WILL TIME WAIT: Boxed set of 3 bestselling 'ticking clock' thrillers (62 page)

NICOLA

O
nce
back home, Nicola locked and bolted the front door.  She pulled off her
snow-covered boots and cold socks, and padded up the stair carpet to wash the
green mask away and retrieve the birthday cake she’d hidden.  It wasn’t
Christa’s birthday until the stroke of midnight, but the cake - meant to be
eaten after the restaurant when they brought the celebrations back to Christa's
house - would be a nice surprise for when she returned now their restaurant
reservations had been cancelled. 

Nicola walked down to the kitchen where she poured herself a
large glass of red wine and removed the cake from its packaging.  There
were no signs of a second break-in.  Christa just worried too much. 

She counted out thirty-one multi-coloured candles and pushed
them into the soft icing.  Once done, she slipped an
Adele
CD into
the player, finished her wine and dashed upstairs to run a bath. 
Hopefully, Christa would smile at being fussed over. 

Nicola pranced around the bathroom, merry from wine and
singing along to the blasting music while the bath filled with hot water
beneath a layer of lavender-scented bubbles.  She lined the edge of the
tub with tea lights then stepped back to admire her handy work. 
“Perfect.  She deserves a treat.” 

While leaving the bath running, Nicola darted back
downstairs to search for a box of matches.  Trying to hit a high note in
the song, she turned into the spacious kitchen, then jerked to a stop at a bang
from outside.  “Oh, crap.  Not another one.”  She unlocked the
patio doors and leaned out into the falling snow to assess the damage. 
Yes, yet another roof slate had fallen off and shattered on the patio. 
Once the snow melted, the kitchen roof was sure to leak.  They’d have to
get it fixed.  If she could sort it out, that would be one less thing for
Christa to worry about. 

An idea sparked.  She grabbed her mobile and phoned her
latest squeeze – the guy she’d been out on a date with last weekend and had
taken quite a shine to.  He was a builder, and this was the perfect excuse
to phone him without looking too keen, seeing as he hadn’t phoned her
yet.  “Hey, Dave.  It’s me.  How’s everything?”

“Great.  I'm glad you phoned, but I can barely hear
you.  Where are you?”

Nicola raised her voice over the music and hung out of the
patio doors.  “In the King's arms in town," she lied, not wanting him
to think she had no social life.  "I'm phoning for a favour. 
Some roof tiles have fallen off my friend's house and I wondered if you’d be
able to fix it?  Mate's rates.”

“I’d have to take a look.  If the snow eases off
tomorrow, I’ll pop over after work around six.  No charge.”

Nicola smiled and wound her hair around her finger while
picturing his handsome face.  “I'll text you her address tomorrow. 
You’re a star.”

"What was that?"

She raised her voice again.  "I said, you're a
star!"

"Thanks.  I was going to phone you soon anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?” Still hanging off the door frame, she
outstretched her leg and made a dint in the snow with her bare toes, enjoying
the tingle.

“How are you fixed for a meal out one day this week? 
My shout.”

Nicola smiled.  She closed her eyes, imagining his lips
on hers again in that delicious end of evening kiss, but tried to act
cool.  “I’ll have to check my diary.  What day do you have
in...”  Nicola paused and opened her eyes on hearing a crunching sound in
the garden, not far away.  She turned and scanned, her eyes struggling to
penetrate the near pitch black shrubbery.

“Nicola?” Dave said.

“Just a minute.”  She spotted a pair of shoes beneath a
stool, slipped them on and stepped out into the snow to investigate.  “I
swear I just...”

Snowflakes. 

Darkness beyond.

“Forget it.  Just some drunken guys messing around
outside the bar," she said, keeping up the pretence. 
Something
else has probably dropped off this cranky old house.
  She frowned up
at it.  "What were you saying, Dave?”  She turned to step inside
the warmth of the house, but something made her glance back for a second
look. 

A dark figure crept out of the bushes by the fence two
metres away, something flat, book-sized, in his hand.  By his unhurried
pace, Nicola had the impression he thought he’d gone unseen.

