Читать книгу Double Take - Jenness Walker - Страница 11

Someone could be dying right now. And here he stood, watching as a crew removed the crime-scene tape from the bus, waiting to be interviewed by a detective as the group anxiously reclaimed their belongings now that they’d been released.

Cole slowly—guiltily—collected his things. His wallet. The novel.

His chest tightened again.

A stylish black purse, the one that the pretty brunette had hugged to herself, remained on the table. Would she ever get it back?

Turning away, he found a spot on the curb again. He needed to call his cousin. See if John could pick him up after his turn with the detective.

Why? So he could go back to his vacation like normal? To act as if he hadn’t just watched an innocent woman be marched away, probably to her death…and done nothing about it?

He kept seeing the first paragraph from the Warren Flint book. The words would scroll across his brain, followed by the corresponding actions. The gray seats. The curve in the road. Every second, from watching Monique’s twin sit in the front to when the gunmen had hauled her away.

And especially the moment cold metal had touched his temple.

It could have been him…but it wasn’t.

When his turn in the hot seat was finished, Cole rose from the metal folding chair and shook hands with the detective. With his interview over, he could go, but…

He should mention the book—just get it out there and let the cops go ahead and discard the notion that it was more than a coincidence. Because then he could, too.

Cole hesitated, then said, “What’s the best way to stay up-to-date on the situation?”

Coward. Like they were going to give him inside information.

Detective Parker tipped his bald head and studied Cole through narrowed eyes. “Do you know the hostage?”

“No, sir. I just want to know that she’s all right. Makes me feel guilty, you know?” Cole’s grip tightened on his belongings.

Detective Parker nodded, his eyes clearing. “I understand, son. But you’ll just have to check the news like everyone else.”

“Right. Thank you, sir.”

As he walked away, the book felt heavy, as if it had taken on his burden of guilt. He sat near the street and balanced the novel on his knee while he waited for his ride. Skimming the pages, he found where he’d left off…where Monique had been taken off the bus. A gun to her head. Shoved in a van. Tied up, blindfolded and whisked away.

He was almost afraid to read the words, almost afraid he’d somehow caused them—as if his imagination typed out each paragraph onto a blank page just before his eyes could catch up. And as if everything on the page was coming to pass.

Right.

It was ridiculous. Crazy. But…what if, by some one-in-a-million chance, the gunmen were using the novel as a playbook for their crime spree?

Then, if he read more and found out what happened to the heroine…there was a one-in-a-million chance he could help save a life.

Monique flexed one hand, then the other. No give in the restraints, but she tried again anyway. She should be wearing the diamond bracelet Evan had given her, not the rope chafing her wrists. Looking through a wispy veil, not sporting a rag blindfold.

She rested her forehead on her knees, just for a moment. Then a sharp turn landed her on her side on the floor of the van. Refusing to cry out, she bit her lip and tasted blood.

“This is your stop, sweetheart.” The voice hovered too close above her head and was followed by a sharp jab to her left ankle, then a million needles as blood rushed to her feet. They’d cut the ropes. She should lash out—

A rough hand grabbed her arm, hauled her up. The door opened with a low rumble, and Monique lurched to the ground. Her foot turned on the uneven pavement, and she went down hard. The tears came then, but she forced them back before her captor jerked her upright.

She should be slipping into her borrowed Vera Wang dress, not putting holes in the knees of her designer jeans. She should be kissing Evan, not spitting out dirt and pebbles.

They moved forward, and the way grew more rough. Monique counted each step, tried to remember any turns in the path. Fifteen steps straight ahead. Ten tothe left. Three more, and she heard a metallic pop. The sound of a car trunk opening.

She should be riding in a car with tin cans rattling behind it. Not squashed into a trunk like leftover wedding balloons.

The hand let go of her arm.

She ran.

Well…at least Monique got away. Maybe this hostage had, too, and was holed up somewhere hiding out until she felt safe enough to come home.

Yeah, he could keep telling himself that.

Skimming the page, Cole found his place. Monique fell, the bad guy caught her and slammed something against her head. She heard the sound of the trunk lid closing just before she blacked out.

