The Professor (28 page)

“Have you found her?” Mick hunched over the conference room table, forehead cradled against his hand, phone pressed to his ear. Frank had finally answered his cell phone.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

It was a stock phrase, and Frank knew it as well as Mick did. It was hollow, what you said when things looked grim. When you knew that even your best efforts weren’t likely to matter.

“Everybody’s looking for the car,” Frank said.

“He could be anywhere by now.”

“Every cop in five counties is looking.”

“For a phantom.” Despair danced in the corner of the room, ready to take center stage.

“Mick…”

“If you say ‘trust me,’ I’ll… I’ll…”

“We’ll find her.”

“How, Frank? How did he get to her?”

Frank hesitated.

Mick’s hand tightened around the phone so hard his forearm cramped. “Did Clinton pull the coverage for the fire? Tell me.”

“The fire was arson. An old warehouse. The Professor probably set it as a diversion. Unit fifteen was diverted.”

“Those ass—”

Frank overrode him. “Eleven stayed put. He’s dead.”

Mick’s rant died on his lips. “Oh, shit. Who was he?”

“A rookie. Apparently he fell for whatever ploy the killer pulled.”

A different anger sliced through his pain. There was a special bond among cops. Everyone would look for Meg. It was what they did. But they’d hunt the Professor relentlessly for taking one of theirs. “Tell me he wasn’t married.”

Please say no,
he silently prayed.

“No.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.
No widow.
“I’m sorry about the rookie. But I can’t focus on that right now.” He cleared his throat. “What else? What else do you know?”

“Meg was in the basement, doing her laundry. We found two cans of soda. A tech from the sheriff’s department’s tested them.”

“And?”

“The regular Coke can was wiped clean, but we got two sets off the Diet Coke. We lifted prints in Meg’s apartment to use for comparison. She handled the diet can.”

“What about Bradley?”

“His were on it too.”

“Okay.” He took a firm grip on his emotions. “Drugs?”

“Roofies.”

“And she’s not in the sorority house. Or her office or apartment.”

Frank sighed. “No. But we’re still looking. She might have gone out…”

Focus on the facts
. “How much of the soda did she drink?”

“Not much. As near as we can tell, most of it spilled on the floor.”

He knew as well as Frank did that it didn’t take much of the drug to incapacitate a
woman. Had she realized what was going on? Had she knocked it over on purpose? “Were there any other signs of a struggle? Besides the spilled Coke?”
And my missing girlfriend?

What happened in that room?
He’d have given anything to be there, to see for himself.

Frank didn’t answer directly. “I have to go, Mick. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

The darkness had texture and noise. Woozy and disoriented, Meg reached for the light switch, but her hands wouldn’t move. Her shoulders ached. She was stiff and cramped from lying on her side. She shifted, moving awkwardly. Her legs responded sluggishly. Something hard bumped against her knees.

Awareness expanded. She lay in a carpeted box. Music pounded above her head and something sang a monotonous whine below her. Vague smells assaulted her nose—a whiff of exhaust and tire rubber.

The box moved, jarring her, then settled again. She was trapped in a car, she realized with rising terror. Her arms were bound behind her. Her hands were numb. Tape covered her mouth claustrophobically.

Truth dropped like a stone in a black well of panic. She was locked in a killer’s trunk. When the car stopped, she would die.

Fear galvanized her. She kicked frantically at the lid. Her chest heaved. She couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in, squeezing air from the box before she could suck it into her lungs. She twisted in terror, thrashing like a crazed animal. The car turned sharply. She slammed against the rear wall. The blow stunned her. Exhausted, she lay panting on the carpet.

She had to regain control. There wasn’t time for panic. She had to get out of the trunk.

Lying on her stomach, she raised her hands blindly, groping for the escape lever. Her shoulders screamed in protest, but she forced her arms higher until she found the lock. Frantically, her fingers fumbled with the mechanism. She identified the parts by touch, the locking device and the retaining bar. Where was the release mechanism?

Her search expanded around the lock, patting the metal lid and fabric liner.

Nothing.

She slumped on the floor, moaning into the tape across her mouth.

There was no safety bar.

Mick dropped the phone into the cradle. His head sagged onto his hands.
The Professor will keep her alive for a while. He’s won. He’s in complete control. He can take all the time he wants.

He stared into the pit of despair. What was the Professor doing to her? Was he already strapping her to a bed, pulling out a knife? Taunting her with it? Stripping off her clothes?

Touching her.

Cutting her.

Gorge rose in Mick’s throat, followed by rage.

“No!” He surged to his feet. Striding to the map, he stared at the colored pins.
Where are you, you bastard? Where did you take her?

