Читать книгу Undercover Memories - Alice Sharpe - Страница 13

Chapter Four

“Mr. Cinca,” the man said in a thickly accented voice that sounded as if it came from inside a fish tank.

John winced. How did this guy know his name? “Who are you?” he asked.

“Come now. Don’t play coy with me.” He smiled—if you could call it that—and added, “You look surprised to see me again. You thought you got away. But what is a waterfall to man like me? I walk down long way when I hear shot, but I arrive in one piece. Now put down gun. The chase is over. No more games. Anatola Korenev has won.”

The guy’s accent nudged itself against the void of John’s missing memory. For the first time since waking up on the riverbank, he felt close to grabbing on to something about himself, but the feeling had no sooner blossomed than it wilted away.

“How did you know I was here in this cabin?” John asked, biding for time. He had to figure out where Paige had put the ammo clip. He should have collected it the minute they got back here. What was wrong with him?

“I followed you from old people’s house. Good luck for me I see you. You are losing your touch. Maybe rocks bang you on head too hard.”

“Maybe,” John said, swearing silently at himself. He’d known better than to agree to come back here, but he’d been so moved by Paige’s grief he’d allowed sentiment to get in the way of survival. And now it looked as though they were both going to pay for it.

He’d been trying hard not to meet Paige’s gaze, afraid he’d weaken if he saw her fear. When he finally did, he found anger burning behind the terror. And then she glanced at the desk drawer and back at him. She’d stuck the giant knife there the night before—had she put the ammo there this time?

“I propose a trade,” Korenev said.

“What kind of trade?” John asked as he gauged the distance he had to cover to get to the drawer.

“Hand over gun and girl goes free.”

“Oh, come on,” John said. “Did you try the same lame thing on the Pollocks before you murdered them?”

“Not exactly,” Korenev said.

“I don’t get it,” John said. “Why did you kill them that way?”

Korenev shrugged. “Old man caught me stealing car. Had to die. Woman might hear car start and look out window. Anyway,” he added, shrugging, “overkill suggests crazy person. Someone like you, maybe. Give me gun or girl will be dead before she hits floor.”

“Go to hell,” Paige managed to gasp. It earned her another throat-tightening squeeze, and this time John saw the gold on the man’s finger. Paige’s body grew limp and her eyes rolled back.

“Here,” John said, holding the gun by the barrel with the empty grip down and pointed away from the brute’s sight. He advanced a few steps and didn’t have to work to inject panic in his voice. “Leave her alone, take the gun, let her go, I’ll come with you.”

“Put the gun down,” Korenev repeated.

But John kept advancing, talking a mile a minute as though he couldn’t stop himself. “No, no, you take it, here, please, just take it, let her go, don’t hurt her, I’ll come with you, let her go....”

He was finally close enough to shove the revolver at the guy, who grabbed it by the grip. John steeled himself to take whatever opportunity presented itself.

Paige, more or less cast aside in the transaction, slumped to the floor. A second later, it was obvious Korenev realized the ammo clip was missing. Enraged, he threw the gun at John, who dodged to the left. The weapon landed beside him and slid across the floor out of sight into the bedroom.

The attacker came at him with the knife held above his head, roaring like a banshee.

Paige was a blur at the desk as John fought to avoid the blade directed at his chest. “The clip is in my coat!” she yelled. John avoided the downward slash of the knife. Paige’s coat was on the bed. At least he thought it was. Six short feet to save the day. Might as well be six hundred....

Barely dodging another slice-and-dice attempt, he glimpsed Paige advancing with the cleaver in her hand. Their attacker must have sensed her behind him. He turned quickly and slashed at her as she raised the cleaver to protect her head.

Suddenly, the room filled with screams of pain and a geyser of spurting blood. For one terrible moment, John thought Korenev had slit Paige’s throat. But it wasn’t she who was injured. With the force of his own strength, Korenev had driven his right hand across the cleaver blade and lost his index finger in the process. His bellows rattled the windows as he tucked his maimed, bloody hand under his arm and advanced on Paige with a murderous fire burning in his eyes.

Paige had dropped the cleaver in the impact and was now backed against the wall as John darted into the bedroom to get the ammo. Her coat was on the bed but it had four pockets, all zipped, and he wasted precious time feeling around trying to find the right one as Paige’s screams pealed through the cabin. At the same time, he scanned the floor, in search of the gun. There it was, against a floorboard on the outside wall. He finally found the right pocket.

He soon slid the clip into the grip and lunged back into the living area. Paige and the killer were gone. He heard an engine start out back and ran through the kitchen in time to spot a gold car emerge from behind a copse of evergreen trees, Paige behind the wheel.