"Oi!  Who are you?”  The words rolled off her
tipsy tongue before she could stop them.

"Damn," he muttered, straightened and turned,
revealing a one-hole ski mask over his head.

Nicola's heart rammed against her ribs.  Stunned, she
froze.  Through the hole in his black mask, Nicola saw his eyes
enlarge.  For a second, he seemed as startled as she. 

Then he rushed forward. 

“Oh, shit!” Nicola turned to race back inside.  A
scream tore out of her throat.

“Nic?  Nic?  What’s going on?” Dave hollered
through the phone.

Fingers scratched her lower back and hooked her belt. 
“Help me!”  She slipped off the step, grabbed the door for support, and
then back-kicked the guy’s kneecap with all her might.

“You little bitch.”  He let out a howl of pain, and
then yanked her back out of the patio doors, one-handed. 

“What the hell's happening in that pub?” Dave shouted. 
“Nicola!  Shout for the doorman!”

“I’m at home!” 

The man spun her around to face him.  The phone flew
out of her shaking hand and smashed apart on the kitchen tiles. 

He had plasters wrapped around his fingertips.  Anger
bunched his eyes, illuminated by the light from the kitchen.  He dug his
fingers into the flesh of her arm then stamped on her foot. 

Anger, fear and pain mushroomed in Nicola.  She jerked,
surprising herself when her arm came free of his grasp.  She tried to
close and lock the back doors, but he pushed them open.

“Get back here,” the masked man grunted, making a grab for
her again.

Heart pounding so fast it became difficult to breathe,
Nicola sobbed and raced for safety.  She banged against walls while
sprinting through the kitchen, and then down the small corridor at the back of
the house.  “Help!” she screeched, hoping her cries would echo through to
the neighbouring house.   She hurriedly slapped across the tiles to
the utility room, screaming over the loud music.  Breathing hard and
heavy, she spun on her shoes and slammed the door with both hands to close
it. 

Hot in her wake, the intruder thrust his boot into the gap,
wedging the utility door ajar. 

“Noooo!” Nicola cried.  She tensed every muscle,
pushing to keep him from entering.  But one jolting blow was all it took
for him to fling the door open, flooring her.  “Don’t hurt me,” she
pleaded, scrambling backwards on her bottom across the cold stone floor. 
“What do you want?”

He strode forward until his entire shadow swallowed
her.  Grabbing her by her belt with his meaty fingers, he hoisted her to
her feet and slammed her shoulder blades hard against the back wall.  Air
thrust out of her lungs.  She kicked and writhed under his tight,
agonizing grip, her head fizzing in panic. 

A thumping heartbeat later, he seized her by the throat,
trapping her screams until she choked and gagged.  Nicola vaguely
registered him look up at a corner in the room just before he raised her until
only the tips of her shoes grazed the floor.  Tears gushed down her
cheeks.  As she squirmed and fought for freedom, instinct urged her to
feel around for a weapon.  Her breaths weak and small through her
constricted throat, she pawed the area, but her fingers brushed only laundry.

“Why did you have to come home?” her attacker said in a
braying voice.  He shook her violently, then drew his masked face to
within an inch of hers, looking at her as though she weren’t a stranger. 

She couldn't place his nasty voice which still boomed
through her head. 
Who is he?

He set her down and his eyes raked across her face. 
More tears streamed. 
Oh, Jesus.  He's going to kill me.

“Where’s the computer?”

Nicola’s heart gave a hefty jolt, snapping her alert. 
The man grunted something else, but Nicola’s mind got stuck on the word
computer.  Her hazy wet eyes shot to his.  “W-what?” she choked
out.  "I don't know what you mean.  W-who’s
computer?"  She stared through the wide, ski-mask hole, into the
stranger’s steel-hard eyes.  It made her blood run colder.  On the
next blink, a fast fist whizzed up into the air. 

“Then you’re no use to me.”

Concrete-hard knuckles slammed into her jaw and spots
flashed before her eyes.  She deflated to his feet.  As a black fog
swamped her mind, she thought she heard him say the name Sarah.