He could have gone without reading that.

Kenzie huddled in the empty van, the stillness more frightening than being helpless through wild curves and sudden stops. Once again, she scraped her face against her knee, trying to work the blindfold up. It shifted, but not enough.

Why did they go away? Did she dare hope they’d left her for the police to find? Or…did they have something else in mind? Some further torment or darker ending.

Please, no. Kenzie leaned to the side until she touched the floor. Dirt clung to her skin, but it didn’t matter. She curled into a tight ball, trying to block out this world, imagine one of light and fluffy clouds and frothy waves. But instead of ocean breezes, the air stood still, growing hotter in the closed vehicle. Sweat trickled down her face, flattening her hair and stinging her eyes.

Maybe this was part of the plan. Leave her in the dark to lose her mind, or to succumb to the heat and the pounding pain in her head.

God, if You get me out of this, I’ll…

What? What exactly would she do? Buy Him an ice-cream cone, like she’d promised the winner of her class’s first-grade spelling bee?

Kenzie flexed her hands, pulling on the ropes. Her wrists ached. She worked them back and forth in an attempt to make the ropes give. No luck. But this was a work van—there must be something in here she could use to cut the ropes. Kenzie bit her lip, trying not to think about her brother’s knife, lying abandoned on the bus floor. It would have come in handy about now.

Her fingers scrabbled around the floor. Nothing but dirt. Pushing off with her feet, she moved a couple inches and tried again, until finally her thumb scraped against a jagged scrap of metal. She sucked in a sharp breath at the sting as blood ran down her wrist.

She’d found a way out.

Maybe.

Carefully, Kenzie sat up, adjusted her hands over the metal, brought her wrist down—

A door opened, its hinges screeching out a warning. She took a quick breath, gingerly wrapped her fingers around the makeshift blade, then waited, not having to feign the fearful trembling that seized her limbs.

“Well, pet.” The van rocked slightly as someone climbed into the driver’s seat. “Time for act one, scene two.” He had a slight accent, the hint of an island lilt softening his crisp pronunciation. The gentle inflections and soothing tones should have comforted her. Instead, it raised goose bumps on her arms.

His door slammed, then another opened and closed. As they pulled back into light, she felt someone’s gaze on her, the heat of it scorching her skin. Kenzie hid her face between her knees. If they could just forget about her long enough for her to work on the ropes…

The blood from her cut made the metal sticky. Sweat drenched her blindfold, the back of her black jeans. Fear dried out her mouth so much she couldn’t remember if they’d gagged her or if the cotton balls soaking up every drop of saliva were a figment of her dehydrated imagination.

“She’s good,” the second guy from the bus said.

“Mmm.”

“I mean, look at her shaking.”

Kenzie tried to still her tremors, but knowing he continued to watch made them grow stronger. What did they want? Why couldn’t they just let her go?

“Is she someone I should know?”

“Not yet,” the other man answered.

The van slowed to a stop, the engine roughly idling. Heavy feet thudded against the floor. Kenzie refused to lift her head. Instead, she frantically worked the jagged metal against her bindings.

Closer.

Her fingers cramped. She passed the metal to the other hand and worked harder. The van started up again, and the man lurched, his foot hitting close enough beside her that she felt the vibration.

“Hey, was she supposed to have a piece of metal?”

“What?”

Kenzie froze. The man leaned over her—she smelled his body odor. Foul, like his language. His fingers touched hers. Before she could react, her weapon became his.

“Check this out.” A pause. “Was she supposed to have this?”

“No.” The word was clipped.

Kenzie braced her feet as they rounded a corner, kept her face down, expecting another blow at any moment. Almost welcoming it. If she was unconscious, she wouldn’t feel the intense pressure to come up with another escape plan…and fail.

“She’s improvising,” the redneck said, a note of awe in his voice. Then, to the driver, “Can I keep this?”

The piece of metal. Covered with her blood. A sob caught in her throat. She choked it back. Maybe his little souvenir would lead to his conviction.

After they found her dead.