The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) (22 page)

How had she let anyone get that far inside her soul? Her lifestyle didn’t allow her to be tied down, to love like this, yet she fell so hard over the last year that she wasn’t even aware of it until she broke their pact back in the Vegas hotel. Then she thought Aaron had died because of it. The realization that he was gone, only to be returned to her, made her want to grab him and hold on tight so he couldn’t go anywhere.

But she couldn’t. Vivian called. They needed to complete this job, whatever this job was. And even if she did it right, little boys would continue to be molested.

What the hell does that mean, Sis?

Still no response. Not even a whiff of her presence.

Outside the terminal in Billund, she got a few quotes from taxis and went with the best deal. A one-hour ride to Skanderborg. Halfway there, she finished the flask of whiskey. Headlights coming toward them seemed to jog left and right. She closed and opened her eyes. The shaking car upset her stomach. She closed her eyes, slipped lower in the seat and rested her hands on her stomach.

The car came to a stop.

She snapped awake and sat up. She grabbed the seat on either side to steady the dizziness.

A red light. The driver met her eyes in the rearview.

“Almost there, ma’am,” he said. “Two more city blocks.”

Sarah nodded, then regretted it. She lowered back in the seat and waited until the driver pulled into the train station in Skanderborg before she sat up again.

He reminded her of the amount they had agreed upon. She fished the new currency out—Danish Kroner—and paid him.

“Tak,” she said, learning the word for
thank you
in Danish while in Copenhagen.

“Selv tak,” the driver said as she exited the vehicle.

She turned back holding onto the open door.

“What’s that mean?” she asked, feeling the effects of the alcohol more as she bent down to look at the driver. This was a serious mission to Denmark, and she’d drank more than she should have. She knew that now. Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix, though.

“Basically it means
you’re welcome
. But it’s interpreted as thanks back to you.”

“Okay, well then, selv tak.”

Sarah shut the cab’s back door and turned too fast. She shuffled her feet to regain balance and then surveyed the city lights in the dark.

What the hell was in Skanderborg that she needed to deal with? How were they tied to what was happening so far away in Toronto? The only person she could come up with was Clara’s dad. But that didn’t make any sense. How would people be molested if they fixed everything? Nothing made sense and it wouldn’t become clear while she was this drunk. She needed a hotel. Then sleep. In that order. Then find Anton Olafson and see if he could understand what was going on.

It was late and the streets were virtually empty. She turned in a full circle and didn’t see a single building that resembled a hotel. No Best Western or Holiday Inn near the train station in Skanderborg.

She frowned and looked down at the ground.

“Why didn’t I have him drive me to a hotel?” she asked herself out loud.

A taxi came up to the street light about fifty yards away. She started toward it, waving her arms. On the green, the cab turned and disappeared toward what looked like the center of town.

At the light, Sarah waited until the walk sign came on, then crossed the street. She decided she would walk until she saw a hotel or sobered up. She would walk an hour or two and if nothing happened, she would call information and ask them for help.

Did Denmark use information like they did in the States? Was their emergency phone number 911 like the States?

As she walked, she pulled out her phone and Googled these questions. It turned out that 911 was actually 112. The website said she had to dial 112 in Denmark for emergencies.

“112?” she said to herself. “That seems like an odd number.” She shrugged as she walked. “No big deal.”

She brought up the maps feature on her phone. A blue dot revealed her location. Another dot revealed where Anton Olafson’s house was. She had typed his address in while on the flight to Copenhagen.

“Shit, he’s close.”

Maybe he would be a kind gentleman and let her sleep the night at his place before they figured out what was happening in the morning.

A car sped up behind her. She turned to see who would drive so crazy. The red and blue lights on top of the police car were blinding. After another minute, two more police cars raced by as she walked on the sidewalk.

Something big was happening in small town Skanderborg but it had nothing to do with her. She was a block from Anton’s house now and figured that was the best place to go.

The maps application instructed her to turn left and head down a small road past the rowing club.

Clara had said something about a rowing club being two houses away from hers.

A minute later she passed the rowing club and slowed her step, checking the map. Once she stood out front of Anton’s house, she put away her phone and studied the front. All the lights were off. It didn’t look like anyone was home.

“Shit. There goes my good night’s sleep.”

To be sure, she headed up the front walkway and knocked on the door. She waited, then knocked again.

Nothing. Not even the hint of movement inside the house like footfalls on the stairs.

She trudged out to the road and stood in the center of the small street under the light of a small lamp where she pulled out the piece of paper Clara had written on back in the Toronto hotel. She stared at the drawing of the house where Clara had placed a large X, two down from the rowing club. This was the house, no doubt about it. Anton Olafson’s house was right in front of her, but Clara’s dad wasn’t home.

Sarah wavered on her feet. Even though she’d slept on her way to Copenhagen, she needed more. The whiskey and wine from earlier made it hard to stay upright.

A rush of movement close by caught her attention, but she didn’t see what it was before it smashed into her. Then she was airborne. The ground came hard and fast, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

She struggled to breathe. The name Olafson came out in a gasp, unintelligible. The man who bumped into her shot his arm out and sprayed something on her face.

Her hands shot to her face as she was blinded and couldn’t breathe properly. Panicked, Sarah struggled to catch a breath through the toxic spray. As the man dragged her along the ground, she vomited from the alcohol and fear of not being able to breathe.

