FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (3 page)

At first, she considered an abortion. Then, she called Alana Loeb.

“You know that I will never have children,” her friend said. Alana had confided that after her experiences in the brothel, she had her tubes tied. “And given what your responsibilities will be, you may never again have the chance. Go for it, 'ma chérie. I will help see you through it.”

And she did, flying out to San Francisco for the birth and staying afterwards. Maura’s father, having just lost a son, relished the prospect of a grandchild.

Maura named the baby Alana Antoinette (after her brother) Dallas. If old Joe was disappointed that he did not get a grandson, he never showed it. To his dying day, he adored the child.

Maura never considered telling Brandeford the girl existed. 

CHAPTER 3 - TAKEN

New York City

2015

Alana Dallas put the last of her things in the suitcase she planned to take on the plane. She closed the lid and had to sit on it before she could zip it shut. It would have been easier to check a larger bag through on the flight to San Francisco, as her mother constantly suggested. The strong-willed 20-year-old resisted taking just about anyone’s advice, particularly her mother’s. Besides, Alana considered herself a world-class packer and hated waiting at the airport carousel. Everything she needed for her Easter vacation was in the carry-on or at home. Vincent, who would pick her up at the airport, once commented that watching her unpack the bag was like watching all the clowns getting out of a car at the circus. Never having been to a circus, she didn’t know what that meant until he explained it to her. Vincent explained a lot of things to her. His advice she took seriously. She was looking forward to seeing him.

Alana knew what Vincent Anastasia was, and what he did to earn his fearsome reputation. Occasionally she fantasized using Vincent when some snotty Barnard or Columbia professor gave her a hard time. Not that she ever would. No one at either school knew about her family. 

Worried she might have forgotten something, Alana looked around the apartment she shared with two other girls on Riverside Drive. It could have been cleaner. She and Neeja were neat freaks, but Mayleen was a bit of a slob, which surprised Alana and Neeja, who thought all Chinese were fastidious. She dressed well and was always clean, but they were always after her to straighten up her stuff. Mayleen always promised she would, and never did. But Alana liked both her roommates, who opened her eyes culturally, so allowances were made. She smiled. Mayleen always left something behind when she went home or on a trip. Not surprising, considering that her pile of junk could have hidden the Space Shuttle.

Alana looked at her watch. It was just 3 PM. Willet was probably downstairs already. He had assured her that they would have plenty of time, pre-Friday rush hour, to get to JFK for her 6 PM flight. Willet was one of the good ones, as the adjunct teachers tended to be. They did not have their noses up in the air like some of her professors. Of course, Willet was not a real professor and only taught a couple of courses over at nearby Columbia University, where Alana and many other Barnard girls took some classes.

Against her advice, Neej and May had left the previous day for Spring Break in Panama City, Florida. Alana was not a Spring Break type. She thought that anyone who needed more excitement in his or her life when going to school in New York City was nuts. And she missed San Francisco and the family getaway compound in Santa Rosa, an hour north of the city in the wine country of Sonoma County. So when Willet offered to drive her to the airport, she gladly accepted. He told her that he was catching a later flight for a short vacation in the Caribbean. Alana looked forward to sitting by the pool in Santa Rosa and just chilling, hopefully alone. She wondered if she would even see much of her mother, who was usually too busy.   

When Alana emerged from her building, Riverside Drive was crowded with students, and the cars and cabs picking them up. She realized she did not know what kind of car Willet would be driving. Then she heard a car horn and saw a hand waving to her from a vehicle several doors up and across the street. She wheeled her bag over to the car, a rather beat-up maroon Toyota Camry that badly needed a paint job.

“Just throw your bag in the back,” Willet said.

He saw the look on her face.

“It’s my weekend car,” he explained. “No sense keeping a good car in the city. My Saab is in the Hamptons. ”

“Makes sense,” Alana said, as she put her bag in the car, next to a black wet suit, flippers, masks, snorkels and other scuba gear.

“You are taking all that stuff with you to the Islands?” She asked. “Don’t most people just rent?”