John fired off a couple of shots at the tires, but he was too late. It was too far away.

Swearing, he raced back into the house.

* * *

“DRIVE FAST,” KORENEV demanded. With his good hand, he held the knife tip against Paige’s throat.

“I said fast,” Korenev repeated, and leaning toward her, stomped his boot on top of her right foot, depressing the accelerator even farther, ignoring her cries of pain as he crushed her toes. Shoved against the driver’s door, she could barely breathe and the trees flying by her window made her head spin.

As they came to a crossroad, he grabbed the wheel with his bloody hand, swinging it hard to the right. The car turned widely, hitting a ditch but bouncing back onto the pavement, careening across both lanes as Korenev fought to regain control. Paige held her breath as the smell of his fresh blood combined with terror made her stomach heave.

With the crazy turn, they’d left the main highway that would have taken them out of the mountains. If John was following, he would undoubtedly continue on straight.

If John was following.

What had Korenev meant when he claimed he’d butchered the Pollocks to make it appear the work of a madman, a man like John? Was John a cold-blooded killer?

As if it mattered right now? If she had to choose her poison, John or this guy, bring on John. Please…

Korenev was breathing kind of shallow. He’d lost a lot of blood. She had to keep focused. If the man blacked out, it would be up to her to get the car stopped without crashing it.

Think, think, think. You still have your purse. What’s in it that you can use? Why didn’t you buy a spray can of pepper spray when you had the chance? Or a little gun?

With a sinking heart, the only object she was sure she carried besides a wallet were her car keys.

It became obvious that Korenev had no intention of giving in to pain or injury when he finally took some of his weight off her foot. His big hand still clamped the steering wheel over hers.

They were approaching a wide spot in the road. On one side was a closed-up gas station and on the other a small square building, a tavern called Gil’s Place.

Korenev turned the car into a parking area beside the tavern that appeared to be carved out of the surrounding dense forest. There was a sprinkling of other vehicles, but not many; after all, it was not yet noon. He made straight for the back of the lot, easing up on the pedal and searching for something.

When he seemed to find what he wanted, he finally shifted his bulk back into his own seat and took his hand off the wheel, his foot off of hers. The relief lasted about one second.

“Drive in forest over there,” he said, gesturing with the knife. “Hurry.”

He’d chosen an area where the underbrush wasn’t as heavy. There was the suggestion of a track, perhaps a leftover from a logging road years before.

She hesitated. Who knew what horror he had in mind for her, and surely the middle of the lot was a better place to face her fate than the deep cover of the trees?

The knife tip grazed her skin. “Do it,” he said.

She drove into the forest, following his directions, tears stinging her eyes because she was so scared and because she couldn’t find even the smallest sliver of hope.

Stop it, she admonished herself. There’s always hope.

“That’s far enough,” he said. As the car had more or less burrowed as deep into the forest as possible without the aid of a bulldozer, she eased off the gas and turned off the car.

“Give me your purse,” he said.

She took it from around her body and handed it to him. Her hands were surprisingly steady.

“Open it.”

She unzipped the bag and he peeked inside. “Put it on dashboard,” he directed, apparently satisfied she wasn’t carrying a weapon around in her bag.

Again she did as he said.

Staring right into her eyes, knife held firmly in his bloody maimed hand, Korenev unbuckled his belt and started tugging it through the belt loops.

Surely he wasn’t thinking rape!

But what about the way he’d staged the Pollocks’ murders? Bile rose up her throat. Who knew what this man would do? The door on her side was wedged against a tree or she would have taken her chances. As it was, she was trapped.

He pulled the belt loose and quickly tugged the free end back through the buckle, then slipped it over Paige’s head, sliding it down until it circled her neck. The buckle bit against her flesh, yanked on her hair. In essence, he’d created a collar for her and he controlled the “leash.”

“One good tug and eyes pop,” he said in such a matter-of-fact way her blood turned to water.

“Yes, okay.”

“Who are you? How you know Cinca?”

“I don’t. I’m just renting the cabin.”

“Give me wallet. Hurry. I’m late.”

Late for what? Murder, mayhem? She took out the blue wallet, a gift from Brian. She’d forgotten that until this moment.

“Show me driver’s license.”

She did. He studied it for a second. “Paige Graham,” he said. “So, you are nobody, huh? Tell the truth. How you know Cinca?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat that she didn’t know John, he’d just arrived much like Korenev himself, but then she thought better of it. If Korenev didn’t believe John would come after her, what use was she to Korenev?

“We’re lovers,” she said.

He raised his thick eyebrows and sneered. “Oh, come now. You expect I believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe. It’s a fact. John and I are lovers.”

