Cold Comfort (38 page)

"No, he wanted to find your mother." A blue light flashed ahead of them. Tony slowed, turned at the next corner. "But I knew as soon as he said you were her daughter." He seemed smug, proud of himself.

Claire sighed as the blue light disappeared from sight. "How did you know?"

"One Christmas Eve, my dad and me followed Jennings's pregnant bitch down to South Carolina—first job he took me on—I was eighteen. We didn't get home till Christmas afternoon because of it. Missed the family dinner. Made my mother mad as hell." He gripped the steering wheel and eased around a stopped car sitting at an angle to the curb. "When that magazine picture turned up and my uncle told me how you looked like the woman he used to love, I connected the dots." He glanced toward Claire, frowning. "I checked you out. You were the baby who should have died."

He was the one who talked to her uncle in West Virginia, the one who got her medical records. His words registered. She stiffened. "You and your father killed my mother?"

"We only did what my grandfather told us to do."

"And that made it all right?" Claire closed her eye briefly and took a deep breath. The man was a monster. None of this meant anything to him except as an inconvenience. "Is your grandfather part of this?" She had to get Riley's gun.

"After we lost you in McClellanville, I had to tell him
—
Fortunato was useless, and I didn’t have time to waste." Trapp’s face, illuminated by the moonlight on the bright snow, darkened. He seemed to shrink, hunch down. He sounded frustrated. "Once you started looking, I knew you'd eventually get to Washington, and Grandfather has the contacts there."

"Why didn't you go to him in the beginning?"

"He warned me to stay away from the casinos. He thinks only fools gamble." He shrugged again. "I couldn't tell him
—
he'd be angry. I could have handled it if you hadn't hooked up with that Riley guy
—
this is all your fault." He turned onto a less-traveled country road. The snow, deeper here, slowed him down. "The old man's after me to change my name. I don't know
—
Antonino Bellante. What do you think?”

He was crazy. She bit her lip. "Did you kill Dr. Clary?"

"Had to. Fortunato hit him first, but he wasn't talking. By then he could have identified me, so I roughed him up a little." He snorted. "The crazy old man wouldn't tell us anything. I had to search his files to find the names, but I knew what to look for."

He found it easier to murder an old man than to tell his grandfather about his gambling debts. Carmine Bellante must be a difficult man if a psycho like Tony Trapp was afraid of him. But he counted on his grandfather's help.

They rounded a curve and the car's rear end spun out, throwing her into Tony's side. He steered into the skid and regained traction. As soon as he got the car under control, he slammed his fist into her arm. "Don't try that again."

Fortunately, his awkward angle took away some of the force. It hurt but did no real damage. She could see the pattern. Nothing was his fault
—
someone else would always be to blame. She said the next thing that came into her head, anything to keep him talking. "But why do you want to kill me? What have I done to you?"

"Money." He sounded surprised. "My uncle's worth millions. He wanted me to hire a detective to look for your mother." They passed a pickup truck angled into a ditch. Trapp slowed, careful to stay in the tracks worn by other cars. "He's a sentimental old fool. I knew if he found you, he'd change his will and I wouldn't get a cent. If word about a long-lost daughter got out, Trigoni would know I couldn't pay him back—a bad, bad thing." He tensed again.

"Trigoni, the man who owns the gambling casino?" She had no idea how much longer they'd be on the road. She needed a plan.

"Yeah, Vince Trigoni. He shouldn't have hooked me up with Fortunato. Worthless sod." He glared at her. "If my grandfather hadn't been such a shit about it, I'd have gone to him in the beginning, and this would all be over. Still..." he nodded in her direction, "some of it's been fun."

He turned off onto a rougher, unpaved road with fresh, unmarked snow. Her pulse notched up. "Where are we?" She struggled to keep her voice steady. Was this the end?

"This used to be my grandfather's farm, but he sold it." His voice turned bitter. "It should have been mine. Once it's developed, it'll be worth a fortune."

They passed a deserted house, its sagging roofline sharply defined in the moonlight, its windows black holes. Beyond a stand of fir trees, a dilapidated barn canted downwind in the snowy landscape. "It's one of my favorite places." He turned to her with a sly smile. "You're not the first woman I've brought here." Stopping the car close to the open barn door, he cut the engine and pocketed the keys. "Get out." Deliberately knocking her head with his elbow, he leaned over and opened her door, shoving her out.