Pain overrode his anger.
Where are you, Meg?

The pins blurred. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So sorry, I didn’t keep you safe.”

He sucked in a deep breath. Brutally, he quashed the hopeless thoughts. Despair wasn’t going to save Meg.
Focus on finding her. She’s smart and resourceful. As long as she’s alive, there’s a chance.

He jammed his emotions in a box and closed the lid.
Think like a cop. Do your job.

He stared at the large-scale map. He found Douglass College and the road behind the Chi Zeta house. His fingers moved outward. Which way would the Professor go? North to the mountains? West into Georgia? South to the lake or coast?

The Newberry County Sheriff Department and the Highway Patrol would saturate the main roads. Sheriff departments from the surrounding counties would coordinate as the manhunt widened. He bracketed the Interstate, US 76 and US 221. They would put the Patrol on those roads and try to contain him.

Not knowing what was going on was killing him. He stalked into the office area and grabbed an ops radio. Compton started to say something, but he subsided under Mick’s ferocious glare.

Back in the conference room, he switched to Greenville’s tactical command channel. The beneficiary of a Homeland Security upgrade, Greenville Sheriff’s had the most sophisticated dispatch system in the Upstate. They were coordinating dispatch for Clinton and the surrounding law enforcement groups.

The communications chatter was constant. As he listened, his grip on the radio tightened. Every cop in five counties, on and off duty, was looking for the Camaro. And here he sat under house arrest.

He focused on the words flowing to Dispatch. The entire network was active. Sheriff’s deputies, city cops, a few park rangers and most of SLED were manning roadblocks or crisscrossing the expanding circle around Clinton. He listened, his eyes riveted to the huge map, tracking movements. The further the circle expanded, the more chances the Professor had to slip through the net. The secondary roads weren’t fully covered, he realized. That’s how the bastard would get past the police.

Use your head. Find them.

The Professor thought he’d pulled it off. He’d snatched Meg from under their noses. He’d keep her alive for a while. Mick shoved hard as the lid on his mental
emotional box slipped. He couldn’t think about what the bastard might be doing to her. He shook his head to reinforce the denial. They’d find her first.

Where would he take her?
Clinton PD had already searched Bradley’s house and found nothing. The Professor needed time. It had to be someplace inside—a house or a cabin. Lake Murray drew his attention. The north shore was less populated than the eastside—too far from Columbia, not as much deep water. His gaze slid west along the shoreline. There’d be plenty of empty weekend cottages. The Department of Natural Resources patrolled the lake. He still had friends there.

Without bothering to see where Compton was, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“Yo, Mickie, what’s going on up there? We’re picking up a lot of chatter.”

“We’re bird-dogging this asshole who’s been cutting up coeds.”

“Yeah? Think you got him?”

“Maybe. Listen, I don’t have much time. You still over at the lake?”

A new note sounded in the man’s voice. “I got three boats out on routine patrol and another one sitting at the dock.”

“We think he’s heading someplace he can lay up. Can you cruise the north shore? You know the year-round residents. Ask your guys to look for lights at any of the weekend places.”

“You want me to call you or Greenville Dispatch if we find something?”

The man wasn’t stupid. He’d realized Mick was acting outside official channels. The request should’ve come through Command.

“Both.”

The sound of the tires changed. They weren’t on pavement any longer. Small rocks pinged against the undercarriage. Where were they? Somewhere far from the city. No one would find her now. She was going to die.

Please, God,
she silently whispered into the darkness.
Help me.

“God helps those who help themselves.”
Her father’s words taunted her.

Please, God. Get me out of this and I’ll call him. I don’t hate him or Mother.

Fear frizzed like a sparkler in the darkness.
Please, I don’t want to die. I want to live and love and get married. I want to have children.

Tears spilled down her face, caught on the edge of the tape.

She’d wasted so much time trying to be perfect, closed off so many emotions— and for what? She hadn’t really lived or let herself feel. She’d been so busy protecting herself—keeping everyone at a distance—she’d never looked behind the curtains in her heart. She’d thought if she could earn attention, or maybe it was respect, she’d somehow be worthy of love. That the external trappings would make everything in her life okay.

Staring into the darkness, she acknowledged what mattered. Not fame, not riches, but people.
I want Mick. I love him. He loves me for who I am, in spite of all my flaws.

The truth brought her rambling litany to an abrupt halt.

Mick would look for her. He would call. He’d check her apartment if she didn’t answer the phone.

Hope sputtered to life.
Quit blubbering and do something. You aren’t dead yet. God helps those who help themselves, remember?

She just needed to think. To come up with a plan.

