25
Turn right.”
Christy peered ahead into the woods. Her abductor had doused the light on his miner’s helmet, and the path—if there was one—was pitch black.
She pushed through some brambles. Stumbled. Went down on one knee.
That earned her another prod in the back.
“Keep going. We’re almost there.”
Not the news she wanted to hear.
Struggling to keep her balance, she hauled herself to her feet and continued. As far as she could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere. No lights peeked through the trees suggesting a house in the distance, and no sounds save the occasional eerie hoot of an owl broke the stillness.
Even if she had the use of her voice, there was a strong possibility no one was close enough to hear her screams.
So what options did that leave her, short of the unlikely chance she could overpower her abductor?
None—or at least none that had presented themselves yet.
But one might at any moment. There was still hope.
She had to keep believing that.
The terrain began to slope down, and she picked her way through the barren winter underbrush, edging around the drifts of snow that hadn’t melted during the brief thaw after the last storm, trying without much success to avoid the sharp branches that clawed at her calves through the thin leggings she reserved for indoor skating.
After a couple dozen yards, the terrain leveled again and she emerged into a small clearing just as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.
No, scratch that. It wasn’t a clearing.
The open area in the hollow was a frozen lake, forty or fifty feet in diameter.
“Over there.” At the fringe of her peripheral vision, the hand with the silenced gun waved to her right.
She twisted that direction. Two folding chairs were set up at the edge of the lake. The carrying case for her skates rested beside one of them—along with her gym bag.
Her gym bag!
Yes!
Unless he’d removed it, her phone was close at hand—and by now, Lance would be searching for her. Since he was the one who’d told her to activate the GPS, the FBI would be watching for a signal.
Wouldn’t they?
She quashed down the sudden pang of doubt. Of course they would. Lance was the kind of guy who covered all the bases.
Now all she had to do was find a way to turn on the phone. Even a brief signal could have a huge impact on the outcome of this night.
“Sit in the chair that’s farthest away.”
She had thirty feet to come up with a plan as they skirted the edge of the frozen lake toward their destination. Twenty seconds if she dragged out the trip as long as she dared.
Think, Christy! Think!
Five seconds later, an idea began to take shape in her mind. It wasn’t great, and it might not work, but it was the best her stressed-out brain could come up with in the short window she had.
Clenching her icy fingers, she waited until she was a few feet away from the chair. Then she allowed her steps to falter. After staggering the remaining distance to the chair, she sank down and leaned forward.
Neven—or whoever he was—turned on the light attached to his helmet and aimed it at her face. “What’s wrong?”
Inhaling loud and hard through her nose, she rolled her eyes as far back as she could and swayed in her chair.
“Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
She toed the gym bag and nodded toward it frantically. In the blinding light, she couldn’t see his features. But he sounded alarmed—just as she’d hoped. He’d come too far to let her collapse during the closing act of his grand plan . . . if he could help it.
Please, God, let him buy this charade!
A few seconds passed. She increased the pace of her breathing—but if he didn’t respond soon, she was going to hyperventilate and pass out for real.
All at once, he reached down, ripped the duct tape off her mouth, and got in her face, the searing light bright and hot. She lowered her eyelids halfway. “You make one sound, you’re dead. Got it?”
She gave a weak nod.
“Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Asthma.” She gasped out the word and toed her gym bag again. “Medicine.”
He snatched up the bag, backed away, and began to root through it. “Where?”
This wasn’t working.
She needed the bag in her hands.
She gave him a panicked look—no acting required—and breathed more harshly through her mouth, pretending she couldn’t speak.
Please . . . let him think I’m too desperate for air to be thinking about an escape plan! And please let him not know that if I really had asthma, I’d have an inhaler, not pills.
He hesitated—then pulled out a knife and cut the binding on her wrists.
Thank you, God!
She plunged her hands in the bag, giving the performance of her life as she rooted frantically through the contents until her fingers closed over the phone.
Yes!
With one hand she felt for the on button and pressed hard. With the other she grasped the two Zyrtec she always carried in an inside pocket in case her mild allergies flared up and grabbed her bottle of water.
Her abductor watched while she put the tablets on her tongue and took a long gulp. She continued to wheeze as he repositioned his chair a few feet away, extinguished the light, and sat. His gaze—and the barrel of the gun—never wavered from her. But on the plus side, he apparently didn’t know enough about asthma to realize pills were no substitute for an inhaler.
“You’ve got ten minutes to recover. Then we start.”
Start what?
