Scare Me (15 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 
 
 

 
 
 

Chicago,
 

Illinois,
 

DON'T TRY TO PHONE THE OCCUPANT
 

 

Sitting in the departure lounge, Poppy used her iPhone to type the information into the configuration page for the website. She looked at the Roman numerals on the gold face of her Emile Chouriet watch. Because of the delay in the house in Pepperwood Springs and getting snarled up in traffic, she only had forty minutes to spare before her flight from Baltimore International. She inhaled a few times, shut out the outcome of what she'd just left behind and focussed on the next part of the schedule. He would probably make the flight behind hers, if he hurried. It didn't matter if he missed it though, as long as he made it to his destination by early evening.

Her next appointment was the one everything in her itinerary hinged on and she couldn't afford to miss the one opportunity she had. The others had been in locations that had been easy to choreograph, but at this one timing was crucial.

She'd left her sushi knife behind the cubicle in the ladies. Even though security was lax on domestic flights, she didn't want to risk being delayed. She'd buy another blade when she got to Chicago.

She looked up to see if the gate had opened and snagged the eye of a middle-aged businessman with tight grey curls. He was pretending to read an ebook through a pair of half-spectacles. His eyes lingered on her for longer than necessary.

Dressed in the navy blue suit and black suede ankle boots she'd changed into on the parking deck she wondered what the man's perception of her was. He probably wouldn't have conceived of how the blood had gotten on the clothes she'd ditched in the trunk of the car. She smiled at him.

He looked down and pretended to arrange his blue silk tie in his lap and then immediately looked up at her again. In that moment she'd risen and walked past him.

Poppy refreshed her mascara in the mirror of the ladies and was just about to push the brush back into the tube when the swing door opening made her look up and at the reflection of the person who'd come halfway through it.

It was the man from the lounge, but his gaze quickly left hers to check for other occupants. When he realised they were alone he returned his attention to her, moved inside the room and leaned his back against the door.

“That's the problem with departure lounges. Nothing in them to help you kill time.” He stayed where he was, anticipating a reaction.

She casually applied more mascara that she didn't need and said nothing.

He seemed to take this as a cue and took two steps forward. “I'm an observer. I watch and identify exactly who the people around me are.”

Poppy took her time zipping her mascara away in her canary yellow clutch purse, briefly thought about her sushi knife stashed away in the ladies room in the main terminal and then turned to face him. He moved forward another pace and she estimated, even in her heels, that he was a foot taller than her. His figure was starting to exhibit the surplus of middle age, but his frame was solid and stocky and he was using it to block her path to the exit.

“I've watched you longer than I needed to. Know why?”

Poppy knew she didn't need to contribute.

“I can tell you're like me. You take exactly what you want.”

Poppy felt no threat from the man, but was interested to see how he would proceed. She registered he'd already taken off and pocketed his half spectacles. She stepped forward to leave and he moved his body slightly, but sufficiently enough to obstruct her. She looked up at his grey blue eyes as he tried to fix her as meaningfully as he could.

“You smelt so good when you passed me.” He cocked his head towards the door. “Nothing to do out there but sit and consider time we'll never get back. A cubicle in here, however, that's got potential.”

She breathed in through her nostrils as if considering his proposition. He was a tanned, handsome man. Probably had a respectable job, a faithful wife and more than his fair share of wealth and family happiness. What made him and so many like him respond to such a self-destructive compulsion?

“I've put the cleaning sign in front of the door. But we'll have to act quickly.” He raised his eyebrows, hard-selling it now.

She wondered how many lackeys he had saying “yes' to him and how long it had taken this man to convince himself that his licence in the boardroom counted for anything in the real, dangerous world. She reached up to his face and put her finger against his lips. He breathed heavily through his nostrils. Under the artificial breath freshener she could detect that he'd been eating spicy meat.

Poppy pushed her finger into the warmth of his mouth. His surprise quickly dissolved and he kept his eyes fixed on her while he greedily sucked it. She felt his hot tongue licking gently under the pad and watched the muscles of his expression relax. Chemicals were already firing inside him, much quicker than normal if public bathrooms were usually where he operated.

