Duncan kept the car between 95 and 105, depending on the sharpness of the curves. He was glad that the road leading away from the city was clear. It was the opposite direction that was clogged with rush-hour traffic. The laptop was open on the passenger seat, GPS program running. The signal was stationary, fixed at Elsie’s address in Hempton. He wanted desperately to call, but the fact that Wesley no longer answered was reason enough to be terrified. Maybe they’d already discovered the phone and left it behind, since GPS traces in phones were so common. But maybe they hadn’t. If not, he didn’t want it to ring and give her away. That trace was his only hope.
Then the signal began to move.
The wave of fear made him want to retch. The signal moved along the main drag in Hempton and took a highway heading north and east. He had to change routes if he wanted to intercept them.
It was like walking a tightrope, driving at that speed while monitoring the computer and calculating possible shortcuts. A minute later, his cell rang, to add another ball and hoop to his balancing act.
Fortunately, he had his earpiece. “Yeah,” he barked.
“The cops are there,” Braxton said. “It’s bad. The old lady was tied up on the ground. Wesley’s shot. No sign of your lady friend.”
His gut cramped. “Her signal’s heading northeast,” he said. “Keep me informed. Later.”
“Wait. Dunc. I’m sorry about this, man. I let you down.”
“Not your fault,” he said curtly. “I miscalculated. She should have had a team. She shouldn’t have been let out at all. Gotta go. Later.”
“Gotcha.” Braxton hung up.
He pressed the accelerator harder, glancing over at the map on the screen. He had to close that gap. More speed. He let the powerful motor open up and breathe, humming at 115 mph.
Play it cool. Like a glacier. After all. As long as she was moving, they probably weren’t hurting her.
But when that signal stopped once again, man, he could fucking forget about playing it cool. He was going to be twisting in the flames of hell.
Stabbing pains in Nell’s head woke her. She was confused, terrified. It was horrifically dark. She couldn’t get any air. She was buried alive, dirt and rot in her nose. Air. God, she needed air.
She started struggling. Her arms were wrenched back, wrists bound. She was curled in the fetal position. She couldn’t move. Her own weight made her hyperextended shoulders burn and throb. The vibration confused her. A bump slammed her head against the floor.
Ah. Yes. She was folded up in the trunk of a car.
Panic would not help. She tried to relax, took the slowest, shallowest breaths she could. Lack of oxygen explained the headache. Or carbon monoxide, maybe. Or both.
The car began to rattle and bump. They’d left the asphalt and gotten onto a rutted dirt road. It stopped. A murmur of male voices. Car doors popped open. The vehicle shifted as men got out. She tried to remember how many she’d seen at Elsie’s. Four, maybe.
Elsie. A fresh wave of emotion jolted her. Oh, God, poor Elsie. And Wesley, too. They’d shot him.
The trunk opened with a hollow pop. Daylight filtered through the filthy, stinking burlap that shrouded her. Rough arms grabbed her under the armpits, giving her shoulders an agonizing jolt. She was jerked out, legs bumping over the lip of the trunk. The ground whipped up and smacked her a blow that loosened every sinew.
“Take her into the building,” said the harsh, cracked voice with a thick German accent. “And tie her to a chair.”
She was hoisted up and dragged, feet bouncing over rough ground, into an enclosed structure. The sunlight she’d felt outside did not penetrate here. It was humid, chill, as if she were in a cave.
The man dragging her dropped her onto a straight-backed chair. Her arms were jerked tighter, fastened to her ankles, twisting her into an agonized pretzel around the chair back. She gasped with the pain.
“The rest of you, out. Go keep watch,” the German-sounding man ordered. There were mutters, tramping feet, and a large door creaked, banged shut. The light filtering through the burlap diminished sharply.
A latch fell into place. Clunk.
Silence. Her teeth chattered. She shook, with huge seismic shudders, as if she were freezing to death. She trembled so hard, the chair vibrated against the floor. The two remaining men stood there, watching her. She could sense their enjoyment. Feel their smiles.
“Take off the bag, John.” The German-sounding man’s voice oozed satisfaction.
The bag was wrenched off, whipping her head forward against the brutal pull of her tied arms. She coughed, dragging in big gulps of air.
Her hair was over her eyes. She tried to shake it back, but the slightest movement made her head throb. She just stared through the veil of tangled hair, like a captured prehistoric cavewoman, face dirtied, mouth open, eyes staring and wild.
It was not bright inside that room, but it still took a moment before her eyes readjusted. By some miracle, her glasses were still clinging to her face.
Two men. One old and collapsed in on himself, with a flabby, jowly face. Watery blue eyes peered out from puffy bags of unwholesome flesh. His lips were an unhealthy purple. He leered at her.
So did the other man, who fit Nancy’s description of the Fiend. Burly, with piggish, deep-set eyes glittering in the flushed, tightly packed fat of his heavy face. His lips were wet from being compulsively licked.
Both were loathsome. Neither seemed concerned about her seeing their faces. They didn’t expect her to ever be able to identify them.
She shoved that unwelcome thought out of her head.
The old man stumped forward, and tipped up her chin. “Antonella,” he crooned. “In the flesh. And such lovely flesh.” His hand crept down her chest, groping. He found her nipple and pinched.
She did not allow herself to scream. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ulf, my dear. Ulf Haupt. And this is my assistant, John. But I am the one who will ask questions today. Not you.”
“Wh-what do you want from me?”
The light in his eyes was evil, insane. “Information, of course.”
Her stomach plummeted. That was a commodity of which she had so little. The other man, whom Ulf Haupt had called John, rummaged in her blouse, groping her boobs until he got his fist around her pendant.
He wrenched it until the chain broke. “We’ll add this to our growing collection,” he said.
“John’s been eager to question you,” Haupt said.
“Yeah, since this morning,” John agreed. “When you broke up with the prick.” He waited for a reaction, laughing at Nell’s shocked expression. “I heard it all,” he taunted. “I bugged your computer, you stupid cunt. You wanted him to declare his love, huh? You wanted him to grovel, suck your toes? I almost found it in my heart to pity the guy. If I hadn’t had to listen to him fucking you for the last two days.”
She recoiled. He leaned forward, until his face was inches from hers. “I heard it all. You dirty little slut. Heard you screaming and begging and coming.” He slapped her, rocking the chair so hard it teetered on two legs. “You love it, don’t you? Filthy whore—”
“Enough, John!” The old man’s voice was sharp. “Do not get carried away. She must not lose consciousness before we get the information we need. You can play later.”
John subsided, muttering something vicious under his breath about cunts, sluts. His fists were clenched, and his mouth was open and wet, breath rasping fast. Irrational hate shone in his eyes. God help her. She was tied to a chair in front of a pair of raving madmen.
Haupt patted the cheek that John had slapped, as if she were a little girl and he was some hideous parody of a benevolent grandfather. “So, my dear. Tell us what you know about the sketches.”
Sketches? She seesawed frantically, wondering what would get her killed the fastest—admitting ignorance or feigning knowledge. Either option looked bleak. “I don’t know anything about any sketches.”