Thread of Fear, page 27
part #1 of The Glass Sisters Series
Using the phone like a flashlight, she held it low to the ground and made her way to the juncture where the two roads met. After a few moments of stumbling around, she found a post and, atop it, the very thing she was searching for.
A mailbox. Painted like a flag.
Lowell wasn’t home, and no one else seemed to be either. The man lived in a small clapboard one-story that reminded Jack of his own place, except Lowell’s was a dump. Trash bags littered the porch, and the screen on the front door was nearly torn out. Evidently the man hadn’t done a lick of maintenance work since his divorce two Christmases ago—a divorce that, according to Lowell, had been amicable.
But what did Jack know, really? An hour ago, he would have sworn he knew each and every one of his direct reports. Now, all bets were off.
Jack looked around. He listened. But the place was silent, save the rustle of too-tall grass in the nighttime breeze. There were no vehicles in sight, and the house was locked up tight as a drum.
Carlos came around from the back porch, clutching his service weapon. “Nothing. Don’t think anyone’s here.”
Jack itched to leave. He felt certain they were in the wrong location, but Lowell’s rickety wooden storage shed kept drawing his attention. A lone yellow lightbulb shone above the door. The structure was eight-by-ten, or thereabouts, and the hardware on the door looked a hell of a lot newer than the rest of the shed.
“Fancy lock,” Jack commented, and trekked across the yard.
Carlos pulled out a flashlight and followed him. He shone it on the window to the shed and confirmed Jack’s suspicion that the pane of glass had been painted black.
“What do you think he keeps in there?”
“No warrant,” Carlos reminded him.
Jack planted his hands on his hips and stared at the shed for a few seconds. He picked up a rock and—
“Jack.”
—hummed it straight through the windowpane. Then he took out his mini Mag-Lite and shone it inside.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
Carlos walked up behind him, and they both gazed inside at a blue Hyundai Elantra.
But even more startling than the car was the rank odor wafting through the broken pane of glass.
Carlos coughed. “I know that smell.”
“Go back to the truck, Chief.”
“Why?”
Jack rounded the shed. “Because you don’t want to be a witness when I bust down this door.” He gave the door a sharp kick and sent splinters flying.
“Fucking A,” Jack said, reading the vehicle tag. “It’s her car. Right here. We’ve had a BOLO on this for ten days.”
Jack glanced in all the car’s windows, then walked to the trunk. “Hand me that tire iron.”
But Carlos had a better idea. He jerked his shirttail out and used it to keep from leaving prints as he opened the door. Then he leaned down and popped the trunk button.
Jack shone his light in. “Holy Christ.”
“What you got?”
The stench about knocked him over, and the sight…Both bullet wounds to the forehead were neat, clean, but the torso was another matter. It looked like a giant snake had been gutted. Jack stepped back and tried not to retch.
“J.B.? What is it?”
“I think I found Viper.”
Jack whipped back onto the highway, leaving Lowell’s house in the dust.
“What are we, twenty? Twenty-five miles out?”
Carlos checked the map as his phone buzzed.
“Santos,” he told Jack, and answered it. Carlos gave the agent a brief rundown of what they’d discovered in Lowell’s shed. He was vague about how, exactly, Lowell’s window had come to be broken, and after a few minutes of listening, he glanced at Jack. “Sure, he’s right here.” He passed over the phone.
Jack took it. “Yeah?”
“It’s Santos. I need you to call Fiona. She’ll listen to you. Convince her to stay away from that house. I’ve run a check on the Schenck family, and I think I’ve got our suspect.”
“Talk fast.”
“We’re looking at Scott Schenck, thirty-eight, occupation unknown. Born in Meyersberg, Texas, graduated high school there. Last known address was an RV park in Maricopa County, Arizona. Turns out, we’ve got a thin file on this guy already. He tried to volunteer for a civilian militia group there, but was asked to leave by the leader of that organization because he didn’t, quote, ‘work well with others.’”
“There’s a surprise.”
“Attracted the attention of a couple of undercover agents several years ago when he started showing up to Aryan Nations meetings in Utah and Arizona. He’s since dropped off the radar. No tax return, nothing.”
“Sounds like a model citizen,” Jack said.
“Here’s something else. I’ve got a fax in my hand from San Antonio PD, where Schenck used to live with a—get this—Gabriela Vega. She filed a restraining order against him twelve years ago. Told police they’d broken up, and he wouldn’t leave her alone. Six months later, Gabriela Vega turned up dead from a gunshot wound to the forehead, but the autopsy concluded it was self-inflicted.”
“GSW to the forehead. Same as Viper.”
“Yeah, I know,” Santos said. “The police initially questioned Schenck, but he had an alibi, apparently. We’re talking about a dangerous person with a highly volatile temper. If there’s anything you can say to Fiona to get her away from there, you need to say it now. Last I talked to her, she seemed to be on a quest to get her witness out of harm’s way.”
“Got it.” He disconnected and returned the phone to Carlos. Then Jack took out his cellular and dialed Fiona. It took him two tries because his hands were shaking all over the place.
His stomach somersaulted until, finally, she answered.
“Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I was just about to call you,” she said. “I found the mailbox with the Confederate flag. This is Viper’s house. I think he’s the one who took Brady. I didn’t get a good look, but—”
“Viper’s dead.” He let the words hang there a moment, hoping they would scare some sense into her. “Two bullets to the forehead. And then he was gutted with a knife and stuffed in Natalie’s trunk.”
“Natalie Fuentes?”
“You got it. Now listen up, Fiona. No more arguments. Carlos and I have an ETA of fifteen minutes, and Santos is on his way with a hostage-rescue team. You’re in the way, and you need to get gone.”
He heard a whimper on the other end of the phone.
“Fiona?”
“I just…Brady’s in there. Right now. What if we’re too late?”
“You can’t save everyone.” Goddamn it, she wasn’t listening. “You’re not responsible for every kid in trouble.”
“Sometimes you are.” Her voice wobbled, and he knew she was crying.
“Is this about Courtney? Is this about some bullshit from your past? Because if you really love your sister, you won’t do this.” If you really love me, you won’t do this.
“I’m sorry, Jack.” And she clicked off.
Fiona pulled the Ruger from her purse and checked it. It was loaded. She tossed the handbag on her front seat and quietly closed the car door. She wanted both hands free to hold her gun, so she stuffed the cell phone into her bra, safe and sound. Knowing Jack would call again, she’d switched the power off so she wouldn’t lose her life over an inopportune snippet of Vivaldi.
She took a deep breath and looked around. It was dark. Very. The persistent barking in the distance sent a thread of fear down her spine. Fiona rubbed the scar at her neck, and tried to put the dog out of her mind as she crept over to the scrub bushes lining the road. For the nth time today, she regretted her attire. The soles of her Ferragamo pumps crunched on the gravel, but she didn’t want to kick them off in case the ground was covered with sticker burrs. Her dress snagged on some bushes, and she stooped to tug it free.
Despite what Jack thought, she didn’t have a death wish. She had no intention of getting anywhere near Brady’s kidnapper if there was any way to avoid it. Santos was bringing in a trained hostage-rescue team. Her goal was to keep tabs on the situation and hopefully learn Brady’s location so she could tell Santos as soon as possible. That was all.
Unless, of course, someone tried to hurt Brady. If that happened…well, she didn’t know exactly. She gripped the Ruger tightly and tiptoed up the road.
“Drop it.”
She gasped and whirled around.
“You got three seconds.”
She stood petrified, too scared even to breathe. The voice came out of nowhere, and her gaze couldn’t penetrate the darkness.
“Two.”
She glanced down at the bright red pinprick flickering across her chest. Wherever he was, he had a bead on her.
“One.”
She dropped the gun.
CHAPTER 21
Slow down, Chief.”
Jack shot Carlos a look as they rocketed down the highway. The speedometer was pushing one hundred, but the road wouldn’t come fast enough.
“Where’s that turnoff?”
“Eight, ten more miles,” Carlos said. The phone in his hand buzzed, and he answered it. From what Jack overheard, it sounded like Santos again, wanting an update.
“HRT’s on its way,” Carlos announced after hanging up. “They’re coming by chopper. Team’s out of San Antonio, though, so it could take a while. Santos is en route to Viper’s, probably be there in twenty minutes.”
Jack tried to visualize the logistics. A helo full of SWAT jocks would drop down on the house where Fiona was skulking around, probably peeking in windows. She stood an excellent chance of getting caught in the cross fire, and that was if she hadn’t already managed to get noticed by the bad guys. This was a guaranteed goatfuck.
“It’s not like they’re just gonna burst in, guns blazing,” Carlos said, reading his mind. “Not with civilians involved.”
Civilians. Jack scoffed. This opinionated, resourceful, hardheaded woman who’d turned his world upside down was a civilian. She had no business being involved in this mess, but she was right in the middle of it. And why? Because he’d put her there.
If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
“Pop that glove box,” he said. “Make sure my SIG’s loaded.”
Jack focused on the road, blinking the sweat from his eyes, as he heard the click and slide of Carlos checking his backup piece. Jack’s department-issued Glock was in a weapons locker at the station house. He was a civilian now, too, and the knowledge grated on him.
“When we get there,” Carlos said, “you need to stay on the sidelines.”
Jack grunted.
“I mean it, J.B. You got no authority here—”
“You can have the arrest. I just need Fiona.”
“I’m not talking about an arrest. I’m talking about you getting your ass shot off on my watch. It’s not gonna happen.”
“I know it’s not.” Jack held his hand out for the weapon. Carlos passed it over, and Jack tucked it into the back of his pants, where his black leather belt held it snugly against his spine. He wished he had a holster, but when he’d put on his only suit this afternoon, he’d been expecting to spend the evening at a freaking art gallery.
“Locote,” Carlos muttered.
“What’s that?”
“You,” he snapped. “Still thinking with your dick.”
Fiona’s breath rasped in and out as he moved closer. The red spot on her chest expanded until it was as big as a quarter, a fiery preview of the hole he would blow in her if she decided to move.
