadily, and Paulina sighed as they approached the Ninety-sixth Street exit.

“Exit’s coming up,” she said, making sure to remind him.

“Got it, thanks, Miss Cole.”

As they approached the exit, Paulina noticed the car was not slowing down at all.

“Hey, will you slow down? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re going to miss it!”

The car drove right by the exit without slowing down one bit.

“Where the hell are you going?” Paulina yelled. The driver did not answer. “I’m calling Ted. You’ll work as a brain surgeon before you ever work our account again.”

“Put the phone down, Miss Cole.” The driver’s voice had lost all of its pleasantries.

“Screw you. Now I’m calling the cops. Forget our account. Your ass is going to jail.” She took out her cell phone and flipped open the cover.

“If you ever want to see your daughter with all her limbs intact, you’ll put the phone down right now.”

Paulina’s mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her daughter…how did this man even know about her? Paulina’s daughter lived with her first husband, a loser of a man named Chad Wozniak. He was a good father, an aspiring architect who never progressed beyond the word
aspiring.
He was a good man, a decent man, but not a provider. That’s what Paulina had wanted for her family, but in the end she had to do what Chad could not.

Abigail. She was twenty years old. A junior in college. A 3.7 average, captain of the soccer team at some all girls’ school up in Massachusetts. She and Paulina barely spoke. Maybe once every few months, and usually only when Abby’s checking account ran low. Abby was beautiful, even if sometimes this budding young woman seemed like a stranger to her own mother.

“You’re a sick monster,” Paulina said, closing the phone.

“Don’t be like that. We’re almost there.”

The driver took the FDR to the Triboro Bridge, pulling off once they’d arrived in Queens. He skidded around an off-ramp, took several turns in a neighborhood Paulina did not recognize, and slowly eased into an alleyway bookended by two buildings that looked like they were about to collapse. Paulina could see nobody, hear nobody. She was all alone with this man. Through the rain and desolation, nobody would hear her if she screamed.

The driver exited the car and walked around to the backseat. Paulina locked the door from the inside. She heard a click as the driver unlocked it with his remote. Before she could lock it again, he threw open the door, grabbed Paulina by her coat and spun her into the mud.

Wet slop splashed into her face. Paulina felt her eyes grow warm, anger rising inside of her. She launched herself at the man, her nails bared to rake at his face, but he merely grabbed her by the neck, held it for one horrible moment as he stared into her eyes.

Then Paulina felt him press something against her side, and suddenly she felt a scorching pain worse than anything she’d ever experienced. Her body twitched as she screamed. She lost control of her bladder, then dropped facedown into the mud. Paulina looked up to see the man holding a Taser, smiling.

“I wouldn’t do that again. I can smell your piss.”

Paulina could feel hot tears pouring down her face. She was on her hands and knees, caked in grime, and her body felt like it had just been plugged into an electrical socket. She slowly got to her knees, managed to stand up, her breath harsh and ragged.

“What do you want?” she cried. “Money? Sex?” She shuddered at the last word, praying he didn’t, praying there was something else, something that wouldn’t leave a scar. Pain she could take, but that kind of pain would never leave.

The man shook his head. Holding the Taser, he reached inside his overcoat, rain beading down the dark fabric. The water spilled down his forehead into his eyes, but the man who called himself Chester hardly seemed to notice.

He removed something from his pocket and held it out to Paulina. She focused her eyes, then gasped.

It was a picture of her daughter, Abby. She was at the beach, wearing a cute pink bikini, standing in front of a massive hole she must have dug in the sand. The photo looked fairly recent, within the last year or so. Abigail’s eyes were bright and cheerful, her skin a golden brown. Abby. She looked so joyful.

Her daughter.

“Where did you get that?” Paulina yelled.

“Do you really need to ask? I had a dozen others to choose from. You really should tell her to be careful of what photos she posts on the Internet.”

“You’re a freak,” she spat. “What the hell do you want?”

“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” the man said. He stepped closer, still holding out the photograph. Water droplets landed on the photo but he didn’t seem to care. “A long time ago, I fought in a war. I fought alongside men and women who were like my own blood. Then, one day, we found ourselves trapped. There was one man I fought with who was like family, closer to me than anyone. He was like a daughter. A mother. A brother.”

Paulina shivered.

“That day, we found ourselves fighting for our lives. And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, someone throws a grenade at us. I was out of harm’s way, but the grenade went off right beside this man I cared about. I remember looking at him after the smoke cleared. He blinked his eyes, looked around like he was just confused. The only thing I remember more than his eyes was the splash of blood beneath him. Right where his legs had been blown clean off.”

Then, in one fluid motion, Chester held the right side of the photo with his thumb and forefinger, tore off a piece and let it flutter to the ground. It landed in front of Paulina, speckled by rain and mud.

“This is what your daughter will look like when I cut off her legs.”

Paulina felt her stomach heave, her mouth opening, her eyes burning as she cried. She reached out for the photo, but was too weak to do anything.

“Blood has its own smell. It makes you want to vomit. And imagine what happens when you see that much blood coming from someone you love.”

He gripped the picture, and ripped off another piece. Again the shred fell, twisting in the rain.

“This is what your daughter will look like when I cut off her right arm.”

“Please,” Paulina whispered, her throat so constricted she could barely talk. She closed her eyes. “Stop. Just stop.”

The man stood there, holding the mutilated picture out for Paulina to see. “Open your eyes,” he said. Paulina shook her head. “Open them!”

She did.

“I have something for you,” the man said. “I want you to take it home with you and I want you to read it.”

“What?” she said, blinking away the tears.

“When you’ve read it, I want you to write an article for your newspaper based on the information contained within. Your article will run this Thursday. If it does not, for any reason whatsoever…” The man took the photo and ripped off a piece. Then he dropped the tattered photo into the mud.

“I will cut off your daughter’s head and send it to you in a box.”