She was tempted, but Poppy could ring-fence what was vital. After a few moments she broke eye contact, pulled her finger from his lips and wiped it deliberately on his lemon shirt. His chest heaved as he waited for her next move. She turned, picked up her clutch purse and made to leave.

“I know you're hiding something.” The enticement had left his voice and he moved sideways, his foot intercepting her step so one of her heels was either side of his leg.

Poppy turned and raised an eyebrow.

The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a police badge. “I'm paid to notice these things. You don't fit in with anybody out there. Am I right?” His tone was suddenly unrefined.

It wasn't what Poppy had expected to hear and she realised she'd betrayed herself with her reaction.

“You're working too hard to appear calm. I've sat opposite a lot of people wearing the same mask as you. It can convince passport control, but if I were to bust you now we both know I wouldn't need to put in too many hours to find something you wouldn't want me to.”

Poppy instantly realised the situation would become unsalvageable if they stepped outside the bathroom.

“Now we can deal with this through the appropriate channels or…” He stepped back, leaving her path to the door clear, “…we can pick up from where we were.” He pocketed his badge and waited for her response.

Poppy nodded once and it was his turn to use his eyebrows. He flicked them at the row of cubicles. She turned and sauntered along the row, her mind processing possibilities as he followed her. She could suck his cock; let him do whatever he wanted to her. But it would be an admission of guilt and even though there was a good chance he'd leave her alone after he'd emptied his balls it was an option she'd already dismissed.

The cubicles were all open and empty, but she didn't stop until she reached the last one. She stepped inside and turned at the threshold. He was close behind her and filled the doorway.

“We were doing so well before. Sorry about the unpleasantness.”

She knew his apology was offered so his own enjoyment wouldn't be marred. She smiled and pushed her clutch purse against the centre of his chest. He instinctively put up both hairy hands to support it. Bemused, he held it in position while she unzipped it, rummaged inside and pulled out her cherry ChapStick. She applied it to her lips and watched his mouth tussling with a grin that threatened to break out over his face. The power was hers again.

She put the ChapStick back in her bag. Then while both his hands were momentarily occupied she grabbed the end of his blue silk tie and stepped further backwards into the cubicle. She slammed the door before he could enter and slid the bolt with her other hand.

He was left the other side of it, but the tie slid loosely through the gap in the door as she tightened her grip. She felt him pull away from her and quickly braced the back of her boot against the bowl before yanking down hard. His head struck the door solidly and she heard him yell.

Poppy allowed the tie to slide almost all the way back through the gap as he tried to stand upright and then tensed again and used her body weight to batter his head against the door for a second and third time. The cries stopped, but he was obviously still on his feet. She gripped the tie further up with her other hand and wound the free end round it before jerking it down again. His skull echoed against the hard door with another tug and she could feel the resistance slacken.

It was just his unconscious weight pulling the tie back through the gap now, but she planted her sole against the door and battered his head repeatedly. The silk slid down the gap and she felt his bulk tip away from her. She released it and heard his impact on the tiles the other side.

Opening the door Poppy quickly checked for other passengers. Nobody else had entered. She looked down at him; the right side of his forehead had split and was smeared with dark blood. It was also pouring thickly from one nostril and his burst lip. She dragged him inside the cubicle by the backs of his shoes and locked herself in while she sat him upright on the seat.

His mouth hissed as she leaned his spine against the wall. Concussion and maybe brain damage would probably mean he wasn't going to move from his position before her flight took off, but she couldn't take any chances. She took a scarf out of her purse and tied his hands behind his back. Then Poppy stuffed the edge of the clutch purse all the way inside his mouth and closed his nostrils with her other fingers.

She used her whole weight to retain her position over his shoulders as he bucked underneath her. He didn't appear to regain consciousness though and the jerking of his stomach muscles weakened until she was able to release his face and watch the last air bubbling red out of his nose and mouth.

She climbed out over the top of the door leaving it locked from inside and then rummaged inside her purse again. She used three cosmetic wipes to remove the blood smudges on the door and then tossed them over the top of it.

