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Authors: Joyce Lamb

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Romance, #Paranormal

True Colors (19 page)

BOOK: True Colors
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He paused in his mopping. “Still trying to yank your way out, are you? I would have thought you were smarter than that.”
“Why?” she asked, breathless.
“Why what?”
“Why my house? Why did you . . .” She trailed off. Was it completely self-centered to ask? If not her, some other woman would most likely be tied to this chair. But, God forgive her, she’d take that trade in a heartbeat. As long as she didn’t know the other woman.
“Why did I pick you?” Butch asked. “Is that what you want to know?”
She nodded, fully embracing her lack of heroism.
“Would it ease your mind if I told you it wasn’t
you
that made me pick you?”
She narrowed her eyes. Either the man talked in riddles or he’d fried some of her brain cells with the stun gun.
He laughed, deep and low and creepy, as he returned his attention to the cleanup. “I picked you because of your boyfriend.” A sly grin curved his lips. “John Logan.”
Alex hitched in a surprised breath. “What?”
“John Logan was a bad, bad boy.” He braced both hands on the end of the mop handle and rested his chin on them, like Mr. Cellophane in a Broadway production of
Chicago
. “Bet he’s never told you how bad he’s been.”
“You must have him mistaken for someone else. John Logan is a cop.”
Butch’s grin grew. “You think being a cop makes a person perfect?”
“He’s a
good
cop.”
“He’s the worst kind of cop.” A scowl of disgust chased away his playful grin. “The kind that kills without remorse. Or impunity.”
“You’re wrong.”
Butch slammed the mop into the bucket, sloshing sudsy water over the sides. “I’m not wrong!”
Alex clamped her lips shut. Okay, stupid thing to say, considering. She tried another desperate tack. Lying. “You won’t be able to use me as bait.”
“That’s where
you’re
wrong, Alex Trudeau. I know about you two, you and John Logan. Rumor has it you’re a couple of lovebirds.”
“Wherever you got your information, it’s wrong. Logan . . .” She trailed off, her voice giving out as her brain took a moment to whisper that maybe it wasn’t a lie after all. Maybe Logan
didn’t
want her now that he knew the truth.
She tried again. “Logan doesn’t love me. He won’t negotiate with you to save me.”
“Oh, yes, he will. I’ve already talked to him, and he made all kinds of tantalizing threats.”
Alex closed her eyes and tried to breathe, to remain calm. She had to figure out a way to escape, before this madman dragged Logan into this hell.
Butch said nothing more as he finished up the mopping and set the bucket, water and mop outside the door of the storage unit. Then he rolled the door down and faced her. “Now, where were we?”
Alex pressed back in the chair, terror spiking into her heart. She thought of the bright red toolbox in the corner. The hammer and drill and syringe . . .
He approached with a soft, almost affectionate, smile. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves, Alex Trudeau. And then I’m going to invite Lover Boy to come watch.”
He reached out and, with gentle fingers, stroked from her temple down to her cheekbone.
The world dropped out from under her.
“Butchie! Where are you, Butchie?”
His shadow shifts the light under the crack of the closet door. Any second he’s going to whip open the door and yell at me for hiding again. But I can’t help it. He hurts me no matter what I do. I want to die.
But dying scares me. I’ve been so bad, and bad people go to hell. Why else would he punish me all the time?
He jerks the door open and stares down at me. “Why do you think you can hide from me? I always find you.”
He drags me out of the closet and kneels in front of me. His breath smells of booze, and anger makes his eyes black. I don’t wonder anymore what makes him angry. Obviously,
I
do.
Then why did he take me?
But I know why. Because Mom and Dad didn’t want me anymore. I made them angry, disgusted them. I believe him now. It must be true. Otherwise, they would have rescued me long before now.
He sits back on his heels. “You don’t cry anymore, Butchie. Why?”
I’m not Butchie! But instead of screaming it, I stare up at him, paralyzed. It’s a trap. It’s
always
a trap.
“You used to cry for your mommy. Cry for your daddy. Why don’t you cry anymore, Butchie?”
I watch him with dry eyes. Any second now, he’s going to lash out. He’s going to hurt me, make me pay for . . . something, I don’t know what.
My stomach aches. It’s been so . . . very . . . long since Mom . . .
Mommy
. . . tucked me in and whispered, “I love you, my sweet little blond-haired boy.”
I’m not that sweet little blond-haired boy anymore. Sometimes I’m so angry. I just want to . . . scream and scream and never stop.
“Answer me, Butchie. Why don’t you cry for your parents anymore?”
“Because I hate them.” I want to hurt them, like I’ve been hurt. With cigarettes and fists and boots. I want to take them apart the way I did that squirrel, the one that turned them against me.
He smiles down at me, and hope surges through me. Maybe he won’t hurt me today.
“Does that mean you’re happy here with me, Butchie?”
I nod, thinking I’ve found the key to this prison. If I say what he wants to hear, maybe he’ll let me go.
He draws me to my feet, and I stand before him, the top of my head reaching the middle of his chest. At first, my head barely topped his belt buckle. Maybe someday I’ll be big enough to fight him, and I can try again to escape.
“I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he says. Something different is happening here, something that gives me hope. Maybe I’m going to get to see Mommy again.
If only I had known!
