Читать книгу High-Heeled Alibi - Sydney Ryan - Страница 10

“She doesn’t live here,” Bitsy blurted. “I had no idea she’d be here.”

They stood, breast to chest, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, only a metal snout and a chamber of bullets between them. Bitsy found Mick’s eyes, hot and bright.

“She’s gone. Let me go.”

“I didn’t hear a car leave.”

“She lives four blocks over, three houses down.”

Mick muttered an obscenity, his breath warm and unwashed on her. She held his gaze, her thoughts the same as his. Lanie strolls home, slips the waiting Canaan Courier out of the mailbox or snaps on the 6:00 a.m. news, and sees a picture of her little cousin’s one-night stand splashed across the front page or flashed on the screen. He shouldn’t have let her go. He made a mistake. A sly satisfaction spread though Bitsy’s veins.

Mick’s jaw set. “Where’s a phone?”

She tipped her head to the left, where a cordless phone on its charger sat on the small table against the wall.

“Get it.” He released her. The relief drove her backward and made her light-headed. The gun stayed trained on her abdomen. The light-headed moment passed. She took two more steps backward and picked up the phone.

He reached for it, clasped it in one hand and punched in the number, his gaze aimed at her.

“It’s me,” he said to whoever picked up at the other end. A pause followed as he listened. His lips close to the mouthpiece, he then said, “He’s dead. Only one death reported.” Another pause, the silence laden.

“No, don’t come in. Too much risk. Too many involved.” His gaze was as steady on her as the gun. “I’ll meet you. I have resources. Find out what you can. I’ll call.” He paused. “Only as a last resort.” Another beat, then he said, “I have a guest.” A metallic tone had infused his voice. No expression lit his hard face. Bitsy stared at the dull silver gun, stifling an impulse to let her knees buckle.

“I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected and handed Bitsy the phone.

“Who’s dead?” she asked, surprised at her voice’s remote quality.

“We need clothes, any cash, food.” He ignored her question. “An ATM card, a cell phone and charger.” He ticked the items off as if they were on their way to a weekend in the wine country.

When she didn’t move, he reached for her arm. She recoiled and stood strong. Mick’s gaze snapped to hers. It was a matter of wills now, even as the piercing fear deep and unspeakable, welled up, pushing at her limits and she grieved for her lost courage.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have by now.” He sounded weary. Neither of them had slept.

She regarded him in the yellow, florid light. He was a mystery, a danger, yet he made her want to believe in him. Her anger at this parlor trick was like a keen rising in her head and much more valuable than her fear.

“We have to go now, or we won’t have a chance.” He continued the ruse. Her anger was to the point of blaring.

“I’m not the one wanted by the police, Mick.” His name sounded hard on her tongue.

His smile wasn’t warm. “No, the people who want you are much more dangerous.”

“Only one man is holding a gun on me now.”

His lips pulled back farther from his teeth in a devil’s grin. “Right now you’re lucky.” He glanced at the wall clock. Bitsy estimated her cousin should be cutting though McGilicuddy’s backyard with its plastercraft planters and ceramic gnomes. Mick gestured with the gun toward the entryway into the rest of the house. “Clothes, cash, food,” he said as if ordering from a Chinese menu.

Her gut turning, Bitsy backed out of the room, feeling it fatal not to face him. Under the weight of his eyes, she moved, startled when she hit the doorjamb, then she was in the hall, the tidy living room with its coordinated furniture and the Roman shades she’d bought on end-of-the-season clearance from Sears.

“Clothes, Mick?” Her lips thinned and her voice mocked. “Unless you’re a misses size six, you’re SOL.”

He didn’t look worried and that made her wonder. “The clothes are for you.” His heavy gaze dropped, then sidled back up her until her skin prickled.

“You’re afraid I’ll look conspicuous?” She returned the same once-over. “And you won’t?”

He moved toward her as she spoke, forcing her farther down the hall, a frantic pitch of resistance and disbelief vibrating inside her.

“Do I look like a worried man, Bitsy?” His voice softened, designed to throw her off balance more than a sharp pitch.

They were almost to her bedroom with its slightly sleazy black-lacquered furniture and oversize Georgia O’Keeffe framed floral prints. The bathroom was to their left. Bitsy stopped.

“What?” Impatience cracked Mick’s voice.

She screwed up her forehead, her eyes becoming larger, the pupils contracted. “I have to go.”

His features showed no sign of his impatience easing. Her fear and anger remained near at hand. Her resolve strengthened. She shrugged, took a step toward the bathroom door as if she didn’t need his permission.

His hand snapped around her wrist.

“What?” She twisted her arm but he held firm. “I can’t go to the bathroom?”

With the gun, he pushed back the half-opened door and pulled her into the bathroom with him. He scanned the room, the small narrow window with its lowered vinyl mini-blinds, the teal-and-peach ceramic tile halfway up the walls, the shower curtain with pink flamingos stretched across the tub.

“Okay.” He thrust her toward the toilet as he let go of her wrist.

“Okay?” she blurted. “What do you expect me to do? Go at gunpoint?”

He stepped past her, pushed up the blinds and checked the window’s lock. Bitsy glanced in the mirror over the sink, gave a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” Mick wheeled from the secured window.

Bitsy peered at her reflection, the sunken eyes, the skin gray with fatigue and stress beneath the garish remains of her makeup. “I knew you looked like crap, but I didn’t think I looked this bad.” She pushed a lank lock of hair off her brow.

