The Beginning (66 page)

“Hey, can he take you out?”

“Are you crazy? Naturally not.” He gave her a fat smile. “Chico and I respect each other.”

“You going to tromp me into the ground tonight?”

“Sure. Be my pleasure. Let's swing by your place and pack up some more things for you.” Actually, he wanted all of her things at his house. He never wanted her to move back to her town house, but he held his tongue. It was too soon.

But it was Sherlock who swung by her own town house, Dillon having gotten a call on his cell. He dropped her off at home for her car, then headed back to headquarters. “An hour, no longer. There's this senator who wants to stick his nose into the kidnappings in Missouri. I've got to give an update.”

“What about Ollie?”

“Mr. Maitland couldn't get hold of him. It's okay. I'll see you at the gym in an hour and a half, tops. You be careful.” He kissed her, patted her cheek, and watched her walk to her own car. He watched her lock the car doors, then wave at him.

The night was seamless black, no stars showing, only a sliver of moon. It was cold. Sherlock turned on the car heater and the radio to a country-western station. She found herself humming to “Mama, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

She'd have to ask Dillon to sing that one to her. Her town house was dark. She frowned. She was certain she'd left on the foyer light that lit up the front-door area. Well, maybe not. It seemed as though she'd been gone for much longer than a week. She supposed she might as well rent the place out, furnished. She'd have to call some realtors to see how much would be appropriate to ask. Why had Douglas been leaning over her mother, kissing her, talking to her as if she were his lover?

She knew this was one question she'd never be able to ask her mother. And Douglas had denied it was true. She wondered if all families were as odd as hers. No, that wasn't possible. Not all families had had a child murdered.

She wasn't humming when she slid the key into the dead bolt and turned it. She was wishing she were at the gym. She wished he were throwing her to the mat when she turned the lock and pushed the front door open. She felt for the foyer light, flipped it on. Nothing happened.

No wonder. The miserable lightbulb had burned out. It had been one of those suckers guaranteed for seven years. She had replacement lightbulbs in the kitchen. She walked through the arch into the living room and found the light switch.

Nothing happened.

Her breathing hitched. No, that was ridiculous. It had to be the circuit breaker and that was in the utility closet off the kitchen, with more of those seven-year-guaranteed lightbulbs. She walked slowly toward the kitchen, past the dining area, bumping into a chair she'd forgotten about, then felt the cool kitchen tile beneath her feet. She reached automatically for the light switch.

Nothing happened. Of course.

Little light slipped in through the large kitchen window. A black night, that's what it was. Seldom was it so black.

“Technology,” she said, making her way across the kitchen. “Miserable, unreliable technology.”

“Yeah, ain't it a bitch?”

She was immobile with terror for a fraction of a second until she realized that she'd been trained not to freeze, that freezing could get you killed, and she whipped around, her fist aimed at the man's throat. But he was shorter than she was used to. Her fist glanced off his cheek. He grunted, then backhanded her, sending her against the kitchen counter. She felt pain surge through her chest. She was reaching for her SIG even as she was falling.

“Don't even think about doing something that stupid,” the man said. “It's real dark in here for you but not for me. I've been used to the dark for a real long time. You just slide on down to the floor and don't move or else I'll just have to blow off that head of yours and all that pretty red hair will get soaked with brains.”

He kicked the SIG out of her hand. A sharp kick, a well-aimed kick, a trained kick. She still had her Lady Colt strapped to her ankle. She eased down, slowly, very slowly. A thief, a robber, maybe a rapist. At least he hadn't killed her yet.

“Boy, turn on the lights.”

In the next moment the house was flooded with light. She stared at the old man who stood a good three feet away from her, a carving knife held in his right hand. He was well dressed, shaved, clean. He was short and thin, like the knife he was holding.

He was Erasmus Jones.

The boy came into her vision. It was Marlin.

They weren't in Ohio. They were both right there, in her kitchen.