“I’m very particular about my equipment,” Willet said.

That, too, made sense, she thought. Alana knew Willet was a dedicated swimmer. She often saw him doing laps at Uris Pool in Columbia’s Dodge Physical Fitness Center. After Barnard closed its own small and antiquated pool in 2013, Barnard women were forced to use Uris to fulfill the college’s equally antiquated but still-mandated 75-yard swimming requirement for graduation, as well as for recreation. Alana didn’t mind the switch. As opposed to the Barnard pool, so small and shallow one could stand at either end, the Columbia facility was a world-class Olympic training facility. She could swim like a fish and thought that some of her classmates, mostly Muslims, who objected that they did not like swimming in front of males, were idiots.

Alana had a spectacular figure and rather liked being ogled by the Columbia men, teachers and students alike. She had even caught Willet looking her over on occasion. She did not mind that, either. For a man his age he was in excellent shape. She’d never slept with an older man. But like most girls her age, she’d fantasized about it. They were supposed to be better lovers. And assuredly grateful ones.

“What are you smiling about”? Willet said as she got in the passenger side.

“Oh, nothing,” Alana laughed. 

“Don’t forget to buckle your seat belt.”

“Yes, sir.”

She threw him a mock salute and Willet chuckled. As Alana buckled up, she said, “What’s that smell?”

“What do you think?”

He pointed at the two cup holders in the center console.

“Chai lattes! I don’t believe it. That’s really thoughtful.”

It was a favorite drink of hers. She and Willet had shared many in one of the student cafeterias when they bumped into each other. He picked up his cup and held it out.

“To a nice vacation for you,” he said.

Alana picked up her latte and they carefully “clinked” cups. They both took long sips. Willet replaced his cup and pulled out. He headed south on Riverside Drive.

“I really appreciate this,” Alana said. “I hope it’s not too much trouble. How long will you have to wait for your flight?”

“Oh, not long. This is no trouble at all.”

“Where are you going?”

“Sint Maarten, which is the Dutch part of the island of Saint Martin.”

“The other part is French, right?”

“Yes. But the best diving is on the Dutch side.”

Alana yawned as Willet pulled out.

“Sorry. I’m sleepy all of a sudden. Was up late getting ready for the trip. Have you been scuba diving long?”

“Since my teens,” Willet answered, looking at the girl closely.

“My mother told me she went scuba diving back in college.” Alana yawned again. “With one of her boyfriends.”

“Did she keep it up?”

Alana laughed.

“God, no. She’s all business now. I don’t know what she does for fun. If anything.”

They were at 122nd Street and Willet made a right turn, and then another on to Riverside Drive West.

“Shouldn’t we be going downtown?”

“We can cut across Martin Luther King,” Willet said. “Avoid the traffic.”

“You’re the boss,” Alana said.

“You better believe it.”

They drove on. Suddenly Alana shook her head.

“Oh, Christ.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Jeez, I feel dizzy all of a sudden.”

“Drink some more latte,” Willet suggested.

“What?”

He sounded far away.

“I said drink some more latte. It may clear your head.”

“Right.”

Alana did. She was still very dizzy.

“Why don’t you put your seat back,” Willet said, gently taking the cup from her hand. “The controls are on your right.”

Alana had trouble finding them but finally was able to recline the seat.

“Can we pull over, Mr. Willet? I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

“It’s OK. You will. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

She could barely get the words out.

“The George Washington Bridge.”

“But … my … flight is from … J ...”

The girl’s head slumped to the side. She was unconscious, although no one outside the tinted-window car would have noticed. Barry, one of his students at Bronx Community College, where Willet also taught some classes, assured him that the Ketamine and GBH combination would keep someone under for at least four hours. The kid, a burnout heroin addict, never asked why his teacher needed the drugs. All he wanted was the hundred bucks, which went to feed his own habit, and a passing grade he never could have earned.

Willet reached over and patted the unconscious girl’s thigh.

“By the way,” he said, “I don’t own a Saab or have a place in the fucking Hamptons. And I’m not going to Sint Maarten. Just yet.”