He moves only one hand as he slips it into his pants pocket and withdraws something shiny. I hold my breath as I watch, terrified it’s the cigarette lighter. Seeing that silvery square object, so small and harmless before the flame flicks to life, can make me pee my pants.
“I got you a present. Close your eyes.”
I shut my eyes. I can’t help the hope that’s welling inside me. It’s over. All the punishment is over.
“Look, Butchie.”
I open my eyes to see my present. I think at first that the small, slim item in his palm is a stubby pen. Looking up at him, I ask, “What is it?”
He’s grinning, and dread clamps down on my throat. His eyes have that crazy light like when he burns me, when I cry out from the pain.
He pries at the thing with his dirty fingernails and unfolds a short blade.
A knife.
“It’s time to move on to something more interesting,” he says.
I jerk my head up, unable to keep the betrayal from scrunching up my face. No, no, no. I can’t take any more. I’ve had enough pain, enough, enough, enough, and something snaps inside my head and I start screaming. “No! I won’t let you!”
He grabs my arm as I turn to run. “It’s not for you,” he says as he holds me in place. “Come, I’ll show you.”
I force myself to stop struggling, confused and somehow hopeful again. Not for me?
He leads me out of my room, and I notice it smells like new plastic and wood and . . . tires? And there’s a wall where there used to be an open basement. He’s been hammering and sawing for days. What he’s been building fills me with a dread so intense it twists my stomach.
“No.” I fight his grip. I want to go back to my room. It’s safe there.
“It’s okay, Butchie. We’re going to have fun. You’ll see.”
It’s a brand-new room. The floor is rubber. The walls are shielded in clear sheets of hard plastic. One of the walls holds a window, like an interrogation room on a police show on TV. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor.
And then I see her.
Bound and gagged and curled in the corner, red-rimmed eyes streaming with tears as she watches us approach.
“You’ve been such a good boy, Butchie, so much better than any of the other boys before you, that I’ve decided you can be my apprentice.”
He hands me the pocket knife, blade extended.
I stare at it for a long, blank moment.
“Go ahead,” he tells me, giving me a little nudge toward the terrified girl. “That’s your present.”
Someone else’s pain. Someone else’s screams. My heart races at the thought. Maybe he’ll leave me alone now.
“I’ll teach you everything I know,” he says, his hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”
I turn and plunge the blade into his thigh.
He releases an inhuman scream and slams me with the back of his hand.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
L
ogan, heart pounding and sweat beading on his upper lip, paced the tile in Alex’s kitchen as he replayed the kidnapper’s words in his head.
I’m avenging my brother.
I cared about my brother. You took him from me.
It’s the biblical eye for an eye.
That’s the only clue he had to go on. A vengeful brother.
How many men had he arrested over the years? In Detroit and in Lake Avalon? How many had brothers? Hundreds. Maybe a thousand.
Christ, he had nothing else.
Nothing.
Meanwhile, that psycho was cutting into Alex. His stomach heaved, and he stopped his frantic pacing to bend forward and brace his hands on his knees. He had to think.
Think
.
The front doorbell rang, and he froze. He’d called work but specifically told the crime scene people to come to the back door so as not to disturb any evidence—evidence that the gaggle of dogs had already sniffed, trampled and drooled all over. But still . . .
Logan ran out the back door, hopped the fence and strode around the side of the house.
Charlie, on the front porch with her palm flat on the door as though about to push it open, started when she spotted him. “Logan, God! You scared the crap out of me. Why’s the door open?”
Then, as she focused fully on him, the arched lines of surprise in her forehead flattened into worry lines. “What’s the matter?”
He didn’t know what to say. Alex has been kidnapped. I have no fucking clue who took her. And it’s about me. Oh, Jesus,
it’s about me
.
Before he could form a response, Charlie stepped off the porch and approached him. “Is Alex here? I’ve been trying to reach her, and she’s not answering her cell. I got worried.”
“She—”
He broke off when Charlie stood before him. Shadows of suspicion, and anger, darkened her usually open expression. Noah must have told her what had happened between him and Alex. Or maybe Alex told her. Not that it mattered. Jesus, Alex was
gone
. He had to
think
.
“What?” Charlie asked, impatience adding to the angry red in her cheeks. “Where’s my sister?”
“She—” His voice deserted him, and he heard the guy’s voice in his head:
Alex and I are surrounded by some very sharp objects that are capable of cutting very deeply. But don’t worry, okay? I’ll make sure you can still recognize her when I’m done.
Logan flinched as Charlie reached out and firmly grasped his forearm with a cool hand, and then her whole body stiffened on a swift intake of breath.
“Alex has been kidnapped,” he blurted. “I don’t know who took her. I have no fucking idea.”
Horror filled Charlie’s eyes as she drew her hand back, the color washing out of her face.
“He’s going to hurt her,” Logan said, and turned away, jamming both hands through his hair. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to start.”
“We need to call Noah.”
“And you think he’ll know? I’m the one this guy wants to hurt, and I’ve got nothing.”
Charlie headed for her car in the driveway and retrieved her cell phone from the cubby between the seats. She thumbed a button with a shaking hand. “We have to start somewhere.”
BOOK: True Colors
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