“Hi, Marty. Hey, aren't you looking so scared you wanna puke?”

Dillon would miss her in another forty minutes, maybe thirty-five minutes. He'd be worried. It would be an unspecified worry, but worry he would. He might wait another five minutes, then he'd come here. She looked from father to son. She smiled, praying that only she realized it was a smile filled with unspoken terror. “Hey, Marlin. How long have you and your dad been squatters in my house?”

Erasmus Jones answered as he hunkered down to her eye level. “Three days now. That's how long it took us to get from Boston to here. We had to be real careful, you know?”

“I would imagine so. Lucky I wasn't here.”

“Oh no,” Marlin said. “I wanted you to be here. I wanted you, Marty, but you'd gone. Were you with that cop? Savich is his name, right? You sleeping with him?” He said to his father, “He's a big fella, real big, lots of muscles, and he fights mean.”

“I bet he ain't as mean as your mama were,” Erasmus said and poked the tip of the knife into the sole of Lacey's shoe. It was so sharp that it sliced through the sole and nicked her foot. She winced, but kept quiet.

“Mama was a bitch, Pa. I remember her. She was a bitch, always cussing and back-talking you, always had a bottle in her hand, swigging it even while she was hitting me in the face.”

“Yep, Lucile were a mean one. She's dead now, did I tell you that?”

Another rabbit hole, Lacey thought. Forty minutes, max. Dillon would come over here in no more than forty minutes now. Then what? He wouldn't be expecting trouble; there was no reason for him to. Erasmus and Marlin were supposed to be in Ohio. So he'd think she needed help moving stuff. He'd be vulnerable. She wouldn't let them hurt him. No, she had her Lady Colt. She'd do something. She wouldn't, couldn't, let anything happen to Dillon.

“Ma's dead?” Marlin asked as he sat down on one of Lacey's kitchen chairs.

“Yeah.”

His father was telling him this now?

Marlin said, “No, you didn't tell me that, Pa. What happened?”

“Nothin' much. I just carved her up like that Thanksgiving turkey she didn't make me.”

“Oh, well, that's all right, then. She deserved it. She never was a good wife or mother.”

“Yeah, she was like all those women who walked the walk for you, Marlin. That maze of yours, I sure do like that. You got that from that game we used to play in the desert.”

“Yes, Pa.”

“Well, we got this gal here now. Let's off her and then get out of here. There's no more food anyways.”

“No,” Marlin said, and his voice was suddenly different—strong and determined, not like the deferential tone he'd used with his father since he'd come in. “Marty's going to walk the walk. She's got to be punished. She shot me in the belly. It hurt real bad. It still hurts. I got this ugly scar that's all puckered and red. It's her turn now.”

Erasmus said, “I want to kill her now. It ain't smart to hang around here.”

“I know, but I got my maze all fixed up for her. She'll like it. She already knows the drill. Only this time when she hits the center, she'll have a big surprise.”

Thirty minutes, no more.

“You fix up another warehouse, Marlin?”

“Hey, Marty, I fixed it up real good. You'll like it. I had lots of time so it's really prime.”

“Why would I walk the walk when you get me there, Marlin? I know you'll be at the center waiting to kill me. I'd be a fool to go into the maze.”

“Well, you see, Marty, you'll do anything I ask you to. I got myself a little leverage here.”

Dillon. No, not Dillon. Who?

“Let me go get my little sweet chops,” Erasmus said and rose slowly. He stretched that skinny body of his. His legs were slightly bowed. He was wearing cowboy boots. Without boots he'd be no more than five foot six inches. “You keep a good eye on her, boy. She's tricky. Look at her eyes—lots of tricks buried in there. I bet you the FBI taught her all sorts of things to do to a man.”

Marlin calmly pulled a .44 Magnum out of his belt. “I like this better than your FBI gun, Marty, although I'll take it with me, as a souvenir. This baby will blow a foot-wide hole out of your back if I shoot you in the chest. I don't think you would survive that, Marty.” He assumed a serious pose, rubbing his chin with his hand. “You're real tough, but you couldn't live through this, could you?”

