‘You seriously believe that bars and steel doors will keep me from you?’ Albert Sower clenched his fingers, released them slowly, as if mentally testing the strength of his constraints, and then sneered at their ineffectiveness. ‘All I need do is point my finger at you and … well, I’ll leave you to form that picture inside your own pretty head.’
Emma Clancy didn’t respond to Albert Sower’s threat. She sat opposite him in a secure interview room at Maine State Prison, controlling her revulsion for him through the knowledge that, yes, she did believe he was securely locked up, and if she had any say in the matter he’d never walk free again. She folded her hands in her lap, crossed her legs, and watched him while he smiled at her silent insolence. His smile was a mask; she suspected he was raging inside.
If she’d met him on the street, with no knowledge of the crimes he was responsible for, she might’ve found his wavy dark hair, tanned complexion, and startling black eyes attractive. For a man in his early forties he had a good body, lithe and strong, tall for a man of his heritage, and where his forearms emerged from the sleeves of his shirt they were muscular, as were his manicured fingers. They were the kind of arms some women would like to be embraced by, but Emma was under no illusion: those arms were more likely to beat and crush than hug tenderly. His fingers were the kind that fit tightly around throats. She knew that if she wasn’t careful he could easily reach across and throttle the life from her, and had noted the flexing of his fingers each time he wished to make a point. Thankfully his hands were shackled to the table top that separated them.
Throughout her career as a private investigator, and latterly working for Richard Jackson on behalf of the DA’s office, she’d met bad people, but she’d also met decent folk caught up in bad situations, so had always cautioned herself against making snap judgement concerning their nature, but with Albert Sower her first instinct had been correct. The man was evil. There was no lesser description for him, and she suspected he knew it and revelled in the fact. He’d been counselled against speaking to her by his defence team because it might affect the outcome of his upcoming bail hearing, but it was apparent now that he’d agreed to the meeting because it fed his malicious intent to spread terror and taking pleasure in his ability to do so. He didn’t expect his second hearing to be any different from the first, so why be concerned about adversely affecting the outcome? As far as learning anything important she could use against him, she’d drawn a blank. Emma had been on the end of a barrage of sly insults and now he was resorting to making threats.
He eyed her wedding ring, aiming an index finger at it.
‘If you think you’re safe from my reach, you should think again, Mrs Clancy. Haven’t you heard: my enemies swear I’m a ghost, I can walk through walls and locked doors, I can enter your bedroom when you’re sleeping and can spirit you away from the arms of your husband.’
He’d have an impossible task doing that, considering she was separated from her estranged husband by the breadth of a continent; he’d moved to Los Angeles with his mistress pending finalization of their acrimonious divorce. But Emma wasn’t about to divulge her private life to him, not when it could be used as ammunition against her. Instead she said, ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you believe, as long as it is this: the personification of my will can come for you at any time, wherever you are. All I need do is direct it.’
‘Threatening me isn’t helping your case, Mr Sower.’ Emma glanced at a corrections officer waiting near the door. The guard stood with his hands clasped over his belt buckle, his shoulders rigid, seemingly aloof to the proceedings as he deliberately stared into space. He might deny overhearing their interaction, but it wasn’t the guard that Emma referred to. The room came equipped with CCTV and audio surveillance. ‘I should remind you that everything is on record, and can be presented in evidence against you in court.’
‘I won’t make it to court. Not if there’s nobody left to present a case against me.’ He touched his extended fingers to the sides of his head and his gaze grew diamond-hard. ‘My will is strong, Mrs Clancy, and directed.’
‘Is that an admission, Mr Sower? Would you like to admit to your part in the disappearance of certain key witnesses? Is there something you’d like to put on record regarding the murder of Mitchel Delaney?’
Sower sat forward, his manacled wrists extended over the table, presenting his palms to her. Despite understanding she was playing into his game, she watched as he fisted his left hand – miming grasping something – while with the other hand he made a cutting motion. He flicked his left hand upward, and snatched at the air with his teeth. Next he smacked his lips. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ he said.
