Stalker (35 page)

First she felt
a deep throbbing in her head; sharp, stabbing thrusts underneath her eyeballs and a dull, aching soreness in her ribs. The pain was so intense that it almost shut out all other sensations. But Cindy wouldn’t allow that to happen, because she wanted to live. She concentrated on her other senses, which were rendered almost nil by the agony, forcing herself to bring them to consciousness. The rhythmic rumble of the engine bounced her incapacitated body up and down. It was only a few millimeters, but in her compromised position they were enough to send electric shock waves down her spine and through her teeth. She hurt in a new way, as if an alien had descended upon her and was eating her up, tendon by tendon, bone by bone.

Concentrate
!

Slowly, other stimuli crept into her cognizance; the back of her hands crunched against each other, her ankles were tightly affixed together. The taut ropes were chafing her skin or, worse, cutting into her flesh. There was also something thick and nappy stuffed into her mouth, tasting vaguely medicinal. Her ears discerned background sounds: cars whooshing past, an occasional horn or ambulance. There were the kinetics of the car speeding along, not stopping or doing any sharp turns. They were probably on a freeway. Her eyes could see, except that there was nothing really to see, just shadows and darkness. A part of her did not want to remember what had brought her to this doom. But she did remember.

Cindy knew exactly how she had gotten there. Except for the blackout—that period of time after her useless efforts to save herself. She didn’t recall being bound or gagged, but that was certainly how she had ended up. Being vanquished was a horrible feeling. Doing everything she could have done, and still it had not been enough.

Her solace was that she was still alive. If he had wanted to murder her from the top, he could have done so. Obviously, he had other things in store. Unpleasant things…torturous things.

The chemical smell permeated her nostrils, making her woozy enough to be passive but not too woozy to think. And
if
she was going to get out of this, she’d have to think.

Country music was playing on the radio. Her dad liked country music; Cindy did not. But whenever they were in a car together, she deferred to him. She knew a couple of the singers—artists as they called themselves. She knew this one: Cheli Wright being a single white female looking for love. The lyrics and the upbeat tempo seemed to be mocking her pathetic state. Just a week ago she had thought her lack of a love life was an insurmountable problem. Then, just days ago, after being stalked, her personal effects were violated. She had been sure that things couldn’t get worse.

Well, they had.

What wouldn’t she give to be just aggravated about silly issues like her love life or stupid co-workers or unpaid bills or driving an ugly car. If only God would grant her one more day to be irritated at Mom for her intrusiveness or to be annoyed at Dad for being so controlling. One more day to use her cell phone or eat a sandwich or put on her uniform or go to the bathroom.

Without realizing it, she was crying, tears running silently down her face until her cloth gag absorbed them. By now, she could feel it as a gag, bisecting her mouth and slicing across her face, finally being knotted at the back of her neck. She had something to be thankful for. He hadn’t taped her face, so she could breathe easily. And another
thing to be grateful about: Her hands were bound by ropes and not cuffs. That surprised her. She would have figured him for a cuff man.

Which said to her that maybe…just
maybe baby
, he didn’t want to hurt her
too much
. Now that could be wishful thinking. But he hadn’t killed her when he had the chance. And he must have had lots of chances because she hadn’t remembered his tying her up—

“You awake, Decker?”

His voice snapped her into superconsciousness…hyperalertness. She should have been using the quiet time for planning and scheming. Instead she had been free-associating—great if she had been in therapy, but very bad since she was being kidnapped and probably about to be tortured.

“I know you’re up. I can hear the difference in your breathing. Come on, Officer Decker. It’s okay to give me a sign of life. Grunt or something.”

She could have grunted. She could have given him some kind of signal that she had heard him. Perhaps that’s what she should have done. Encouraged him and kept him talking. Instead she said nothing, did nothing.

He kept waiting. She stayed frozen: out of fear, out of defiance.

“I know damn well you can hear me, Decker. Let me tell you something,
Officer
. You aren’t in any position to jive me, so cut the crap and answer me.”

