Serial - Crouch Blake - Страница 19

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“My… foot… hurts…”

“What’s your name?”

“My… foot…”

I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.

“Listen to me. I’m a cop. We’re in a truck sleeper and some men are trying to kill us. What’s your name?”

“Candi. I… I can’t move my feet. It hurts.”

I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could erase the image from my mind.

“What’s wrong with my foot?”

“You’re missing your little toe.”

“My… toe?”

I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six screws held it in place.

I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared back my right heel.

“Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”

I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.

The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I’d break my heel.

“Don’t you have a gun?”

I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was anything inside I could use.

“Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you. I promise.”

I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown stains on it—dried blood—and I got an uneasy feeling looking at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.

It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked like prunes.

Then I realized what they were, and came very close to throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.

That sick bastard…

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.

“What’s in that box you were holding?”

Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.

“Candi, do you smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”

“In my purse. He took it.”

Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen pounds.

“What was in the box!”

I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.

“Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”

I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest into the top of the stock. There was a loud crack, but both objects stayed intact.

I did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

My shoulder began to burn, and the corners of the chest were coming apart, but the hinge on the stock was bending.

Two more times and the chest burst open, spilling its contents onto the mat, the Tupperware container bouncing next to Candi.

I hit the stock one last time. The chest broke into several large pieces. I grabbed one of the slats used to make the chest, and wedged it in the opening I’d made between the top and bottom of the stock. I used it like a crowbar, levering at the hinge.

It was slowly giving… giving…

Then the stock popped open like a shotgun blast.

Candi sat up abruptly, grabbing her ankle to see her injury for herself. Then the tears hit, fast and hard.

“Ah shit… that fucker.”

“We need to find a way out of here.”

“My toe…” she sobbed.

“Candi! Focus!”

Her eyes locked on mine.

“We need to start rolling up the mats,” I ordered, “find the way out of here before they come back.”

She sniffled. “They? I only know one. Taylor.”

“He’s got a buddy now.” I made a face. “And they’re armed.”

I watched Candi’s face do an emotion montage. Anger, pain, despair, then raw fear.

“I have kids,” Candi whispered. “A boy and a girl.”

“Then we need to find the exit, fast. Start pulling up the mats.”

“What time is it? My man, Julius, he’ll come looking for me when I don’t report back.”

I thought about the pimp, running out of the diner with his teeth in his hand.

“Julius, uh, probably won’t be coming to the rescue. Do the mats. Now.”

She wiped her nose on her arm, and then reached for the Tupperware container.

“Candi…”

“I want to see.”

She popped off the lid and squinted at the objects in the rock salt.

“What are these things?”

“We need to look for the exit, Candi.”

“Are those… aw, Jesus…”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“Don’t worry? Do you know what these are?”

“Yes.”

“These are… nipples.”

“I know, Candi. That’s why we need to get the hell out of here.”

That seemed to spur her to action. I joined Candi in pulling up mats, and we soon found the trap door. I pulled on the recessed handle.

Locked.

I tugged as hard as I could, until the cords on my neck bulged out and I saw stars.

It wouldn’t budge.

“We’re going to die up here.” Candi was hugging her knees, rocking back and forth.

I blew out a breath. “No, we’re not.”

“He’s going to bite off our toes. Then our tits, to add to his collection.”

I reached up overhead, tugging at the baffling stuck to the ceiling. Under it was heavy aluminum. I did a 360, looking at all the walls.

There was no way out. We were trapped up here.

Then we both felt it. The truck cab jiggle.

Oh, shit. They’re back.

9

Fran the waitress was happy to flip a coin for the two gentlemen who had tipped her so well.

“Tails,” Taylor called.

Fran caught the quarter, slapped it against her wrist.

“Tails it is. Congrats, handsome.”

Taylor gave her a polite nod, then turned to judge Donaldson’s reaction. There wasn’t one. The fat man’s face was blank. Taylor left the diner, his cohort in tow. It was still hot and muggy outside, and the lot was still almost full, but there weren’t any people around.

“Are we cool?” Taylor asked as they walked to his truck.

“Yeah. Fair is fair. You’ll let me watch?”

Taylor shrugged like it didn’t matter, but secretly he was thrilled at the idea of an audience.

“Sure.”

“And you’ll let me do her face?”

“Her face is all yours.”

“You should try it once. The face. You peel enough of the flesh away, you can see the skull underneath. I bet Jack Daniels has a beautiful skull.”

Taylor stopped and stared at him. “You’ve really got a hard-on for this cop, don’t you?”

“I’d marry her if she’d have me. But I’ll settle for a bloody blowjob after I knock her teeth out. Do you still have Jack’s phone?”

Taylor had pocketed her phone and wallet. He tugged the cell out.

“Does Officer Donaldson want to inform the next of kin?” Taylor grinned as he handed it over.

“That’s a possibility. Might also be fun to call up her loved ones while you’re working on her, let them hear her screams.”

“You’ve got a sick mind, my friend.”

“Thank you, kindly. Let’s see who our favorite cop talked to last. The winner is… Latham. And less than an hour ago. Shall we see if Latham is still up?”

“Put it on speaker.”

The phone rang twice, and a man answered.

“Jack? I was worried.”

“And you have good reason to be,” Donaldson said. “Is this Latham?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m the man about to murder Jack Daniels. She’s going to die in terrible pain. How do you feel about that?”

There was silence.

“What’s wrong, Latham? Don’t you care that…” Donaldson squinted at the phone. “Dammit, lost the signal.”

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