“No,” she said, studying his face, his eyes, trying to figure out what to do. “No one could.” Should she try to disarm him now?

It was academic. There was Erasmus in the door. He was grinning. “She gave me a mite of trouble so I had to smash her head.” He dragged in Hannah Paisley by the hair. She was wearing a charcoal gray running suit, running shoes on her feet. She was unconscious.

“You know her, don't you, gal? Don't lie to me, I can see it writ all over your face.”

“Yes, she's a Special Agent. How did you get her?”

“Easy as skinnin' a skunk. She was out running. I stole her fanny pack, saw she was with the FBI, and took her down. Nary a whimper from her. I'm real pleased you know her, personal like. That's gotta make a difference. You don't want me to kill her, now do you?”

“How did you know I knew her?” Out of ten thousand FBI agents he had to get Hannah Paisley? No, it was too much of a coincidence.

“Oh, I was watching you come out of that huge ugly Hoover Building. There was this one, standing there, waving at you, but you didn't see her, you kept walking. I knew I had the one I needed right then. Yep, she knew you.”

Hannah groaned. Sherlock saw her hands were lashed together behind her back and her ankles were tied tightly together.

“Don't hurt her. She didn't do anything to you.”

Marlin laughed. “No, but I knew you wouldn't cooperate unless we got someone. Pa followed her. He figured she was FBI and he was right. Now, Marty, you ready to come to the warehouse with me and walk the walk?”

Twenty minutes, no more than twenty minutes. There would be no way Dillon would find her if they left, no way at all. She looked around then. They had trashed the kitchen, the living room. He would come in and he would know that she was taken, but he wouldn't know where. For the first time she smelled spoiled food, saw the dishes strewn over the counters and the table. There were a good dozen empty beer cans, some of them on the floor.

“Where is this warehouse, Marlin?”

“Why do you care, Marty? It won't make any difference to you where you croak it.”

“Sure it will. Tell me. Oh yes, my name's Lacey, not Marty. Belinda Madigan was my sister. You having trouble with your memory, Marlin?”

His breathing hitched, his hand jerked up. She didn't drop her eyes from his face.

“Don't piss me off, Marty. You want to know where we're going? Off to that real bad-ass part of Washington between Calvert and Williams Streets. When I was going in and out down there no one even looked at me. They were all dope dealers, addicts, and drunks. Nope, no one cared what I was doing. And you know something else? When they find you, no one will care about that either.

“Every night I got there, I had to kick out the druggies. I'll have to do it one more time. I wonder if they'll report finding you or wait until a cop comes along. Yeah, I'll flush out all the druggies. They're piled high around there, filthy slugs.”

“My boy never did drugs,” Erasmus said, looking over at Sherlock. She nearly vomited when she saw that he was stroking his gnarled hand over Hannah's breasts, the other hand still tangled in her hair. “Marlin ain't stupid. He only likes gals, too, knows how to use 'em real good. I taught him. Whenever he found his way to the center of the maze I built, why I took him off to Yuma and bought him a whore.”

Fifteen minutes.

“I've got to go to the bathroom, Marlin.”

“You really gotta pee, gal? You're not shittin' Marlin?”

“I really do. Can I get up? Really slow?”

Marlin nodded. He'd straightened, the gun pointed right at her chest. “I'll go with you, Marty. No, I won't watch you pee, but I'll be right outside the door. You do anything stupid and I'll let my pa cut up that pretty face of yours.”

“No, Marlin, I'll cut up this gal's pretty face. First I'll cut off all her hair, scrape my knife over her scalp so she looks like a billiard ball. Then I'll do a picture on her face. You got that, gal?”

“I got it.” Ten minutes. Calvert and Williams Streets. She wasn't familiar with them, but Dillon would be.