She didn’t ask.
Yet as she looked across the darkness that separated them, toward the face hidden behind the ski mask, she knew the end was approaching.
At least the SOS had been sent.
Now she could only pray someone was listening.
“We picked up a signal from the cell and we have a location.”
As the news from the tech agent came over the line, Lance groped in his pocket for a pen. “Where?”
“Middle of nowhere, as far as I can tell. Near Cedar Hill.”
He ran the St. Louis suburbs through his mind. The name didn’t match any of them.
“Where is that?”
“About forty minutes south of the city. Less if you burn rubber. The signal is coming from just southeast of the LaBarque Creek Conservation Area.”
“Is it moving?”
“No.”
“Keep watching. Give me the exact location.” He jotted it down as the man relayed the information.
“That last is a county two-laner,” the man concluded. “Since it won’t get you to the exact location, there must be a private road leading off from there—or else she trekked through the countryside.”
Mark appeared in the doorway of Terzic’s bedroom, followed by the FBI computer expert. He motioned them both in.
“Keep tracking her phone. Home in on my cell too. You can guide us in once we get there. Also, find the owner of the property. I need to talk to him or her ASAP. Email me and Mark Sanders a topographic map as well and see if you can determine whether there are any houses nearby. Call me immediately if the location changes.”
He rose from his spot in front of Terzic’s laptop and filled in the new arrivals. “I still need you to check out his computer.” He signaled the expert to take his place in front of the screen. “If the GPS on her car is transmitting, that would be great—but I’m not holding my breath. I mostly need you to find out whether this computer has been tracking it.”
“That shouldn’t take long to verify.” The guy went to work.
“Let’s move.” Lance motioned Mark to follow him out.
“We can make Cedar Hill in thirty minutes from here.” Voice clipped, Mark pulled out his phone as they exited Terzic’s apartment. “Let’s take my Suburban. I’ve got my SWAT gear in the back. I also want my sniper and spotter onsite ASAP, and the rest of the team as fast as they can get there. You drive while I get all that rolling and talk to Steve.”
Lance stifled a surge of irritation as they jogged toward the SUV. This was his case, and he should be in charge until the higher-ups arrived.
On the other hand, Mark had a lot more FBI and SWAT team experience than he did.
Keep your mouth shut, McGregor. Let the man run the show. This is about saving Christy’s life, not protecting your ego.
Mark finished the first call as they arrived at the SUV and grabbed Lance’s arm. “I know what you’re thinking—and for the record, I’m not taking over your case. But I’ve been through this drill a few more times than you have, and there’s a life hanging in the balance. We don’t want to take any chances.”
“Already processed and accepted.”
Mark scrutinized him. Gave a curt—and what appeared to be approving—nod. “Let’s go.”
Lance slid behind the wheel. “Should we get the local police or sheriff’s department to set up a loose perimeter in case our guy starts traveling?”
“Not advisable in this situation.” Mark punched some numbers into his phone. “I don’t know the players in that area, and if they did anything to tip this guy off, he could go ballistic. We’ll be there in half an hour—almost as fast as they could get people into position.” He pressed the phone to his ear, continuing their conversation while he waited for the call to go through. “Take I-270 to Gravois and head south. That’ll get us within a few miles of our target.”
Lance put the SUV in gear and raced for the highway. If him acting as driver would expedite this operation, he’d rise to the occasion—and get them there even faster than Mark expected.
Maybe too fast, based on his colleague’s grab for the dash as he took the entrance ramp onto I-270 at speeds far exceeding the posted limit.
To the man’s credit, though, he didn’t comment—or miss a beat in his phone exchange.
Lance floored it once they were on the highway, weaving around the traffic as he tuned into the one-sided conversation. Mark gave clipped directions to the SWAT team members, then briefed Steve. No words were wasted. His summary of the situation was concise, his assessment of the situation spot on, his logistics and tactical discussion reasoned and thorough.
This guy knew his stuff—and that was a huge plus. Events could unfold fast once they got on the scene. Terzic had only a brief window until Christy was missed. If she wasn’t at work tomorrow, an alarm would be raised. He needed this to be over tonight so he could go about his normal business in the morning, the picture of innocence and concern as the news spread at the rec center.
Besides, once a search was underway, the guy was too smart to risk detection by stashing Christy somewhere alive and making a return visit.
Before this night was over, she’d be dead and disposed of.
And where better to take care of both than in the middle of the woods?