Mick stepped back. “You’ve got one minute. I’ll be right outside.”

He rounded the door, pulling it half-closed behind him. She waited for it to close totally.

It didn’t.

“You’re not going to close the door?”

“Fifty seconds.” His shoulder and arm, the gun dangling in his hand, were visible at the door’s edge.

“What do you think I’m going to do?” She pulled down her stockings, panties. “Hang myself from the shower?”

“Forty-five seconds.”

“Pull out the .44 I keep in the back of the toilet tank?”

“Thirty-five seconds.”

“You’re not making this any easier.” She rattled the toilet paper holder, ripped off a length.

“Thirty seconds.”

She flushed, pulled up her panties, adjusted her stockings, twisted the hot and cold water faucets all the way open.

“Ten seconds.”

“I’m washing my hands,” she yelled back.

“Five, four…”

The water stopped. “I’m drying my hands.”

“Three, two…” The door started to swing open.

“One,” Bitsy yelled, aimed the value-size can of extra-hold hair spray at Mick’s face and sprayed full force into his surprised blue eyes. She heard a guttural gurgle as she pushed past him. His hands reached for her but, blinded, he only found a fistful of the hairpiece she’d added to last night’s costume. She jerked her head hard as he yanked the opposite way, and the hairpiece ripped loose. She ran. She was down the hall, into the kitchen when he came behind her, spewing passionate oaths aimed at her and her children and her children’s children. She heard him hit something hard and curse loudly. She looked frantically for her car keys but didn’t see them on the table or counters. She was running out of time. Undoing the lock on the side door, she dashed out, slamming the door behind her. Freedom was her wildly delicious, delirious last thought…till she ran head-on into a mountainous, unmoving mass. She bounced back onto the concrete floor and was knocked out cold.

SHE WAS BEING HOISTED UP under the armpits when she came to. In front of her in her garage stood an angular man with a thin face and hatchet features, pointing a gun casually at the left side of her chest where her heart pounded crazily. Twice in one day. Go figure.

Bitsy jumped as someone behind her wrenched her arms together and bound her wrists with a hard tie that sliced into her skin. She whipped her head around and found the no-necked brick wall that had stopped her escape. She twisted her head farther and saw the razor-thin wire circling her wrists. Any attempts to escape its hold would only result in slicing through flesh, arteries, veins.

She turned back to the front. Her gaze careened around the garage. She saw nothing of the blue-eyed, charming-smile son of a bitch who’d gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Was Mick dead? The thought hit her harder than the mass of muscle behind her. Had the man with the cold fish eyes in front of her killed him with the gun now holding her hostage?

“Let’s go.” The man gestured with the gun.

Holding her bound wrists, the gorilla nudged her forward. Control, Bitsy repeated to herself as she was led to a gray BMW. Stay in control. She frantically searched for self-defense techniques. Look for an advantage. The creep behind her was so close, she could feel his erection pressing into her. Her wrists were bound behind her back, but her feet were free.

The thug gripping her arms released one to open the car door. As he pushed her in, she aimed her spiked heels at his groin and got off a couple good shots to his shins. He let out a yelp as he shoved her down into the backseat.

“You wanna play rough?” He came at her, his shaved head ducking her flailing feet. His hand came up, struck her hard once, twice. Her head whipped right and left. Her brain rattled.

“Cut out the social niceties,” the other man growled as he slid into the driver’s seat. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.” He looked over his shoulder and gave Bitsy a sickly grin that soured her stomach.

The strong arms shoved Bitsy back into the seat, grabbed her ankles with one hand and circled them with the thin wire. She gingerly prodded with her tongue several teeth loosened by the blows.

“There, honey.” The ape leaned over her, his thick lips rolled back from his pale-pink gums. The moist smell of male sweat and cigarettes overwhelmed her. “This is only the beginning. Whatever god you believe in, I’ll have you screaming for him before I’m done with you.”

She screwed up her lips and spat at him. Blood colored the saliva that dripped down his cheek.

The fist that hit her square in the face and knocked her out cold again was almost a relief.

When she came to, she was uncertain how much time had passed, but didn’t think much. The blood was still damp on her skin, the pain fresh where the fist had met her face. The ache in her shoulders had not yet escalated from a throb, but her wrists and ankles burned where the wire cut into the thin skin.

She kept her eyes closed, hoping the cover of unconsciousness would give her captors a false sense of security, perhaps cause them to talk more freely, reveal something useful. Something that could save her.

The car was moving fast. There was no slowing down for intersections or ninety-degree turns. They must be on the highway.

“Is she all right?” she heard the driver ask.

The seat shifted as the heavy man guarding her in the back leaned toward her. She forced her body to involuntarily tip toward the man’s weight. Fresh anger rose inside her as his hateful odor filled her nostrils. She fought to keep her breathing steady.

“She’s breathing,” the man reported in a bored voice.

A fingertip scraped down Bitsy’s left breast. Her entire body stiffened.

“She’s awake.”

She opened her eyes. An inch away was the man’s oily smile.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

She instructed him to perform a technically physically impossible act on himself.

The driver gave a pitchy laugh. A savage deadness moved into the other man’s eyes, made even eerier by the low, amused rumble that rose from him. The tip of his tongue wet his lips as he moved in even closer. “Soon, sugar pie. And thanks to you, it’ll be even sweeter.” He gave her breast a squeeze, blatant satisfaction filling his fleshy features as he leaned back and lit a cigarette.