Emma shook her head, before catching herself. The last thing she should do was react to his goading, but he was disgusting. He sat back, smug in the knowledge he’d won a rise out of her.
‘I should remind you that I haven’t been charged with murder.’ Sower smiled. ‘If I had my case would now be in the hands of the Attorney-General and not underlings of the lowly District Attorney.’
‘You might think that you’re untouchable,’ she said, ‘but you’re not. I know what you’ve done, and will present witnesses to stand against you, and you will be tried and found guilty for murder alongside all your other crimes.’
‘Witnesses? Ah, you’re referring to our man in the Deep South?’ Sower was careful not to directly mention any names, but he noted the minuscule squinting of Clancy’s eyes when he could only be referring to Crawford Wynne. ‘I wouldn’t hedge your bets on him: right about now I expect he will be growing very tight-lipped.’
‘Would you care to explain what you mean by that?’
‘I think you’re already clear on my meaning.’ Again he leaned over the table, but this time he lowered his head and muffled his words into his cupped palms so neither the CCTV nor audio recordings would be admissible. ‘I warned you about the personification of my will: it beat your bloodhound to our quarry.’
If what he claimed was true, then Tess Grey had failed to find Wynne before Sower’s killer had. But Emma couldn’t be certain that Sower was stating a fact, or if this was just another of his nasty manipulations he enjoyed. How could he even know she’d sent someone to find and bring back Wynne in the first place? Oh, it was easy enough: if drugs, alcohol, and weapons could be smuggled inside a supposedly secure prison then word could. But it troubled her that information known only to a select few had found its way to Sower.
She’d have liked to push him for his source, but he’d already lounged back again, and raised his eyebrows, waiting her reaction. If she did, she’d only confirm she was rattled that someone close to her or Tess was feeding information to him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Apparently Sower was attempting to lead her down a certain path, as evidenced by his next words. ‘How highly do you value loyalty, Mrs Clancy?’
‘Loyalty is generally overrated,’ she said, ‘and can’t be relied on, except maybe from a pet dog. You should know this when you consider how many of your people were prepared to turn against you. Oh, wait,’ she clicked her fingers for emphasis – ‘that was before you had them murdered.’
Sower grinned, but deigned not to answer the accusation. ‘You make the very point I was about to. You can only guarantee loyalty through two things: fear and greed. You don’t appear frightened by me, so what is your price?’
‘Are you attempting to bribe me?’ Emma pitched her voice so the microphones would easily pick it up.
‘I’m only posing a hypothetical question. What would it take for you to put aside your animosity toward me?’
‘There isn’t a figure large enough. I’ve always thought that hate is a strong word, but it’s nothing to what I think of you.’
‘Admirable,’ Sower said. ‘And it makes me reconsider what I thought of you.’
‘I don’t want your admiration.’
‘Oh, it’s not that, Mrs Clancy. I just realized that – for all that you hide it well – you are frightened of me.’
Emma shook her head, and now she offered a smile of her own. ‘You’re wrong, and about more than me being frightened. You said that only fear and greed guarantee loyalty, but there’s a third thing. Mutual respect. But I don’t expect you to understand that, not when you’ve no respect for anyone but yourself. And talking of respect, I’ve too much self-respect to give in to either fear of you or any promise of reward.’
‘Such a shame,’ he said. ‘The latter would have been beneficial to us both, but the subject is academic now. Sadly, for you, that leaves single recourse.’
Sower erupted from his seat, barking out a wordless sound, and Emma startled back, almost spilling from her chair. She quickly stood and retreated, and she could kick herself for doing so. If he’d thrown his weight forward he might’ve grasped her, but that was never his intention. At his post by the door, the stunned corrections officer grabbed at a canister of Mace on his belt, but there was no need of the incapacitant spray. Sower had already sat down again, and a self-satisfied grin built on his wide lips. Inducing fear was always his favoured tactic and Emma’s wide eyes and the throbbing pulse in her throat pleased the bastard no end.