 

Tam was sitting cross-legged in front of the cage, as motionless as the girl.

When he'd arrived he thought she'd been moved. The sliding door had been wide open and a third of the chicken house's feathered occupants had spilled out onto the ramp and the yard above. He thought the door rolled back was a sign that it no longer contained her. But when he'd peered cautiously inside he'd found her in the same position. The chair was where it had been before. Checking that nobody was about, he'd stepped inside. He'd deposited the stack of food canisters on the soft floor and carefully sat down. He'd thought she was dead.

She was on her side and her fellow captives blocked his observation, rooting around the scant stalks of straw that had been scattered over the floor. Only holding his breath and staring unblinkingly through the gloom at her shoulders lightly rising and falling confirmed she was still alive.

He exhaled gradually through his nostrils. He didn't want her to know he was here yet. The cage was still secured by the padlock and the hood still covered her head. He needed to remove that more than anything else. See her face and make up his mind for himself if it should be hidden away.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

Since her escape attempt Libby hadn't been given water, food or glimpsed the ration of light she'd seen when her hood had been lifted at the mouth. The darkness had taken on a new consistency now, its bulk blotting out the other colours that had previously thronged her eyes. The tiny space between the hood and her perception of it had closed up and she was losing sense of everything below her neck.

She vaguely acknowledged she was lying on her shoulder. The commode had been removed and she'd been left to relieve herself on the floor. The skin of her thighs stung and the birds pecked and scuttled about her motionless body. There would be no rescue. Ransom paid or not, she doubted she would ever be allowed to go free.

If money had been demanded against her life she again speculated about her worth. How much would be paid to ensure she wouldn't be excised from the lives of others? She was significant to Luke's. He'd asked her to marry him. She hadn't dared tell her parents about their plans though. Dad already thought she was too young to be pregnant.

Now she'd never prove to him what a responsible mother she believed she could be. She remembered how excited they'd all been when Jessie was about to become a belated part of the family. But Libby had been envious as well, thought Dad had only been ecstatic because he needed a daughter he could have a real connection to.

The one thing she vowed her child would have was what her father hadn't given her – his presence. It was why she was determined to marry Luke. She hadn't thought he'd be the one when she'd first met him. Mum had made fun of his single eyebrow, had jokingly said it was a sign he couldn't be trusted. Libby had soon grown tired of shaving out the middle of it with her razor though and Luke had been glad when she'd given up. She considered how it had needled her in the early days and how ridiculous that seemed now.

Was someone here? She lifted her head and strained to listen. Above the sporadic cawing of the chickens she thought she'd heard a metallic sound nearby. Her neck and stomach muscles strained with the exertion and she rested her face against the bottom of the cage again. She waited, grateful that nobody was unlocking the door. Perhaps somebody was watching her all the time. She could taste congealed blood in her throat from calling for help through the gag. She'd given up on yelling Luke's name. If he were a prisoner in the same room he certainly would have answered by now.

Luke had become more of a friend than any of the other guys she'd been with, but she'd still entertained doubts about them lasting longer than her previous relationships. Maybe that was because she'd never passed the four-month mark with anybody, but Luke and it had made her nervous. Becoming pregnant with his child had immediately changed her perception. She wanted to make it work for their baby's sake. That's why she'd come to this place – a trip away to consolidate things before they became a family.

Her parents thought she was just a frightened kid, but Libby was more capable of handling herself than they knew. She'd been to the doctor's for a morning after pill at fifteen when she'd refused to be placated by her then boyfriend's assurances that everything would be OK. Her parents had known nothing of it.

There was much they weren't aware of. From the moment she'd been attacked by Mr Sloman's boar she'd hidden behind their misguided perception of who she was.

At eight, she'd been playing at the perimeter of Mr Sloman's land by one of the collapsed walls and had decided to trespass to pick some sloes from the branches that had seemed so laden in comparison to theirs. They lay only just beyond the wall and she'd climbed through the gap and scuttled down the pile of bricks the other side. She'd stripped the berries from the trees and dropped them into the fold up of her jumper and had amassed quite a haul before the animal appeared.