***

Once over the George Washington Bridge, Willet took I-80 West toward Stroudsburg. On a good day, it was at most a two-hour drive from the George Washington on I-80 through East Stroudsburg  to Willet’s rented cabin at Pecks Pond in Pike County in northeastern Pennsylvania. But Willet did not trust the druggie, because he was a druggie. So while he was still in New Jersey he exited I-80 at Dover and took State Road 15. It would increase his driving time by a half-hour, but the rural, two-lane road offered many isolated turnoffs that lead to local fishing spots on the many small ponds dotting the area.

So, an hour into the trip, he took one of the cutoffs and pulled up to a small clearing by the water’s edge. After making sure that there was no one behind him, he got out and opened his car’s trunk, which he had prepared earlier. Then he opened the passenger door, unhooked his captive’s seat belt and dragged her to the rear of the car. Lifting her up, he put her in the trunk and quickly bound her hands behind her back with heavy-duty hemp rope. Then he did her feet. There was plenty of room for her unconscious body, which was why his scuba gear was in the back seat.

Willet used duct tape to cover the girl’s mouth, being careful to make sure her nose was not obstructed. During the process Alana Dallas barely moved and Willet worried that Barry had provided too strong a potion. But the girl’s breathing was steady. He went through the pockets of her jeans and found her smart phone. There was a small tool box in the trunk. He opened it and took out a screwdriver, using it to remove the license plates from the car, stolen from another car in a long-term parking lot at LaGuardia Airport. He replaced them with his car’s actual plates. He walked to the pond and skimmed the stolen plates into the water. He returned to his car, put the tool box away and slammed the trunk.

Willet leaned against the Toyota. He was shaking with fear. It took him 10 minutes to get his breathing under control. So far, everything had gone like clockwork. By parking across the street from the girl’s apartment, he avoided being seen by the security cameras that covered the front entrances of all the buildings that basically served as off-campus housing for Barnard students. So many students were getting into vehicles he doubted anyone would remember Alana Dallas crossing the street to get into his. He’d driven at the speed limit all the way into New Jersey, knowing that any cop who stopped him would check his stolen plates. An accident, even a fender bender, would have been catastrophic. But, so far, he was free and clear. He had one more major hurdle to clear. The girl might have told someone that he was taking her to the airport. He would ask her, in a way that he knew she’d tell the truth. But he couldn’t be sure no one knew until he made one final move, back at school. It would be a huge risk. But everything about his plan was risky. From the first day he’d seen her and made the connection, Willet knew that it was all or nothing. He’d be dead, in jail or very, very rich.

He was willing to take the chance, motivated as he was by more than mere greed.         

***

The half-mile-long dirt road leading up to the cabin was rutted and pocked with water-filled holes. The last time he drove up the road, when he prepared the girl’s bedroom, the surface was frozen, and, while slick, easier going. Now, driving through a tunnel of trees on a cloudy day in the failing light of late afternoon, it was much more difficult. Willet couldn’t tell the depth of the holes, but after one hubcap-jarring bounce he slowed at every one he could see and tried to ease his way around them.

Still, no matter how carefully he drove now, it was a rough ride and he wondered how things were going in the trunk. Once or twice he thought he heard a muffled thump behind the rear seat. He had placed several blankets in the trunk to cushion the ride, but they probably were not doing much good.

Finally, he reached the small clearing and the two-bedroom cabin on the water’s edge of Pecks Pond at which the road ended. He got out of the car and instinctively looked around. Except for the water-lapping sounds on the heavily wooded shoreline it was dead quiet.  He went to the trunk and opened it. The girl was wide awake and looked at him with terrified eyes. So much for the four hours the zonked-out druggie had promised.

Willet reached under her arms and legs and began to lift her out. The girl was slight, but he was not as young as he once was, and he felt a twinge in his back as he straightened up with her in his arms. Damned sciatica. Probably should have cut her leg bindings and let her walk to the cabin. It wasn’t as if she could run away with her arms bound behind her back. They were in the middle of nowhere. Well, a good swim later would ease his back muscles.