‘So now you’re trying for cheap shots?’ Emma sneered. ‘If that’s the case I won’t bother wasting any more time here.’
‘That suits me fine, I find your company tiresome and am ready to return to my cell.’
Emma looked at the uniformed guard. ‘You heard him: it’s time to put the dog back in its kennel.’
‘There is one last thing I’d like to mention,’ said Sower, and she should have ignored him and left the room, but she faced him, her arms crossed over her chest. Sower lowered his brows at her, and pouted his bottom lip, mocking her petulance.
‘Well?’ Emma snapped.
‘I just thought I might remind you: it’s a long drive back to Portland,’ Sower said. ‘Be careful, Mrs Clancy. Horrible things can happen to lone women drivers on such journeys. But I can see you’re such a brave soul, afraid of nothing, so you should feel safe enough.’
‘I’ll let you know next time I see you,’ she said, ‘in court.’
Out of the interview room, she marched away, Sower’s disparaging laughter ringing in her ears.
Having left the prison, Emma followed Atlantic Highway south, past Sherman Lake, and on to the stretch approaching Davis Island and the bridge over the Sheepscot River to the town of Wiscasset beyond. The route was familiar to her, having travelled back and forth to Warren on a number of occasions in the past few weeks, and she drove on automatic, her mind distracted by the recent events in the interview room. Other road users were few and far between, though it wasn’t always the case. Through a drizzle of rain, and the spray kicked up by its tyres, she could see the lights of a semi-trailer a quarter mile ahead, and in her rear-view the headlights of a vehicle equally distant behind. She paid neither vehicle much more than passing attention as she pushed on for Portland.
Her mind was still on Albert Sower.
The judge had denied Sower’s first bond application, deeming him a flight risk, and also that he posed a danger to potential prosecution witnesses, but with the imminent collapse of the case against him he might in fact get to walk free. She had to find someone willing to face him, and had laid much faith in Tess Grey bringing back Crawford Wynne. Without Wynne’s testimony, the case would go nowhere and not only would a bail hearing be pointless, Sower would be released through lack of any evidence in the charges laid. During previous cases against him Sower had a track record of witness intimidation, and others suspected of involvement in his organization. Whenever Sower’s name came up witnesses had the habit of withdrawing their statements, even some police officers were susceptible to falling foul of his scare tactics and deliberately sabotaging prosecution evidence against the gangster. Emma had to admit that she was nervous, though she’d never admit it to him, so how could she blame anyone else for being fearful?
Initially held at Knox County Jail, Sower had been relocated to the special management unit at Maine State Prison at Warren. The SMU was the only facility trusted with controlling the behaviour of the unruly and violent prisoner. In some respects his treatment was unprecedented, being held pending trial and considered innocent until proven guilty. But Sower had attained designations that set him within the remit of incarceration in an SMU. He ticked various boxes being a threat to others, an escape risk, and a man prone to untelegraphed bursts of violence. Ironically he also fit neatly into the category of a prisoner at risk of harm. If he were placed in the general population, he wouldn’t last more than a day or two before his fellow inmates got to him. Emma would be happy to learn that Sower had been stabbed to death in the shower, but that was on a purely personal level. Professionally she hoped he made court, because she wanted all of his despicable crimes laid against him, so the world would learn how much of a monster he was. It would be delightful, and a huge relief, when he was sentenced to a cell for the rest of his miserable days. Sower was making things difficult for the realization of her dream though, and wasn’t making any secret of it with all his crazy talk of ‘personification of his will’. He was obviously talking about how he could influence murder by proxy.