It was too loud in the trunk. The music was deafening, distracting. She kicked at the speakers, hoping to knock a wire loose.

Pain surged up her leg.

Instinctively twisting her body, her hands reached blindly for her foot. Probing, she found a warm, wet spot. Blood. Something had cut her foot. The wound throbbed with each movement. She felt a trickle roll toward her heel.

Was this how her life would end?
Despair whispered from the blackest corners of the trunk.
Cut, hurt, bleeding?

No! There
had
to be a way out.

Think
, she desperately demanded.

Something cut her. Something on the speaker. Gingerly, controlling her rising excitement, she reached for the speaker. The back side of it pulsed under her fingers, but she couldn’t find anything sharp. She spread her fingers wider, probing the edges.
There
.

Her hand recoiled from the jagged spot. Quickly, she patted the side of the speaker again, seeking the point. The metal deck had been cut for the larger speaker. The serrated rim poked into the trunk space.

Stretching awkwardly, she pressed the tape binding her wrists against the protruding metal. Ignoring the burning throb in her shoulders, she sawed at the restraint.

The car jerked into a turn, flinging her across the trunk. Her hand grazed the metal, tearing a gash across her palm. She cried out against the unexpected pain. For a moment, she tucked into a fetal position, waiting for the pain to subside.
Hurry
, her logical side urged.
You don’t have time to waste.

She lifted her hands, grasping first the ceiling, then the speaker.
There
. She found the sharp spot. Frantically, she raked the tape over it and felt the first strands part. She pressed harder.

The tape abruptly separated. Her hands flew apart, striking the wall and the speaker. She slumped on the trunk floor, screaming as circulation returned to her arms and hands. The tape across her mouth limited the sound to a muffled screech.

She didn’t have time to nurse her hands or luxuriate in the ability to move. As soon as her fingers responded, she fumbled with the tape around her ankles. Fingers throbbing, she clumsily searched for the end of the restraining tape.

Once her feet were free, she picked at the strip covering her mouth. In one fierce gesture, she ripped it off and flung the strip away.

“Okay,” she panted. She could run when he opened the trunk. He wouldn’t expect her to be untied.

But he could still overpower her.

She needed a weapon.

Mick stared at the huge map of the state and then the larger-scale one of the Midlands. The Professor wouldn’t grab Meg and take off without having somewhere to go. The bastard was a planner. The only house in Bradley’s name was his residence in Clinton. But that didn’t mean it was the only one he owned.

“Compton.”

The young man looked up.

“How much computer experience do you have?”

“I do pretty well with programs, but I’m no hacker.”

“Come with me. We’re going on a records hunt.”

“Sir?”

Mick sat at his desk and logged on to his computer. He gestured at Frank’s desk. “Log in over there. Bradley’s taking her somewhere. Let’s start with the obvious.” County by county, they searched his name and came up with only the house in Clinton.

Compton caught on quickly. “What if it’s in someone else’s name?” the rookie asked.

“He put the car in his mother’s name. Try that.”

Nothing.

“What about his mother’s husband?” Compton asked.

That netted them the house in Walterboro and a beach house. Mick lifted the phone and passed the address to Dispatch. Someone at the beach would check the cottage. He rubbed his jaw. There weren’t many ways to get to the beach. The Highway Patrol had them covered. The lake or the mountains, he thought again.

Compton was typing away.

“What are you doing?”

“It could be one of his friends, or someone he teaches with. He’d know if one of them had a weekend place. I’m going through Agent Meyers’s file, trying the contacts.”

“Good idea.” Other ownership, he thought. There were other ways to hide it from casual observation. “What if he owns it through a company?”

“How will you find it, if he did?”

“He’d have to register the company.” Mick pulled up the Secretary of State’s web page and searched the incorporation records. The room was silent except for the clink of keys and an occasional grunt from one of the men.

“Got it!”

His jubilant cry raised Compton’s head. “What?”

“Warriors LLC.”

“What’s that?”

“A limited liability company. Bradley’s listed as the managing member.” Mick reopened the property records. “Yes! Warriors LLC owns property in Newberry County.” He scribbled out the map coordinates and raced for the conference room, Compton on his heels.

The cabin was on the sparsely settled, western section of the lake. Lake Murray was man-made, created in the forties by damming the Saluda River. Anything above the pair of bridges on State Highway 391 was designated the River. The lake split there, meandering up the Big and Little Saluda River channels.

“Let’s go,” Mick said. “We’ll take your car.”

The rookie SLED agent was two hundred pounds of immovable determination. His crew cut bristled with sincerity as he planted all five foot, nine inches of his fireplug frame in the doorway. “Agent Meyers said you had to stay here.”