Her downstairs bathroom was disgusting. It stank of urine, of dirty towels, of dirty underwear, and there were spots on the mirror. “Did anyone ever tell you you were a pig, Marlin?”

She wished she'd kept her mouth closed. He punched her hard in the kidney. The pain sent her to her knees.

“I might be a pig, Marty, but you'll be dead. Not long now and you'll be dead and rotting and my pa and I will be driving into Virginia. There's some real pretty mountains there and lots of places to hide out. Do your business now, Marty. We've got to get out of here. Hey, you gotta pee because you're so scared, right?”

“That's right, Marlin.” She closed the door on his grinning face, heard him lean against it, knew he was listening. She knew she didn't have much time.

He banged on the door as she flushed the toilet. “That's long enough, Marty.”

When she walked out, he shoved her back in. He looked around. “I'm not the pig. It's my pa. He never learned how to do things 'cause his ma never taught him anything, left him lying in his own shit when he was just a little tyke, made him lie in his own shit when he was older, to punish him. She wasn't nice, my grandma.”

“She doesn't sound nice,” Lacey said. “Why'd you come here, Marlin? Why do you want to kill me? It's a really big risk you're taking. Why?”

He looked thoughtful for a long moment, but the gun never wavered from the center of her back. “I knew I had to take you out,” he said finally. “No one can beat me and get away with it. I thought and thought about how I could get out of the cage in Boston and then that judge handed me a golden key. Those idiot shrinks were a piece of cake. I acted all scared, even cried a little bit. Yes, it was all so easy. There was my pa, sent me a message in prison, and I knew where he was waiting. All I had to do was get in Brainerd to the Glover Motel at the western edge of town. There he was, had clothes for me, everything, a car with a full tank of gas. I knew then that I could get you, take you out, and then I'd be free. Actually, it was Pa who hit that guy in Boston, nearly sent him off to hell where he belongs.”

“I know. Your pa used your driver's license. We got the license plate.”

Marlin wasn't expecting that. “Well, I told Pa to be careful. He was sure he'd knocked the FBI guy from here to next Sunday, but he didn't. He really got the plate, huh? No matter. Everything's back on track now. I wish that the FBI guy had gotten his.”

Hannah moaned from the kitchen.

“Now, let me see if you tried to leave any message for that muscle boy you're sleeping with.”

She didn't move, barely breathed. And waited. He poked around a bit, then straightened. “You're smart, Marty. You didn't try anything. That's good.”

Hannah moaned again. They heard Erasmus say something to her. They heard a sharp cry. The bastard, he'd hit her again.

“You'll come, won't you, Marty? You'll come to me at the center of the maze? My pa will kill her slow if you refuse. It sounds like he's already got started. You got the picture now, don't you?”

To die for Hannah Paisley, perhaps there was a dose of irony there. No, she'd die anyway. Lacey seriously doubted Hannah would survive this either. But Sherlock had no choice, none at all. “I'll come.”

Ten minutes.

“Let me see if Hannah's all right.”

“A real buddy, is she? That's excellent. No shit from you then, Marty, or Pa will make her real sorry. Then it'll be my turn to make you even sorrier.”

“No shit from me, Marlin.”

“Ladies shouldn't say that word, Marty.”

She wanted to laugh, realized it was hysteria bubbling in her throat, and kept her mouth shut. When she walked into the kitchen, Hannah was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall.

“I'm sorry, Hannah. Are you all right?”

Hannah's eyes weren't focused, but she was trying. She probably had a concussion. “Sherlock, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Where is this place? Who are these animals?”

Erasmus kicked her.

Hannah didn't make a sound, but her body seemed to ripple with the shock of the pain.

“This is my place. These men are Marlin Jones and his father, Erasmus.”

She saw Hannah realized the consequences in that single instant. She also knew she was going to die. Both of them would die. Sherlock saw her trying to loosen the knots on her wrists.