She'd heard the impacts of its heavy hooves and turned to find the enormous, soot-coloured animal studying her with its tiny, glistening eyes. It had immediately charged her and she'd fled back to the wall, falling against the brick pile and losing her precious cargo. When she'd turned and tried to sit up, the animal had rammed its snout against her belly, the weight of its dense body compressing her against the sharp bricks. Pinned there Libby had cried for help, but the animal refused to release her. She remembered the sound of it snuffling against her, the strings of spittle about its dark features connecting it to her and the stones steadily piercing her spine.

She'd picked up one of the mossy bricks with both hands and slammed it as hard as she could against the boar's skull. The animal didn't make a sound, but its legs had buckled and when she'd struck it again the pig had slumped onto its side. The brick was dark with its blood and her fingers had been red and sticky.

Then she'd buried it under the bricks. She'd been terrified of what she'd done. But even after she'd wiped the blood off her hands in the grass her injuries only necessitated Libby telling her parents part of the truth.

Part of the truth; she supposed every kid was that to their parents. Hers had certainly never guessed she could be so strong when it counted. But having spent these past weeks congratulating herself on being so mature about the trip with Luke she now knew who was to blame for them ending up where they had.

She'd been in the driving seat for every significant stage of their relationship. It had been her decision to sleep with him and she certainly hadn't panicked about a morning after pill on the first occasion they'd had sex without protection. Maybe, despite herself, she'd really wanted this baby with him.

Becoming pregnant made her realise how selfish she'd been when Mum had been expecting Jessie. She now understood even more why it had been so momentous for them. Libby had felt it as soon as she'd seen the result of the test, an instinct to protect. Especially after what had happened to Mum.

Mum had said the best thing she'd ever achieved was being a mother to Libby. Libby always thought it was just something Mum said to her when she was feeling insecure.

She'd only started to comprehend the gravity of becoming a parent and visualised her Mum and Dad thousands of miles away, not knowing where she was and what was happening to her. She wished, more than anything else, she could have had the opportunity to tell them she wasn't in any pain.

 

Having stepped quietly to the right side of the cage, nearest the hood, Tam had managed to unclip the stack of food canisters. The girl had reacted to the dull click and lifted her head. He'd waited, counting to fifty. Now he carefully stood up and slipped his hand into the back pocket of his shorts. His fingers found the cold metal of the screwdriver he'd smuggled out of his father's toolbox. He clasped it and pulled it out.

He started to painstakingly prise up the staples that held the chicken wire to one edge of the frame.

 

At Baltimore International Will called the cab driver and left a message telling him he'd left his taxi in long-term parking. It was half the distance he would have had to travel to pick it up from Bel Air so he figured he'd done him a favour.

He took the bracelet and pendant out of the glove compartment, wrapped them in the scarf and carefully pocketed them. Then he checked in with the new flight to Chicago. He had an hour and thirty-five minutes to wait. He headed to the upper level, trying to ignore the twinges at his midsection. He found a sports bar with a TV, but there was no breaking news about Bel Air.

He considered alcohol to numb the pain, but knew better. In the past it had only led to sleep or blackouts. It was the very last thing he needed, given his physical and emotional condition. He slumped at a corner table. “Anything on the other channels?” Will listened to Carla surf through them as he kept the phone to his ear. He prayed there wouldn't be until he'd at least taken off.

“Nothing. Holt Amberson has been relegated, but Strick is still getting plenty of air time.”

“What else?” He opened his laptop.

“A lot of shocked politicians' tributes; he was an environmental and health care reform champion.” Carla sounded oddly distracted.

“Has something happened there?”

“Everything's fine,” she said defensively. She took a breath and it seemed to focus her. “They're already laying flowers outside Strick's home.”

Sleep deprivation and a grim inertia had seized him. It seemed unreal that he'd been there less than twenty-four hours ago, levering the family's dead faces from the dirt. “Have the police department released any other details?”

