Web of Smoke (26 page)

Gasping, DC’s body flopped forward. Pathetically loose-limbed, he sagged from the neck down like a giant rag doll. Sam kept his fingers around DC’s throat, watching with chilly satisfaction as they seemed to disappear under the folds of purpling flesh.

“Sam!” Christie called from the lighted entranceway to the office. “Sam!”

Her voice penetrated the haze of his rage like a buzzing fly in a closed room. He wanted to swat the sound away and concentrate on choking the life from DC Porter.

“Sam!” she cried again, this time with panic. “Sam, stop it! You’re killing him! Sam!” she screamed.

He felt her terror as he had when DC’s knife was pressed to her throat. But now it was he, Sam, she feared. The note of fright, hanging between them in the total silence, jerked him from the grips of murderous insanity. He stared in horror at the head dangling limply on DC’s neck. As if burned, Sam snatched his hands back. DC crumpled. The black water absorbed him up to his chest, his face safely out of the water.

Heart pounding, Sam stared for a moment as DC gasped through unconsciousness for air. He’d nearly killed him. The realization left him feeling queasy and shaken.

“Sam?”

Christie had moved into the shadows, her voice a terrified quaver. Swaying from DC’s beating, Sam turned to face her but at the same instant DC moved, grabbing Sam around the ankles. As Sam struggled to keep his balance, DC maneuvered himself from the pond and, in one swift movement, kicked his feet upward, connecting with Sam’s jaw, striking him with a force that rocked his head back on his neck.

Still off-balance, Sam was defenseless against the vicious kicks that slammed into him again and again. With each staggering blow, DC gained more control and Sam’s tenuous grip on consciousness faded. He heard the peals of Christie’s screams but he could no longer see anything beyond the black veil that obscured his vision.

With terror he felt himself slip away and knew he was about to pass out. Still, DC pounded Sam’s face, the pain becoming one giant sensation that sucked up all but his last thought.
I should have killed the son of a bitch.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Purpose rejuvenated Kathy. She sat up straight in the passenger seat as Mike pulled from the parking lot. Kathy scratched a name from their list and read Mike the address for the next pizza place. Earlier, they’d rechecked Porter’s house for a name or address on the pizza boxes they’d seen there. But the boxes had been generic, claiming “fresh hot pizza.” That, at least, eliminated the major chains and their hundreds of outlets.

Now, after visiting four independent pizza parlors with no luck in finding anyone who recognized Porter, hope still burned inside Kathy.

The ache in her arm had diminished with the cleaning and bandaging Mike had given it. She smiled, thinking of the crazy patchwork he’d left on her arm. His gentleness had surprised her. Whatever the reason for his kindness, she was grateful to receive it. She needed a little strength right now. Her own reserves were painfully depleted.

On the left they passed DC’s street and headed two blocks up to a tiny pizza parlor tucked away on a quiet corner. Stepping from the car, Kathy crossed her fingers and prayed.

Scorletti’s Pizza was set up for carryout and delivery only. It didn’t have tables for diners, only two orange plastic benches set against the wall. It was deserted but for the cooks clowning around in the kitchen and the aroma of sausage and onions and pizza sauce.

The door sounded a bell as it closed, alerting the cooks to the presence of customers. A swift silence from the back was immediately followed by the appearance of a young man dressed in white with a tall poofed hat on his head. Pizza sauce was smeared on the front of the apron that covered a double-breasted shirt. He looked to be about seventeen, his face scarred with acne eruptions.

“Help you?” he mumbled, shooting a smile over his shoulder as the voice of his coworker delivered some parting gag understood only by him.

Mike showed the kid the picture of DC. “Have you seen this guy?”

Surprise widened the boy’s eyes and elevated his brows, which disappeared under a greasy thatch of brown hair that hung low on his forehead.

“Are you a cop or something?” he asked, taking the picture.

“Yeah or something.”

Having this confirmed, the kid grinned and studied the photo with care. “I don’t recognize him. Hey, Steve, com’ere.”

Another lanky boy appeared from the kitchen, shuffling and blushing as he made his way to the counter. He wore a uniform of jeans and a polyester shirt. A machine-embroidered oval patch with his name was placed just above a flying pepperoni pizza with
Scorletti’s Pizza
on its middle.