NICOLA

N
icola
wanted to slide back to unconsciousness.  Her whole body pulsed with
pain.  She choked and spluttered.  Blood and a tooth came out of her
mouth.  She tried to cup her throbbing jaw, but her arm raised no more
than an inch before something tugged on her ankles.  Her head swirled and
her chin flopped to her chest, everything weak and a blur. 

The only sound reaching her ears was the background gush of
water.  No music or footsteps.  Nicola finally prised her eyes fully
open and saw... nothing.  She sat in confusing blackness, her back pressed
up against a hard wall. 

The man’s dark eyes behind the ski mask returned to her
mind, and bits came flooding back.  Shit! 
Sarah.
  He had
definitely said the name Sarah.  She jerked on the floor in a frenzied
panic, desperate to separate her bound limbs. 
What the hell?
 
It was no good.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she tried to connect
with her surroundings and honed in on the thin line of light running along the
base of the door.  The utility room.  That's where she was.  The
place she hoped would provide safety because it had a bolt on the door. 

On hearing the tread of feet and the creak of floorboards, a
wave of fright sloshed through her.  Hell!  He hadn't absconded with
all their valuables, he was still in the bloody house.  Upstairs.

If this was a burglary gone wrong, then why hadn’t he left?

Frightened, she felt around.  Tape bound her wrists and
ankles at the front, secured together with a length stretched between
them.  This explained why she couldn’t raise her hands without also
raising her feet.  But there was no tape across her mouth. 
Why? 

She needed to get out or move and bolt the door. 
Now.  Before this asshole came back downstairs.

Struggling to quieten her breathing, she twisted sideways
and fingered the floor for anything remotely sharp.  A stiletto?  Not
sharp enough to cut tape.  She tried again.  Is that plastic?  A
tube or roll of... oh, useless.  Bin liners.  She cast them aside and
continued her search.  Some moments later, the gushing bath water stopped,
and her attacker stomped down the stairs, one step heavy, the other lighter as
though an echo.  Was he injured?  She hoped.  In fact she wished
he'd broken his goddamn neck. 

She flinched with every pound.

Then a voice came.  Gruff yet faint.  She
struggled to hear.  “Well, you were wrong.  Someone was home. 
What the hell were you doing?  You were meant to be keeping a look
out.  I’ve taken care of it for now.  I had no choice, she'd spotted
me."  A thud.  He must have kicked something.  "This
could blow everything."  He paused.  "Well, while you
decide what to do about it, I'll keep going.  How we doing for
time?”  He paused again, but still, Nicola heard no reply. 
He's
on the phone.

He must have entered the kitchen because footsteps grew
louder and clearer and... Oh hell.  Nicola's breath snagged in her
throat.  He was walking down the corridor toward her. 

A slight squeak sounded.  Light flowed into the utility
room.  Fast and swift, she flopped her head and closed her eyes, fighting
a whimper while pretending to still be out cold.  Slumped and unmoving,
she squeezed every muscle to hide the shakes that would indicate she'd come to.

“Yep.  She’s still out of it.  I hit her pretty
hard." 

No footsteps.  He must have paused in the doorway,
staring at her.  The bastard.  

"So... what am I to do about...  No.  I’m
wearing a mask, but still... If we leave her here then the cops'll come round
and they might discover..."  Someone interrupted him, but the words
were too faint to decipher.  "Look, I'm not your slave," he
fired back.  "Instead of barking orders, get round here and help me
out.  It’s all gone wrong.”  He didn't speak again, just heaved a
sigh - perhaps cut off by whichever sicko was on the other end of the line.

Nicola ached to cry out.  But one gulp of breath, a
whimper or a tear and he'd surely silence her for good.

Footsteps tapped slowly across the room.  The guy
nudged her hip with his foot. 

Nicola held herself still.

He then placed a hand on her left breast and squeezed.

Despite the deep urge to scratch his fucking eyes out,
Nicola did not move.

Then, clearly satisfied she was out cold, he walked away and
turned off the light.  He clicked the utility door shut and walked down
the hall to the kitchen, leaving her in darkness again.

She relaxed her tight limbs, but wondered for how long she
would be safe.