“Just that it's an official homicide and that the surviving son is a leading light at Baltimore University. There were some minor scandals. Expense claims abuse, but he was cleared after an independent investigation. Another rag accused him of impropriety with his personal secretary, Monro.” Her delivery was rapid now, feeding in the new facts to sustain them both. “Anwar's been back to me again, but there's nothing significant in Holt Amberson's background.”

“And no connection between them?” Will found the site and clicked on the apartment block with the red outline around it.

“Nothing that's in the public domain.”

“Ask Anwar if there's any coincidences between Amberson and Strick's interests.”

“Won't that be a little obvious?”

“It's breaking news.”

“He already knows we're hiding something.”

“You know how to pacify him better than I do.”

She didn't respond.

He clicked through to the images taken inside the property. Ultra-modern and masculine. There was a granite kitchen, circular bed, lavish walk-in shower, blue baize pool table and neon-lit bar in the den. It didn't look like someone's permanent residence, more a weekend apartment.

“They haven't posted any more photos of Libby on the website.” Her voice was flat with fear.

He was only too aware that it had been nearly twenty-four hours since they'd been presented with any evidence she was still alive.

She muted the TV. “And we have no idea if Luke is still with her.”

“I've tried to reason with them, but they only give me seconds on the line.”

Her tone hardened. “This time ask for concrete proof she and Luke haven't been harmed and don't take no for an answer.”

 

From their table on the other side of the bar, Pope and Weaver watched Will finish his call and then dial another number and wait for a response.

They'd spotted him ahead of them in the line in the terminal. Pope had followed him up to the sports bar while Weaver checked them in. They were positioned behind him. Pope didn't shift his eyes from the back of his head.

“Looks like we're on the same flight.” Weaver gestured to the waitress.

“He must be running on fumes by now.”

“I know the feeling. Who do you think he was talking to?”

“Probably his wife.”

“You think she's told us everything?”

“Doesn't matter if she hasn't, we're not going to let him out of our sight.”

Weaver ordered them a couple of cold beers. While they drank them Pope didn't take his eyes off Frost. He kept the phone against his ear, shifted in his chair, checked his laptop and glanced at his watch. He could almost feel the turmoil emanating from him. With the life of his daughter in the hands of whoever was probably at the other end of the line he couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through his mind.

He used Weaver's iPad to run a check on the new victim, but found nothing obvious to link Strick to Amberson or Frost. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Lenora. He didn't open it.

Nothing from Patrice, his conversation with her seemed like a week ago. Sean's twenty-first was nearly over. Another milestone had passed by without his presence. Should he hit her number? He imagined them ignoring any incoming calls with his name in the ID. He knew they'd done it in the past. But what could he say even if they did pick up?

He promised himself that when he was done with the story he would call to make amends. Over the years Patrice's attitude towards him made it easy for him to disassociate himself. He always thought that was a deliberate ploy because she wanted him out of the picture. But it was Patrice that had sent the message earlier. Was it her way of reminding him why they weren't still together or had she really wanted him to call in as he'd promised?

His dereliction of duty to a life he no longer led didn't make him feel any less guilty. Patrice had never demanded anything from him, emotionally or financially. She'd moved into her mother's old property and had gradually become her full-time carer. His other divorced colleagues, including Weaver, thought that made him the luckiest man to get out alive. But being made to feel so instantly surplus to requirements afflicted him.

 

Tam freed the last staple. Now it was just a case of bending the wire inwards. That way he could slip his arm through and untie the line around the girl's neck. He planned to pull the hood out and feed the canisters in and estimated that if she saw the food she probably wouldn't scream. He couldn't be certain of this though and had a clear run to the open door. Plus she would still be unable to escape from the cage.

If she allowed him to feed her without noise, he could replace the hood and tie it at the neck again before bending the wire back in place. Nobody would know he'd tampered with it.

A current of excitement passed through his stomach as he put his palm against the loose wire at the edge of the frame. He pushed on it, lightly at first and then more firmly when it didn't give. As he increased the pressure a tiny grunt escaped him. He quickly checked the girl in case she reacted. She remained motionless. The mesh started to curve inwards. If he removed one more staple from the bottom of the frame he would have the corner he needed to reach her.