The cook handed Steve the photo.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. Pepperoni and sausage,” Steve said.

Kathy felt as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Her ears rang as her mind replayed what he’d said.

Yeah, I’ve seen him . . .

“Where?” Mike was asking.

“Over on Mesa Ridge. I deliver there a lot. Guy never tips.”

Mesa Ridge . . . the rat house.

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Yesterday.”

“Have you seen him anywhere since? Maybe he’s stopped in?”

The kid shook his head. “No. Just there.”

“This guy’s a suspect in some kidnappings. You heard about them?”

The kid exchanged a wide-eyed glance with his friend.

“I don’t know anything about him,” he rushed to explain, as if knowledge of DC would somehow make him a suspect too. “I just know that he gets pizza a lot.”

“You haven’t seen a little girl around when you deliver?”

“No. I don’t go in, though. Just wait on the porch for him. The place gives me the creeps anyway. All those cats.”

Mike played twenty questions for a while longer, but the kid didn’t know anything else. What had they expected? It had been a lame shot anyway.

“Listen,” Mike said, scrawling down his phone number. “If you hear anything from him, give me a call. There’s a reward.”

“Sure,” both boys said at once.

In the wake of the anticlimactic knowledge that DC had been seen, but not found, Kathy wasn’t sure what to think or feel. Numb, she followed Mike out.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The trunk of DC’s car reeked of gasoline and blood and terror so intense it lingered long after the victim ceased to fear. Knowing she was not the first to do so, Christie prayed that her last memories would not be of the awful stench inside.

She thought of little Jessica Jordan and realized she must have made the same terrible journey to an end that could only be worse. Christie hoped the girl’s imagination had been too innocent to conjure the horrifying images her own flashed against the white numbness of her brain.

She heard herself calling Sam’s name in humming rhythm with the engine. Closing her eyes, she pressed her trembling lips together. Was he alive?

The wheels hit a bump, jarring her backward into a piece of metal that dug into her side. She concentrated on the pain instead of thinking about Sam. She’d come completely unhinged if she even considered a world without him.

The tires slowed, crackling over loose gravel before idling for a few intolerable seconds. With a roar, the car jumped forward a few feet and then shut off.

Christie’s ears began to ring as she listened to the sudden quiet, trying to piece together tiny sounds with actions.

A door opened. Footsteps followed.

Oh, God, why hadn’t he simply killed her? She waited with the same confused hysteria a mouse must feel, clutched in the talons of a hawk circling its nest. She whimpered, pressing her face into her shoulder.

The garage door banged closed behind the car and then keys jangled against the trunk seconds before it popped open. DC reached in, grabbed her by the front of her shirt, and hauled her up. She scrambled to get out, fearful her shirt would tear under his rough hands and leave her stripped and vulnerable. On her feet, she stumbled as he shoved her through a door that led inside the house.

She groped in the darkness, using the soft glow of an outside light spilling through a window to guide her. The atmosphere inside felt tense. Watchful. As if the house itself was a silent participant in the unfolding drama. She turned to face her assailant, knowing she could show no fear.

“Okay, DC. You got me here. Now what?” Her words echoed in the empty rooms, sounding defiant and courageous.

He shrugged, the gesture appearing too casual to be genuine. She noted the tight strain on his bloody face and the jumpy way his gaze bounced around the room. “That depends on you,” he said.

She forced her voice to bypass the clenched muscles in her throat and the dryness in her mouth. “What depends on me?”

His fist connected with her mouth so quickly it took a moment for her to feel the sting of pain that rushed to her swelling jaw and the taste of blood that filled her mouth. She lifted a hand to her face and touched the place where he’d struck her. With a savage grunt he grabbed her by the hair and shoved her down the hall to a closed door with a padlock dangling from its hinged lock. With one hand he fumbled for his keys and opened the door. He shoved her through.

Christie stumbled into the small bathroom, tripping over the child who huddled on the floor. Incredulous, she met the wide blue gaze of a little girl she knew had to be Jessica Jordan. Fear had cast dark shadows under Jessica’s eyes and washed her skin to a paleness that bordered on translucency. She communicated her desperation to Christie without a word or a movement.