If she didn’t give him a sign, he’d probably hurt her. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was now paying the price for having questioned his absolute authority. Sure enough, when she didn’t respond, he turned around and whacked her across the cheek. It wasn’t even a hard whack. But because she was so sore from what had probably been a previous beating, it stung her face like a splash of boiling water. Damn well made her want to pass out again. Instead she moaned.

“That wasn’t hard at all, Decker. Just a little love pat! Buck up!” Then he said, “You know, Decker? With your brains and connections, if you just had played it straight,
you would’ve made it in the shade. Know what I’m saying? But you got this problem, Decker. You push things. It was bad enough, having this little bitch mouth off to me, showing me up. But then, when you started eating shit, I was going to…cut you some slack.”

How gracious
, Cindy thought. Even in her thoughts, she couldn’t stop the sarcasm.

He continued to talk. “Because if you made gold—more like
when
you made gold—you wouldn’t think I was a total son of a bitch. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Cindy did get what he was saying. She got it perfectly. She ate shit for him, and he was going to forgive her. So how the hell did she foul up? Last she remembered, she was still capitulating to the asshole. What merited true forgiveness from this prick? A blow job in the supply room?

“Yep, you sure had me fooled. I thought you were really trying to kiss my ass. But stupid, uneducated me. I couldn’t see that you were setting me up, sucking up to me while trying to stick it up me. That was really rotten, Cindy. It really pissed me off. You’re gonna pay for that. Pay big time. I’m telling you this so you’ll understand.”

But Cindy didn’t understand a damn thing. What had she done to give him the false impression that she was trying to screw him?

He was tisk-tisking at her now. “You could have left well enough alone, just played the game. You had to go and stick your nose where it didn’t belong!”

What the hell was he talking about
? She hadn’t been scheming against him…she hadn’t been doing anything that remotely could be misconstrued—

“What were you trying to prove by going down there, huh?”

Going down where
?

“Trying to upsmart Daddy like you upsmarted me?”

Outsmart
, Cindy thought.

“Bragging that you can solve things that Daddy can’t. Is that your style with authority? You know what, Decker? Daddy should have given you a sharp kick in the pants a long time ago. Then you wouldn’t have been in this mess,
because you would have known your place instead of being so damn nosy! I tried to warn you off. I sent you notes. I chased you around. I gave you signs—little and big signs. Nothing worked. Now you’ve found out things, and look where it got you!”

She grunted.

He said, “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Maybe if you took the gag off, you would
! Seconds later, she got her wish. In a swift, rough motion, he yanked the gag down until it rested around her neck like a bandanna. The tug was so violent against her jaw, she felt as if he had taken out a couple of bottom teeth as well. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She wasn’t surprised that she was slurring her words. Her mouth and lips were bloated with edema. What astonished her was that he understood her. At least, she thought he understood her because he laughed. It was a hard laugh, a low-pitched cackle of a warlock, if there were such things as warlocks. And maybe there were because she felt this was pretty damn close to Wells’s vision of hell.

He said, “With your fancy degree and fancy words, I would have thought you could do better than that!”

“I can’t because I don’t know what…” She stopped talking. If the conversation continued this way, it would soon bog down to a predictable rut. She’d say this, he’d say that.

Use your fancy degree
!

Her mind flashed back to her psych courses, specifically to Milton Erickson, and the art of the unexpected. “Thanks for taking off the gag. I really appreciate it.”

Silence.

“What am I smelling?” Cindy continued on, desperately fighting the effects of the soporific gag. “Something like chloroform? Where in the world did you get it? They don’t use it in hospitals anymore. You must have searched long and hard. But then again, I see you as a pretty resourceful guy.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m a smarty pants, remember?”

Again, no one spoke.

She tried again. “Can I say something without you getting offended?”

“Probably not.”

“Can I try?”

“Can I stop you?”

“You could put the gag on again. By now, we both know I’m pretty much under your control.”