Nicola recognized the sticky crackle of Christa's cranky old
fridge being opened.  Then came the click and fizz of a can of pop. 
You’ve
got to be kidding me?

“I’ll sort this one out first," she heard him
mutter. 

A chair made a cringe-worthy scrape across tiles.  A
faint rattle, soft thumps and other perplexing sounds drifted to Nicola who
shuffled on her bottom across the cold floor, fumbling around for something
sharp.  And then she found it.  A screwdriver. 

A moment later, the guy said, “Bingo!  Yes, I’ve
reached it."  Perhaps on the phone again.  "Jeez, it
stinks.  That fucker put a tin of cat food in the air vent.  I don’t
know how he didn’t spot the... yeah, okay, okay.” 

The guy trudged upstairs again, still slightly limping, she
thought.  Nicola had to act fast. 

She bent her hands inwards and used the screwdriver to make
the first punch for freedom on the tape tethering her wrists.  Clanging
and creaking came from the bedroom directly above.  Sarah’s. 
What
the hell is he doing in her room? 
Frantic, she stabbed more holes in
the tape to weaken it, but the screwdriver stabbed the inside of her
wrist.  She gritted her teeth against the pain, then continued stabbing
until the tape tore apart.

Some minutes later, having done God knew what else in the
house, her attacker re-entered the kitchen just as the last of the tape snapped
free and her ankles parted. 

She was free.  But not safe. 

"Where the hell are they?" he muttered.  Then
a door crackled open and tapping on the tiled floor ended.  He must have
gone outside into the garden, his footsteps softened by snow.

Nicola sat rigid, not yet daring to move.  She felt
sick in her stomach and was overcome with the shakes.

A second later, the guy cried out.  Something thudded,
and then all went silent.

Nicola scrambled to her feet, then turned and vomited on the
floor.  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.  Her head
pounded and her stomach still swirled, but she had to stay sharp.  After
waiting a minute to be sure he wasn’t returning, she pressed her ear against
the door and listened, screwdriver in hand.  Apart from the wind outside,
the house sounded pretty quiet.  How to protect herself in her own home
was not something Nicola had ever seriously run through her mind before. 
Things like this only happened on the news, to other people.  But if he
hadn't left, she'd have pushed the washing machine against the door, bolted
it... yes, and then squeezed through the window. 

Tense like a spring, she placed her hand on the metal door
knob and turned until it clicked. 

She peeked out through a crack into the soft light. 

No movement in the corridor.  Still quiet.  Had he
really left?  Keeping against the wall, she tiptoed on jelly legs along
the corridor and emerged into the more brightly lit kitchen just as Christa's
soon-to-be ex-husband popped his head around the patio door. 

“Oh, my God!” Nicola jerked and stumbled, dropping the
screwdriver which clanged on the tiles and skidded away.  “W-what are you
doing here?”

John stepped into the kitchen, a few strides away, shaking
snow out of his short brown hair.  "Hey... err... What the... 
Are you okay?  Why is your mouth bleeding?

Nicola studied him, cautious.

He thumbed toward the patio doors and, all at once, his
entire face darkened.  “What the hell happened here?  Who
is...?”  His mouth gaped.

She stepped back.  After all she’d been through, she
didn’t, and couldn’t afford to trust anyone.  “Nice try, but I'm not falling
for it," she gasped out.  John was not wearing the same clothes as
the other guy, but then again, in her state, she couldn’t be sure. 
"Get back, John.  The cops are on their way.”

“Oh, I should think so, and an ambulance too, but, whoa...
what?”  His eyes widened.  “No.  Wait.  You don't think
that I...” John spluttered, throwing his hands up defensively, and glancing
outside.

Nicola shuffled sideways toward the kitchen table, shivering
in the cold and clocking her exits, ready to flee.

“Look, I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but...”

“Stay away from me, you shithead!” Nicola said, trying to
force stiff notes into her warbling voice.  She snatched a carving knife
from the block on the nearby bench and raised it.  "Move back, or
I'll stab you.  I swear!"