Suddenly, Christie knew the stakes in the game she played with DC had just gone up.

DC towered in the doorway, staring at her as she gripped the edge of the sink for support.

“Try anything and you can watch me kill the kid,” he said, slamming the door. The sounds of the lock clicking shut echoed in Christie’s heart long after DC’s footsteps retreated down the hall.

“Are you Jessica?” she asked the girl.

Jessica nodded in response.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod. “Is my mommy dead?”

“No, honey. She’s alive. She’s looking for you. Everyone’s looking for you.”

“Did he kidnap you, too?”

“Yes.”

“He’s bad.”

“Yes, he is. Very bad.”

Pale and terrified, Jessica stared at Christie as minutes ticked by. They could hear DC in the other rooms, banging cupboards open and shut. His footsteps returned to the hallway.

Christie sat on the closed lid of the toilet, reaching a hand down to grip Jessica’s small, icy fingers. Gently, she squeezed as much reassurance as she could manage into her touch. Jessica responded, but her eyes seemed to swallow her face as the lock clicked again.

DC banged the door open, a wild-eyed nervousness ticking at the corner of his lips. He threw a towel and soap into the room.

“Get cleaned up.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking said so. The kid too.”

Carefully, Christie picked up the towel and wet it in the sink while trying to gauge the pressure points of this volatile DC. Motioning Jessica over, Christie helped her onto the counter and began dabbing at the dried blood and dirt on her face.

“You’re not going to get away with this, DC,” she said.

Did every hostage in the world say that? It never did any good, even with fictional villains.

A chilling light gleamed from his blue eyes. “I’ll get away with it all right.”

“How? What are you going to do with us?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“What are you going to do with us?” she repeated in the same, level tone in spite of the trickle of insane fear dribbling down her back.

“You ask too many questions.”

“Every cop in the city is looking for her. You take two steps out that door with her and they will gun you down where you stand.”

He laughed, as if the very notion of his being caught were ludicrous.

“That’s what you’re for.” He snapped his fingers in Jessica’s face. “She’s Mommy and I’m Daddy. Got it? We’re getting out of here and that’s the way things are going to be from now on.”

Christie met his gaze in the mirror. “I don’t think so, DC. I’m not going to play your make-believe game.”

With a cold grin he stepped inside the room. His smell rushed at her, cloaking her in its greasy tide. He pulled his hand back, flashing the back of it like a salute. Christie braced herself for another blow, but it was Jessica that he struck. Christie gasped, reaching to catch the girl as she teetered on the edge of the counter. Jessica clutched Christie, burying her small face against Christie’s shoulder as terror trembled through her.

“Lesson number one,” DC said.

Christie nodded disconnectedly, lifting Jessica up and setting her back on the counter. This time she stood between DC and the girl.

“You’re Mommy and I’m Daddy. You do anything stupid and I kill our daughter.”

Christie looked into his eyes and what she saw there was more terrifying than the attack in her house, than the ride in the trunk. DC did it for the thrill. He hurt people because he liked to.

She had to think fast, be smart.

“It won’t work, DC. No one’s going to buy a child the whole country is looking for.”

His eyes widened and his skin color grayed to the sickly shade of cold oatmeal. He tried to speak, but for a moment, could only sputter. Finally, he broke free of his angry amazement and began to curse. Christie fought the urge to cower as his anger ricocheted off the tiles and mirror.

“Who told you that?” he demanded. “Who told you about selling her?”

Christie measured his reaction in silence, holding her meager hand of cards close and playing them carefully. “Who else?” she replied, feeling as if she were striking a match while standing in gasoline. “You know damn well who told me, DC.”

Her bluff narrowed his gaze to a penetrating laser that sizzled across her features for interminable seconds.

“When did you talk to her?” he asked.

“Not long ago,” Christie answered, wishing feverishly she knew who they were talking about. “She told the cops, too. Everyone. Even the newspapers. The news.” The match in her mind burst to flames, as she took a chance. “She betrayed you, DC, so give it up.”