“No, Meyers said not to let me go to Clinton,” he replied. “We’re not going there.”

He could see Compton trying to think it through. He wanted to tell the kid that one way or another, he was going. Compton would have to shoot him to stop him. He needed the guy onboard with him, though. “We have a lead that no one else has. There’s no one else to follow up on it. It might be just a wild goose chase.”

The young agent hesitated, uncertainty written across his face.

“We can’t pull anyone out of Clinton. They need everybody they have down there, trying to find the car. We’re just sitting on our asses here, useless as tits on a boar.”

He could tell the kid hated missing the manhunt. “Let’s check it out,” he urged. “If we’re wrong, you’re still babysitting me and we aren’t in anyone’s way. If it looks like we’re right, we call for backup. We aren’t going to go rushing in there. Do you really think I’m gonna do anything to spook this killer? He’s got my girlfriend, remember?”

Thoughts were processing slowly through the rookie’s brain.

“I want a SWAT team with me when we take him down. Massive force. Tear gas. Stun grenades.” He embellished it, painting the biggest, baddest scene he could envision. Compton was actually licking his lips, imagining it.

He kept talking, lying through his teeth as he oozed sincerity. The cabin felt right. It had to be where the Professor had taken her. But Newberry Sheriff’s Department wasn’t going in there because Mick felt something in his gut. He had to get to that cabin and check it out.

If he was right, if the car was there, he’d take the place apart bare-handed if he had to. They’d call for backup, but he wasn’t going to risk Meg’s life on how fast some deputy could cover too many miles of back roads. Every second they delayed could be another stroke of a knife across Meg’s tender flesh. He suppressed a shudder and concentrated on the kid.

“Taking you to the lake would keep you away from Clinton,” Compton said slowly.

He remained silent, trying to breathe normally while the rookie talked himself into disregarding Frank’s implied instructions. “They’re fanning out, running the highways, setting up roadblocks. They really don’t have time to drive out and check some cabin.”

Compton picked up his radio and toyed with the Transmit key.

He willed the agent’s fingers away from the button. Technically, they should report their position change, but Dispatch had more than enough to do keeping track of all the active units.

Compton twisted the dial, switching to SLED’s channel. He identified himself. “I’m moving Agent O’Shaughnessy,” he reported. “Keeping him out of the activity in Clinton.” He gave the cabin’s location.

The SLED coordinator acknowledged and the kid returned his radio to his hip. He’d covered his ass, but he hadn’t given the information to anyone who’d tell them to stay put in Greenville.

The patrol car barreled through the dark at speeds even Mick wouldn’t have risked. The lights on the roof rack spun into the night, gone behind them, almost before they registered. Compton had silenced the siren as soon as they cleared the traffic around
Greenville.

The kid’s hands rested on the steering wheel, moving confidently, anticipating curves. “Looks like you know these roads,” Mick said finally, breaking the silence.

A smile showed in the backwash of the dash lights. “Only thing you need to worry about is a deer jumping out of the woods in front of us.”

Compton skidded through a turn, correcting the fishtail, and straightened the heavy patrol car. A plume of dust hung in the air, marking their passage on the dirt road.

“I grew up in McCormick,” the rookie said. “There wasn’t shit to do but drink beer, chase women and race cars. I can tell you every dirt road inside three counties.”

The kid wasn’t bragging, merely stating fact. Mick had only the vaguest idea where they were. Rather than take the Interstate, with all the roadblocks and cops who’d send them back to Greenville to cool their heels, they’d blasted down US 25. Once they’d left the highway at Greenwood, the young agent had taken a series of back roads, streaking east toward Lake Murray.

Mick’s cell phone buzzed, startling both of the men. He glanced at the display, half-expecting to see Frank’s number and to hear the man ordering him back to Greenville. The readout showed a strange number with an 803 area code. Mid-state. “O’Shaughnessy,” he said tersely.

“This is Phil Ridley with the Department of Natural Resources. We just ran up the River under the twin bridges. We got headlights up past Sunshine Point.”

“We’re at …” He glanced at Compton.

“Deadfall Road.”

He passed on their location and the cabin’s coordinates.

“You’re gonna be right on top of that cabin in a couple of minutes. You want backup?”

“We could use it, but if this is our asshole, the last thing we want to do is spook him.”

“I hear you. We’ll cruise past slow, like we’re out fishin’.”

Without warning, the dirt road dumped onto Highway 395. “A couple more miles,” Compton said. “We’ll pick up Hodge Road at Stoney Hill.”

Mick leaned forward, as if he could see the cabin from here.
Hang on, Meg. We’re coming.