The bile in her throat did nothing to open her airways.

In fact, all it did was make it even harder to breathe.

Blinded by the spray, Sarah hacked and wheezed until she passed out for lack of oxygen.

Chapter 30

Anton dragged the barely breathing girl off the road and through the front door of his house. In under two minutes, he had her bound in the spare bedroom. He debated gagging her, but since she couldn’t breathe too well, he decided against it. He couldn’t have her dying on him until he was ready to kill her. For a brief moment, it didn’t sound like she was breathing.

He moved closer to listen.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes and held his breath as he leaned down to her nose where he detected the faint rasp of air forcing its way along her nasal passages, mostly via her open mouth.

After checking the bungee cord wrapped around the girl’s wrists and ankles, Anton bolted back outside and scanned the windows of his neighbor’s homes. Lights were out in the houses on either side of his. No one walked the street at this late hour near his property, therefore no one saw a damn thing. He was in the clear. And he had a blonde girl that looked exactly like Clara subdued in his home.

It couldn’t get any better than that.

Compelled to smile, Anton slapped his hands together, blew out air and stared up at the starry sky. Tonight he would secure Clara’s future and in doing so, he would save himself from a personal damnation.

He plodded back to the front door and stepped inside. Once the front door was shut, he locked it and used the window beside the door to peer outside. The street was dark and still empty. He waited, staring at shadows, gazing back and forth, but no one came out of the dark to point their finger at him. No one came and knocked on his door. Witnesses to his spraying and abduction of the girl in the other room were nonexistent.

She was a gift from the heavens. She was perfect.

He leaned against the doorframe and stared down at her, frowning. Why was this girl standing in front of his house? Who was she and why was she dressed in Clara’s clothes?

Could the hacker have sent her? Was that what this was? The hacker needed this girl killed so he orchestrated an elaborate plot to have Anton kill her? If so, it was a risky plot. Anton could’ve killed a random girl the first day. Or he could’ve done it in Aarhus. The hacker changed the details halfway through the week, too. Locate and murder a girl that resembled Clara, he’d said. But why and did it really matter? Anton believed the hacker would hurt Clara and wasn’t that all he needed to move forward?

He pulled out his cell phone and texted the hacker.

I’ve got a subject. Want to watch live?

He waited, but no response was forthcoming. After a minute, Anton checked the girl’s breathing again and then headed for the kitchen. He would make a cup of tea and wait for either the girl to wake or the hacker to respond.

If the girl woke up, he would grill her on who she was and why she wore his daughter’s clothes.

If the hacker responded and wanted the deed completed, he would murder the stupid girl where she lay.

As long as he received assurances that Clara would be safe, he would do anything and everything needed to guarantee that safety.

What parent wouldn’t?

Once the kettle was warming and the tea bag was in his cup, he slipped into the bathroom for a piss. Midstream, mind wandering, a loud banging resonated throughout the house.

His urine was cut off as he ducked like someone attacked him with a sledgehammer.

He fumbled with his pants and ran out to the kitchen where he flicked off the kettle to kill the noise it was making.

The banging came again.

Someone was at the door. The clock on the microwave said it was just nearing one in the morning.

This had to be the police. They would want to talk about the two girls he attacked on the path by the library. It could ruin him. If the girl in the other room woke when the door was open, he would spend the rest of the night in a holding cell.

A few spots of piss clung to his legs. He rubbed the pants on his thighs to dispel that cool feeling, then started for the front door.

The last thing he needed was the police banging on his door at this late hour and waking the girl in the spare bedroom. Nor did he want his neighbors to see the police presence at his door.

He would talk them away, contact a lawyer. He could fight an assault charge by claiming he thought he was being attacked in the dark. He could apologize, make reparations to the families of the young girls. In essence, Anton was confident he could make it all go away.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

He ran for the door, his stomach churning at the thought of losing Clara.

At any point, if he fucked this up, Clara was dead and he wouldn’t let a stupid cop stop him from saving Clara’s life.

Even if that meant he had to kill the cop, too.

Chapter 31

Street by street, winding his way throughout neighborhood after neighborhood, Parkman had passed only five people at that time of night. The streets of Skanderborg were relatively empty now that the Burning of the Witch was over. No one resembled the man in the thick coat.

Parkman hadn’t seen Sarah either. Frustrated that he was missing something, he stopped by the train station to check their arrival schedule. Not another train until three in the morning and then at five.

Directionless, which sucked for him as the private investigator of the bunch, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed long distance to Caleb’s house in Santa Rosa while chewing on a toothpick.

It was answered on the first ring.

“Caleb, it’s Parkman.”

“Good news or bad?” Caleb asked.

“No news.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Parkman lumbered toward the street light in front of the train station.

“What’s happening?” Caleb asked. “You’re in Skanderborg, right?”

Parkman spit the toothpick out. “Yeah. I still don’t know why, though.”

“Has to be Sarah related. Aaron called yesterday to update me after Sarah left Toronto. One sec,” the phone pulled away. Parkman detected the punching of keys on a keyboard. “Here it is. I just brought up the flight to Billund. Sarah landed hours ago.” Caleb’s mouth moved closer to the phone. “That’s an hour’s drive to where you are. That means she is most likely in Skanderborg and has been for hours.”