He didn’t answer. Cindy took his silence as a signal to continue. “Sir, you think I was trying to screw you. Tell me how.”

“Don’t give that bullshit!” He hit the dash so hard, it made her aching body jump. He was panting now…louder than she was. “Don’t fucking
lie
to me. You’re in no position to fucking
lie
to me, Decker! We both know damn well why you went out to Belfleur!”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, her jaws pounding with pain. Her brain began to spin. Belfleur, Belfleur…what did he have to do with Belfleur?

And then it hit her like his hand across her face.

She had been so
intent
on Bederman, so
sure
of his guilt, she hadn’t even bothered to check the rest of the list! If she had, she would have no doubt found his name—and maybe others as well. Who knew how many cops were on the list? She was not a big believer in conspiracy theories, but at the moment, she could only think of that. All of them! They were out to get her because they thought she knew something. She did know something. She knew that they had something to do with Crayton’s death…and Bartholomew’s kidnapping…and Mills’s carjacking. She knew something, but she didn’t know everything. Certainly she didn’t know enough information to die for. But he didn’t know that. He thought she had it all figured out. He had overestimated her abilities, while she had underestimated his.

God bless Hayley Marx and her tracer. Or rather, God bless her for the moment because Decker still wasn’t sure
about her. He vaulted over to the Saturn’s driver’s door, but found it locked. The passenger’s door, however, was shut but unlocked. Heart pounding, he threw it open and peered inside.

She wasn’t there.

He popped the trunk.

She wasn’t there, either.

Simultaneously, he felt both happy and panic-stricken. He hadn’t found a body—thank you, thank you, God—but she was gone. The uncertainty drove him to frenetic action. He rooted through her bag, finding her wallet and her gun. Money inside the wallet. She had a tube of lipstick, pens…loose credit-card receipts. He pocketed them. Where was her billfold containing her badge and ID? Marge touched his shoulder and he jumped.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Her gun’s here.” Decker turned to her, breathing hard. “She didn’t even have a chance to go for her gun!”

“We’ll find her, Pete—”

“You tell me how!” Decker wiped away moisture from his cheeks. “Tell me
how
!”

Oliver had walked over. “You know, there’s lots of brush down the embankment. Maybe she ran out of the car and didn’t have time to take her gun—”

“She would have taken her gun!” Decker got out of the car and began to pace. “Why wouldn’t she grab her gun? The bastard just snatched her out from behind the wheel—”

“Except the driver’s door was locked,” Oliver said.

“What?”

“You snatch someone from behind the wheel, assumedly you grab them around the neck and drag them over to your car. You don’t take time out to close and lock the door—”

“You kick it with your fucking foot!” Decker said.

Marge whispered a silent “Shut up” to Oliver, then rubbed her forehead. “Peter, we have to call it in as a crime scene—”

“So call it in!”

She did. Then she took out a flashlight. “I’ll be down in the embankment area. See if I can find anything.”

An ominous statement because everyone knew what she meant. Oliver knew he should go with Marge and help. But the thought of Cindy down there, dead, shot dread through his veins. The image would haunt him forever. He cursed his selfishness and his weakness, but couldn’t overcome it. He regarded Decker. The big man was leaning against the Saturn for support, his meaty hand covering his face.

To Marge, Oliver said, “Maybe I should stay up here.” He cocked his head toward Decker.

“Yeah, maybe you should.” Marge took a few steps, then tripped. She forced herself not to cry until she was out of eyeshot and earshot. When she was halfway down the embankment, she wept softly, wiping away tears as she searched for what she hoped she wouldn’t find.

Oliver placed his hand on Decker’s shoulder. The big man turned around and stared with glazed eyes. “Why didn’t she take her gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make
sense
!” Decker swallowed back tears. “She took her badge, but she didn’t take her gun—”

“She took
her badge
?”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “She took her badge. At least her badge isn’t in her purse. It doesn’t make any sense.”