But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t do anything besides stand, immobile, as his shape materialized out of the shadows. He was silhouetted faintly in the middle of the road, and he held a mean-looking gun level with his shoulder. An assault rifle, she guessed, judging from the size of it.
He scooped her Ruger off the ground, and then let the rifle dangle at his side. She saw now that he wore it on a strap slung across his body.
The man was short. Stocky. And broad-shouldered, just as Lucy had described him. She remembered all the other things Lucy had described, and her knees wanted to buckle.
He tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants and then pulled something from his pocket. “You’re trespassing.”
“I was just—”
Pain shot through her as he wrenched her arm behind her back. He lashed her wrists together with some kind of cord and pulled it taut, until her skin burned. She sucked in a breath, and he jerked her hands higher, bringing tears to her eyes.
“That hurt?” He dropped her hands, and her breath whooshed out. He jabbed her in the shoulder blade with his gun. “Better toughen up. We got a long way to go.”
He prodded her again, and she stumbled over the gravel. They moved toward the house, getting closer to the barking with every step. She could have wept at the irony. Some psychopath was shoving her around with an assault rifle, and all she could think of was a pair of sharp canines sinking into her flesh. The scar at her neck seemed to burn, and her breath came shallower. She had to concentrate on her footsteps to keep from losing it.
They rounded a grove of trees, and the building came into view. It was a brick ranch house with an attached garage. The weedy yard was illuminated by a pair of floodlights, one on each corner of the home. Some sort of aluminum camper sat off to the side, under a tree.
And standing at the screen door was a monstrous-looking dog, barking wildly and pawing at the mesh. Fiona halted.
The gun barrel jabbed her back. “Up the stairs.”
“Call off your dog.”
He sneered behind her. “Don’t like dogs, huh?”
She didn’t say anything, and the dog kept up the racket. Finally, the man gave a sharp whistle, and it stopped.
She glanced over her shoulder and sucked in a breath. In the glare of the floodlights, she got her first good look at him—wide nose, deep-set eyes, square jaw. Identical to her sketch down to the pockmarked skin. It was as if her drawing had sprung to life—the Pygmalion story, except this artist definitely wouldn’t fall in love with her creation.
“Move,” he ordered.
She gulped and mounted the front step. “What kind of dog is that?”
“Rottweiler.” He reached around her and pulled open the screen door. The dog scurried forward and nosed her crotch.
“Heel!”
She wasn’t sure if he meant her or the dog, but the dog obeyed. Another prod, and Fiona stepped over the threshold. The dog’s chops hung open, displaying a mouthful of menacing teeth and a copious supply of drool. The man stepped in behind her.
The door squeaked shut, and Fiona watched, shocked, as he pulled a Milk Bone from his pocket and dropped it into the dog’s snapping jaws. He glanced at Fiona.
“Back bedroom.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Now.”
She darted her gaze around, desperate for any kind of help. Another person. A weapon. A distraction. All she saw was an unkempt living room and a kitchen blanketed with dirty dishes and beer cans. The place smelled like sour milk and marijuana.
He watched her, drumming his fingers on the gun barrel at his side. “Don’t make me say things twice.”
Fiona glanced at the darkened corridor on the far side of the room. Brady might be back there.
She moved toward the hall, sidestepping a stack of Skin & Ink magazines and an abandoned water bong on the living room floor. She wondered if her and Brady’s chances were better if their captor was stoned. His eyes were bloodshot, but that could just be the intensity of the past few days. If Jack and Santos were right, this man was escalating. He’d killed at least two people in the past five days and kidnapped an innocent little boy and now a police consultant. Not prudent behavior. He was becoming manic and bloodthirsty and sloppy about covering his tracks. He was unraveling.
Fiona felt his presence behind her as she walked down the carpeted hallway. There were three doors. The first was closed, and the second stood partly ajar, revealing a room crammed with stools and a padded table. Viper’s home office?
“Last one.”
She stopped at the last door and waited as he reached around her to open it. It was pitch-black inside, and her body tensed.
She turned to face him, and stared into his eyes. Make him see you as human. Establish a connection. She didn’t know where the thoughts came from, she just knew she should heed them.
“Could you loosen my bindings, please? My arms hurt.”
He looked her over, his gaze lingering on her neck, and she wondered if he was visualizing his thick fingers wrapped around it. She took a step back.
Suddenly the butt of the gun came up. She toppled backward, into the darkness, and the door banged shut.
Jack’s phone hummed, and the number on the screen caught him by surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to him to check on Lucy after hearing about Brady.
“Are you all right?”
“So nice of you to call,” she said. “And yes, I’m fine.”
“Sorry, Luce, but it’s been crazy. I’m on my way—”
“I know where you are. I’ve got a sheriff’s deputy parked in my kitchen, and he’s been on the phone for the past ten minutes. Sounds like this is coming to a head.”
Jack skidded around a bend, and Carlos braced a hand on the dashboard. Their turnoff was supposed to be just up ahead.
“I’ve got some friendly advice, Jack.”
He eased his foot off the gas so he wouldn’t fly past the turn. Any second now—
“We’re still friends, right?”