She could deny it all she wished, but the evil bastard had placed a nugget of anxiety in her, disturbing her in a way she found alien. She wasn’t one to stop for hitchhikers, but generally it was through a lack of regard for their predicament, not that a passenger might turn out to be a weirdo or serial killer. But as she drove the first few miles from the prison, she watched the verges for strangers, and more than once her mind played tricks, forming lurking silhouettes out of the bushes. Hell, what was she afraid of? It wasn’t as if one of Sower’s people would be waiting to leap on the roof of her car like the maniac in a slasher movie. She doubted even that anyone could get off a clear shot at her with a gun, not while she moved at speed through showering rain. She tried to force down the fear of ambush, seeing Sower’s parting shot as a last-ditch attempt at rattling her. Fuck him, she wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of terrorizing her. But it was easier said than done. Her mind still strayed to the sides of the road, when she should be concentrating on driving.
Red flared up ahead, turning the rainfall bloody, but she missed it, her attention on the deep shadows beneath the canopy of trees to her right. Her car swept on, and she had travelled another four hundred yards or more before squinting at the blurred image beyond her windshield. Her mind didn’t process what she saw, and she’d gone another hundred yards before a warning switch flicked in her mind, and she trod on the brake pedal. The brakes bit, but the tyres found little traction, aquaplaning on the film of standing water on the asphalt. Her breath caught in her throat as she fought the wheel. The back of her car began to slide. Training kicked in a second later, and she released the brakes, steering into the skid, then once the car was heading in a straight line again, she pumped the brake pedal, bringing it to a controlled stop. She’d avoided a collision with the rear of the jack-knifed semi-trailer by little more than a car’s length. She slumped back in her seat, feeling a cold shudder pass through her.
Horrible things can happen to lone women drivers on such journeys. Albert Sower’s warning had almost proven portentous. Hell, there was no need of crazed attackers when the road conditions and other users could so easily end her life. What the hell had the driver been thinking, coming to halt like that and leaving his truck straddling the route? Perhaps he’d hit an animal, or there was an obstruction up ahead. Emma buzzed open her window and craned out. The rain had grown heavier in the last few seconds, and the wind whipped it against her forehead. She squinted, trying to see. Her wing mirror blazed with light from the vehicle approaching from the rear, making seeing impossible. She ducked back inside, powering up the window, peering instead through the dappled windshield, before her wipers streaked the view again.
A figure materialized out of the mist to the left of the truck. It was a man, judging by his size, but it was added to by a hood on his parka coat. The figure held up a hand, waving at her, as if that was enough of an explanation for his impromptu stop, then he bent as if to inspect a tyre on the freight trailer. Maybe he’d caught a flat or the tyre had blown out. Not something she could assist with. She looked for a way around, but the tractor unit was turned toward the opposite lane. To edge by she’d be forced on to the shoulder, and in this weather she expected it to be so soft her car would sink to the axles in mud. On the other side was a metal barrier, preventing vehicles from plunging down an embankment to a tributary of the nearby Sheepscot River. Damn it, but it appeared she was going to be held up until the semi-trailer got rolling again. Immediately she began plotting an alternative route, and decided she could backtrack, and perhaps pick up a different road out of Newcastle, the last town she’d driven through. But the only road she could think of would take her miles out of her way, and by the time she circumnavigated the river to Wiscasset this obstruction could have been moved ages before. It was an inconvenience but she’d just have to wait things out.
She reached for her purse on the opposite seat and dug out her phone, thinking it best to let her assistant Monica know about the delay. She’d ask Monica to adjust her appointments as necessary. Before bringing up the contacts list she noted the text message icon on her phone was starred, and opening it she found it was from Tess Grey. Had Sower being lying about Tess arriving late to find Crawford Wynne, or was that too much to hope for? There was no hint in the message: Tess was only requesting assistance in tracing a vehicle-licence tag. Replying could wait, she’d check with Monica about any news coming out of Louisiana first. She closed the message without responding, and switched to her contact list and scrolled through for Monica’s number.
A knock at her window brought up her head.