His eyes widened.  “Whoa!  Calm it.  You need
to put that knife down and call an ambulance.”  He gestured to the patio
doors and softened his voice.  “There’s a guy bleeding into the
snow.  It's not pretty.  Who is he?  Looks like he’s been hit on
the head with a roof slate.  Is he wearing a hat, a mask or something?“

Nicola lowered the knife to waist height, stunned into a
stammer.  “W-what?  S-so... who?”  Her jaw flopped down in
confusion. 

His gaze flickered to her hand.  "Lose the
knife.  Let me help you."

Though it did occur to her that his slow, disarming tone
could be for effect, his creased face appeared genuinely astonished.  Was
he shocked at what he’d walked into, or just acting that way because he was a
part of it?  She stared into his eyes.  Were those the ones behind
the ski mask?  Or was there really another guy on the ground outside?

Even though she hated John for being at loggerheads with
Christa over the divorce, nonetheless, tension eased across her shoulders being
in his company.  Did that mean she could trust him?

“Careful where you point that knife,” he said.

Waving it, she edged over to the wall needing to check if a
second man lay outside.  "Move into the corner."  Her mind
struggled to come up with questions to fire at John to trip him into
admission.  She needed to be sure of why he was here.  Instinct was
not enough, not after what she'd just lived through.  John could be an
accomplice and convincing actor, the person on the phone.  Perhaps as soon
as she dropped her guard, John would strike to finish her off.  She’d
witnessed what a bastard he could be to Christa, and knowing that he’d
threatened Christa to make her sign the divorce papers... 

Who knew what he was capable of? 

She had to stay strong, though her brave facade threatened
to crumble.  “I’m calling the cops.  Back off.”

"Call them," John said, showing her his empty
palms, but not moving away from the phone on the bench.  His voice
stiffened for a second.  "But tell me what happened here."

The full horror returned as she snatched quick glances
around the room.  A chill slithered down her back.  A chair was out
of place, cupboards were open, a can of pop was next to the microwave and the
chocolate cake was an upturned splat like a pile of animal mess on the floor. 

Two words stuck in her mind; Sarah, computer.

"Why are you here?" she demanded to know.

He hesitated to answer.  "I-I'm not going to hurt
you."  He stared, awaiting a response.

Nicola stood stiff and let the silence ride for a
moment. 
Why didn't he answer my question? 
Her gaze slid
around his face, scrutinising every movement, perfectly aware that he could
spring at her in a blink.  "I asked, why are you here?  This
isn't your home anymore." 

"That's debateable," he mumbled, then reached out
an open palm.  "Look, I'm sorry, but please, put the knife
down."

She padded along the wall, stole a peek through the patio
doors behind and then whipped back into position.  Oh, crap.  Yes,
her attacker was there all right, out cold, face down in the snow.

John's eyebrows flicked up and then he slid both hands into
his pockets.  "I came to pick up my motorbike.”

“Your bike?  But it’s been here for months.”

“Yes.  I’ve finally found a garage to store it, and my
knee’s on the mend so I can ride again.  I’ve got the trailer hooked
to...” he heaved a sigh and motioned around.  “And then all this.”

“But your bike’s in the shed,” she said accusingly, still
not convinced of his innocence.  “So why did you come in the house?”

“I wanted to speak to Sarah.”

Oh, crap.  The threat, the secret...

“Christa knows I was going to pop round before the
morning.  Is she here?" 

“No!”

“Look, enough questions.”  He glanced out at the guy in
the snow.  "That doesn't seem so important right now," he said
in a gentle manner that reminded Nicola of how charming he used to be when he
first married Christa. 

Was it all an act?  No.  Yes. 

Her thundering pulse was scrambling her brain.  She had
to get it together.  Although she suspected John was not here under
friendly circumstances, his stricken face suggested he knew nothing of the guy
outside.   “Call the police and prove you’re not part of this.”

Then the house phone rang.  John eyed the phone on the
counter near the range cooker, but didn't move.  "Go ahead. 
Answer it," he said, and didn't even twitch. 

So she went for it.  Knife still pointed at John, she
dived for the phone and panted down the line.

“Nic?”  It was Christa.