While Mark continued to deal with the logistics, Lance pressed harder on the accelerator—all the while praying that whatever Terzic had in store for Christy, he’d play it out late into the night.
As for Christy, if she’d managed to turn on her phone, she’d also be doing her best to buy them some time to arrive, assess the situation—and initiate a rescue effort.
And they’d need every second she could eke out.
“Your ten minutes are up.”
Christy’s heart skipped a beat as she watched the man seated a few feet from her. He hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d taken the pills. Just sat and observed her from behind his mask.
A cold wind whistled past, and she rubbed her arms, her teeth chattering in the subfreezing temperatures.
Stall! Stall! Stall!
“I need some more water.”
He hesitated, then gestured to the bottle protruding from her gym bag. “Help yourself.”
She reached for it, her numb fingers balking as she tried to close them around the plastic. Once she had the cap off, she sipped the cold liquid. More than she wanted of it. Any ploy to eat up a few more seconds.
“I never saw asthma mentioned in articles about you.”
The man’s comment came out of nowhere—but conversation was useful. It would buy her more time.
“I never t-talked about my health in p-public. But leaf mold and c-cold can trigger asthma attacks.” All true—though not for her.
“You sound fine now.”
“M-medicine helps.”
“Good. Because we’re ready to begin.” He rose, towering over her. “First, a couple of rules. If you scream, the gag goes back on. Besides, you’d be wasting your effort. The closest farmhouse is two miles away, and no one’s going to be out walking in the woods on a cold night. I won’t hesitate to use this”—he waved the revolver at her—“if you get out of line. Silencers aren’t really silent, but they mask the sound well enough in isolated areas like this. Understood?”
She nodded. Gripped her hands in her lap. Keep him talking.
“Would you at least tell me why you’re doing this?”
“Because you deserve it.”
“Why? I don’t even know you—do I?” Best not to clue him in that she suspected his identity. Not yet, anyway.
Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the rustling of the few desiccated, decaying leaves that clung to the winter-ravaged trees.
Just when she thought he was going to ignore her, he returned to his seat. Took off his helmet and placed it on the ground. Flipped on the light and aimed it to provide a dim circle of illumination between them. Then he stripped off his ski mask.
His face was still in shadows, but it took Christy no more than a few moments to recognize him.
Her jaw went slack.
Nathan Turner, the maintenance guy from work, was her abductor? The man who’d days ago lost the beloved grandmother he’d welcomed into his home after she became infirm? The same guy who’d been repairing the carpet outside the conference room. Who’d been in the hall the night she’d dropped her gym bag while searching for her cell to take Lance’s first phone call. Who’d been mopping in the rec center lobby that day Bob had flagged her down.
The killer wasn’t Neven Terzic after all.
Or was it?
She squinted, trying to scrutinize his features in the shadowy light. To reconcile this black-eyed, lean-cheeked man with the gangly teen who’d crossed her path for those few brief weeks.
With his hint of an accent, it could be him.
“Neven?”
“Give the lady a gold star. But it’s Nathan now.”
So the tip Lance had received earlier tonight had been correct.
Yet it made no more sense now than when he’d told her his suspicions.
“I don’t understand.” She tried to suppress a shiver. “I was your friend.”
Even in the dim light, she could see his features tighten. Feel the sudden waves of anger radiating off him. “Friends don’t abandon friends.”
She frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He began to jiggle his foot. “You misled me. You made me think you cared. Then you left, just like everyone else in my life who pretended I mattered to them.” He pulled out a keychain and dangled it in front of her. “Do you remember this?”
As the pewter Arch swayed before her, a fuzzy memory sharpened. “I gave you that to welcome you to St. Louis.”
“And I carried it with me everywhere for a whole year. Until I finally realized you were never going to answer the letters I sent you in care of that ice rink in Colorado Springs where you went to train. One each week for the first three weeks you were gone.”
“I never got any letters from you.”
He snorted. “Right.”
“Look, I wasn’t even officially training at the rink the first six weeks I was there. We were too busy getting acclimated. The rink didn’t know who I was yet—and hundreds of skaters train there.”
Her eyes were growing accustomed to the light now, and she was able to pick up more details in his expression . . . including a hint of doubt.
But all at once, his features hardened again. “You could be lying.”
“So you say—but it doesn’t matter. You could have contacted me. Asked how I was doing. Stayed in touch. And you didn’t.”
“I hardly knew you.”
“That’s a lie!” His posture stiffened, and his dark irises began to smolder. “We were friends. We ate lunch together. You invited me to events at school. You talked to me in the hall. You stood up for me when people made fun of my hair and clothes and accent.”