A man was standing close to the door, so that she got a view of the front of his jacket, and the zipper on his jeans. Emma reared back a little. The figure stepped away, and his hand came into view, rolling at the wrist, indicating she should open her window. Emma glanced in her mirrors. Behind her the second vehicle had drawn close to her car’s trunk, but she could tell it was some kind of refrigerated van. The driver had alighted from the vehicle, possibly hoping to discover the nature of the delay from her. Little use her knowledge would serve, but she hit the button to lower her window. She craned for a closer look at the driver. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m as much in the dark as you are—’
The man lunged for her, his arms darting in the opening window, and his fingers were in her hair before she could avoid them. His other hand fastened on her shoulder. Emma hollered, tried to wrench out of his grip, and was thankful she’d clipped her lap belt on otherwise he’d have yanked her bodily through the window.
But that wasn’t his intention.
He was only restraining her while a second man came round the other side and opened the passenger door. The man leaned down, and pushed back his hood so she got a look at his face. It was the truck driver, but one glance told her that it wasn’t his normal job. She recognized the face from the file of known associates of Albert Sower, though she was too shocked to dredge a name from her memory. The man snatched her phone out of her hand. Then he checked her purse for a firearm. She wasn’t carrying.
‘What are you doing?’ Emma shrieked. She clawed at the hand in her hair. The second man shook her savagely.
‘You’re coming with us, Clancy,’ the bogus truck driver announced. ‘And it’ll be easier on you if you don’t give us any trouble.’
‘You can’t do this. I’m—’
‘We don’t give a shit who the fuck you are,’ growled the man holding her. ‘Now open the door or I’ll drag you out by your goddamn hair.’
‘I’d do as he says,’ the truck driver urged. He slipped inside the car, and leaned past her to unclip her belt. Emma squirmed back from the closeness of his body. The man snorted in humour, then leaned to open the door. Emma grabbed at his head, sinking her nails into his scalp.
‘Fucking bitch!’ snapped the driver, and in the same instant her controller released the grip on her shoulder and jabbed his knuckles into the side of her head. The blow wasn’t forceful, but it was still a shock to her system. Scarlet and grey flashes danced in her vision and a sharp pain shot down her jaw into her neck. On the verge of fainting, her fingers unlatched from the truck driver’s head, and she was borne weightless out of the open door. She went down on her backside on the road. Her trousers were soaked instantly. ‘Get up, or I’ll make you,’ her captor warned.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Emma croaked.
‘We’re going for a ride,’ said the man. He wrenched her up, shaking her into compliance. He fed his free arm around her elbow, hooking her arm up her back. The truck driver slid into the seat she’d just vacated. No, he couldn’t be the actual truck driver, because someone else had started up the semi and was pulling the tractor and freight trailer to one side of the road. Yet another man waited alongside it, and once it was lined up, he uncoupled two metal ramps and settled them on the road. Sower’s people had planned in advance, and were ensuring that she, and any sign of her, disappeared completely. From his defence team – or someone much closer to her – they’d learned of her planned visit with Sower, waited until she returned to Portland, then carried out her abduction with little fuss. Jesus, she should’ve expected something like this! Sower had even warned her what was coming, the smug son of a bitch. Back in his cell, he’d be enjoying the moment, she bet.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ she told her captor. ‘I’m expected back at my office. When I don’t show the police will be alerted and they’ll be coming for me. They know who you all are, and where to find you.’
‘They don’t know jack shit,’ growled the man. ‘Nobody will be looking for you bitch, you don’t think we know how to take care of that?’
‘Where’re you taking me?’
‘I told you. We’re going for a ride. Now get moving or I’ll break your arm.’
Emma’s car was driven up the ramps and into the freight trailer. That was all she witnessed of her vehicle’s fate, because she was forced around the back of the refrigerated van. The doors stood open, and yet another of Sower’s gang waited inside. He had a round face and thick body, and his Mediterranean complexion had paled to a sickly pallor, but not through the cold. The fridge’s motor was off, and the interior of the van a dull grey echoing space. It wouldn’t be soundproof. The man waiting for her held a roll of duct tape, and she knew exactly what for.