“There was no sign of you at his place in Lone Tree.”

She shrugged. “We, um, conducted our affair at my place.”

“Why?”

“I was involved with someone else. So what?”

He narrowed his eyes as he seemed to really look at her for the first time. There was speculation in his black eyes, and doubt.

“Why else would he risk his life for me?” she added.

“So he arrange to meet you here after…business?”

This was thin ice, although the thought that John had had “business” with this man appalled her. Nevertheless, she’d started this, and she knew she had to keep it simple or get tripped up in her own lies. He obviously didn’t realize John didn’t remember anything past yesterday, and he just as clearly wasn’t a close friend. She nodded.

He produced a leer that literally made her skin crawl. She’d heard the expression, of course, but this was the first time she’d experienced it, and it was creepy.

He tossed her purse and wallet on the floor, then pulled up his trouser leg, revealing a holster into which he slid the knife. Paige took a shaky breath. He could still choke her, but at least it wasn’t likely he’d slit her throat.

For now, anyway.

He caught the handle on the passenger-side door and heaved his bulk against it, keeping the belt tight around Paige’s throat as he bullied the door open. The buckle pressed into her flesh. Somehow he managed to extricate himself from the car, tugging her along behind him, yanking on her arm when she didn’t move fast enough for him. Then he shoved her ahead of him until they cleared the car.

“Walk fast. One word and you die,” he said.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Yeah, yeah, you said that already,” and then she wondered again if she’d lost her senses.

As soon as they cleared the trees, she looked back, positive there would be an obvious path to the gold car, but it was as though the forest had closed in around the recent wound. She scanned the parking lot instead. Surely there would be someone around to witness this bizarre kidnapping, someone to either call for help or whip out a big old six-shooter.

No one. Not a soul. Just a half dozen cars and a squat one-story building rising from the melting snow with no discernible windows. The faint melody of a country-western song was the only sound besides the crunching of their feet on the quickly thawing ground.

He paused long enough to take the knife out again and thrust it toward her to show he meant business. How crazy was this—that a man could march a woman through a parking lot in broad daylight with a belt around her neck and a knife at her back and no one saw it?

Using the bulk of his body and the threat of the knifepoint, Korenev finally pushed Paige against the side of an old car parked deep in the shadows amid a couple of other clunkers. He reached around her and shattered the passenger window with his closed fist. “Open it,” he said.

Avoiding the glass, she pulled up the lock and opened the door. The bench front seat was much torn and patched with duct tape, though here and there a spring managed to poke through. The steering wheel was wrapped in tape, as well, and the dashboard fairly gleamed silver with the stuff.

“Empty it,” he ordered, using the knife to point to the glove box, which was missing its cover. Most of the contents had already spilled to the floor mat below. She pulled out a partial roll of the same tape that seemed to hold the interior of the car together and a few odds and ends, revealing at last a small yellow button.

“That’s it,” he said, his satisfied breath hot against the back of her neck. “Push it.”

A twanging sound announced the trunk had popped open. “My lucky day,” he added as he picked up the duct tape.

With a sinking feeling for what was coming next, she thought of and discarded scenarios as fast as she could. Kicking him, clawing him, screaming at the top of her lungs, grabbing at his injured hand—

But each idea came overlaid with the image of Jack Pollock’s brutal death, to say nothing of the knowledge that Korenev would happily use his muscles to either tighten the belt around her neck or plunge the knife into her chest.

He ordered her to go around to the back of the car. “Tape you ankles,” he demanded.

“But—”

With a sudden yank of the belt, he leaned in close to her face. “Understand,” he said softly. “You are little value to me. I keep you alive just to use as bait to trap Cinca. Now tape ankles together on skin and do it tight or I will cut my losses—and your throat.”

As he had Carolyn Pollock’s…

Leaning over, she wound the tape around her legs. When she straightened up, he grabbed the tape from her hand and bit off a piece. As he pushed it toward her mouth, she turned her head. Closing his fist, he fought her resistance with a punch on the cheekbone that all but knocked her out. She sagged, but he caught her, and ripping off a new piece, slapped it over her mouth. “Be grateful I not cover your nose, too,” he growled as he bound her wrists in back of her, using just the one hand and yet working so fast and with such ease that it was as though he’d done it that way his whole life.

The next thing she knew, he’d lifted her off her feet and dumped her into the trunk. She landed on something hard and cold, a rod or a pipe. The lid made a deafening sound as it slammed shut over her head.

Lying alone in the cold, black enclosure, she waited for the car to start.

A few minutes later, the engine made a few putting noises. He must have tried to hot-wire it. Bracing herself for the worst, Paige waited for whatever came next.