“But . . . but I didn’t really know you. I was just being kind.”
“That’s not true! Only friends give each other presents!” He thrust the keychain in her face again. “You know what else you gave me? Hope that things could be better, that not everyone I met would make fun of me. You made me think I could have a successful life here.”
“You could have.”
He leaned closer, the miner’s light throwing macabre shadows on his face. “No, I couldn’t. Do you know what it was like at that school after you left? They treated me like dirt! Filth! That’s why I dropped out. Why I ended up no better than my old man—a maintenance guy who cleans up other people’s messes. But if you’d stayed being my friend, I could have been much more. I deserved to be more. To be powerful and in control. You ruined everything when you abandoned me.”
Christy stared at him, trying to formulate a response. A defense. An explanation.
No words came to her.
Even if they had, though, the man glaring at her from across the faint circle of light wasn’t going to listen to reason. His mind was past that.
Way past.
If Neven could view their history rationally, he’d realize that the hand of friendship she’d extended for a few brief weeks during her last year at the high school had been a simple act of kindness, not a commitment. They’d been casual acquaintances, nothing more. Those were the facts.
But he’d twisted them. Reshaped them to cast her as a scapegoat for his unrealized dreams.
And he’d killed to exact revenge. Was planning to kill again.
Soon.
Unless she continued to stall.
Keep him talking.
She swallowed. “Why did you wait all these years to come after me?”
“I had other issues to deal with after you left. A new life to create out of the ashes. But then there you were, a few yards down the hall, my first week on the job at the rec center. It was like fate was offering me a chance to finally make you pay for what you did. How could I pass up that opportunity?” He gave her a malevolent sneer. “And I’ve had a lot of fun these past few months carrying out my plans for your family. Making you cry.”
Fun?!
Murdering people was fun?
Watching people suffer was fun?
Christy’s stomach heaved. “My parents and my sister were innocent. How could you kill them just to get back at m-me?”
“Innocence is a matter of perspective—and they were a means to an end. A way to hurt you. This was always about you, Christy. From the very beginning. You were the target.”
Lance’s conclusion had been correct.
Her family had died because of her.
Bile rose in her throat, and she retched.
“Feeling ill? How nice.” Neven’s smile broadened. “Watching you suffer is always a high point of my day.”
This guy wasn’t just sick; he was a psychopath with no conscience or moral compass. It would be futile to plead for mercy with a man like this. Compassion wasn’t part of his DNA.
Her only chance was to appeal to his self-interest.
She swallowed past her nausea. Inhaled a lungful of cold air. “You’re taking a big risk. You aren’t going to get away with another murder.”
“It’s not going to look like a murder. You’ve had a tough year, Christy. You lost your parents in a tragic car accident, your sister died in a house fire—or so you thought. Your emotional state would understandably be shaky. Anyone could suffer depression after such back-to-back tragedies. When your car is found near a bridge, people will suspect you jumped—and there’ll be nothing to prove otherwise. Only you and I will know the truth.”
“You’re going to throw me in the river like you did Ginny?” The horror of it reduced her voice to a whisper.
“It worked once; it’ll work again.”
She tried to slow her breathing, but the frequency of the short puffs of vapor in front of her face mocked her effort. “The police will find evidence of you in my car, or of me in the trunk.”
He rose, and her lungs froze.
Her abductor was about done talking.
“I know all about trace evidence. I watch cop shows on TV. They won’t find anything from me in the car—why do you think I’m wearing this”—he swept a hand down his thermal coveralls—“and that?” He pointed with a gloved finger to the ski mask that had covered his hair and face. “I plan to vacuum the trunk, but you’re right . . . they might figure out you were in there if they’re thorough. So what? There won’t be any connection to me. Now put your skates on.”
She blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “What?”
“You’re going to skate for me, Christy. A private exhibition by an Olympic athlete, just for me. Also a farewell performance. Move!” He gestured with the gun to her skate bag.
Fingers trembling, she picked up her bag, trying to sort through her chaotic thoughts. Putting on the skates would limit her mobility off the ice. She could run in them, but not far and not fast—assuming she got the chance to run at all. And that was a leap. With a gun aimed at her, trying to make a break for the woods in skates or boots would be suicide.
For now, it might be better to simply give him the show he wanted. Keep him entertained long enough for the FBI to get some agents here.
She needed to make this the performance of her life.
Because if she didn’t, her life would be over before help could arrive.