She fell heavily on her side and lay still in the snow, watching him through a tangle of hair. Her breath fogged the air. When he got out and started around the car, she pushed herself up and dove for the Walther.

Trapp caught the back of her jacket and jerked her away. "No, you don't." He kicked the gun out of her hand. It slid under the car, beyond his reach. "Bitch. A gunshot might wake somebody." He slapped her. "But don't get your hopes up
—
no one's close enough to hear you scream."

He took a plastic locking tie from his pocket, caught her left hand and then her right and jerked them behind her back. He looped the tie around her wrists and tightened it. "Hurt?" He yanked her arms higher and hauled her to her feet.

She bit her lip, determined not to cry out. No one could hear, and she wouldn't give Trapp the satisfaction.

He shined a flashlight into the darkness of the barn. "In here." He grabbed her arm and dragged her inside, then threw her to the floor, aiming the narrow beam of light at an old tack room. "Good. No one's been here." He kicked open the door, swept the light around the bare space. "If the farm hadn't been sold, no one would have found you for years. I can't take a chance on having your body identified. Too much would come out. That's why Frankie Stahl's coming—but it'll be awhile." He turned to her. The light from the moon made deep shadows of his eyes. "Guess what Stahl's family business is."

He smirked, waiting for her to answer.

She wouldn't.

"They had a meat market." He tapped her lightly with his foot and laughed. "His father was a butcher, and Frankie learned the trade from him. We won't leave a piece of you big enough to find. I don't want any blood left here, nothing to make the cops check this place for evidence." He leaned over and checked the tie on her wrists, tightened it another notch. Rubbing his hands together, he smiled. "Don't worry. I won't let you get bored while we wait for him. Besides, the supplies are still in the Mercedes."

Supplies? Visions of saws and plastic sheeting sprang to her head. She wanted to vomit. Instead, she pushed herself up on her elbows, searching frantically for a weapon. She had to do something before Stahl got here.

He yanked her to her feet and shoved her into the room, pointed the gun at her.

The dim light outlined the metal gun barrel. Claire steeled herself, half hoping he'd go ahead and shoot her.

His cell phone rang. He checked the number and opened it. "What! Where the hell are you?" He listened. "I'll be there in a minute." He snapped the phone shut and jammed it in his pocket. "Son of a bitch. He's lost."

The door slammed, shutting her in the dark room.

She heard metal scrape on metal, then a snap. A padlock?

"I'll leave you to think about it
—
if you don't freeze to death," he said through the door. "I'll be back with Stahl."

The bastard. She wanted to kill him.

She heard the engine start, the car leave. Bitter cold cut through her. The desire to let go, to sink back into the comforting twilight fog that hovered behind her eyes, almost overcame her. She squinted into the black night, blinking at the darkness. At first, she couldn't see anything, but as her functioning eye adjusted, faint outlines of the walls' vertical boards took shape. She tried to sit up. The effort brought sharp pain to her limbs. Her hands were useless. She had to do something before Tony Trapp got back, before she was too numb to act. But what?

Scooting against the wall, she pushed herself to her feet. She felt along the rough boards for a tool, a loose nail, anything. The leather sleeves of Riley's jacket protected her arms, but splinters snagged at her hands. Nothing. She strained against the plastic strap binding her wrists. It didn't give at all. When she reached the door, she turned her back to it, tried to get her fingers around the edge and pull, but it wouldn't budge. She sank to the floor, fighting panic.
Concentrate. Think. What would Riley do?

He'd probably kick down the door, she thought, imagining him in a rage. So why couldn't she? She spun around on the dirt floor, pressed her feet against the wood. Drawing up her knees, she kicked with all her strength. Pain shot through her legs. The door didn't give—too solid, too sturdy. It hadn't deteriorated like the outer walls.
Think, Claire.

She pictured the barn. The tack room faced the barn front, in a corner. Two exterior walls. Light from the snow shone through the spaces between the boards. She rolled over and struggled to her feet again, followed the wall to the largest sliver of light. The wide board felt solid, but she had to try. She bumped it with her hip hard enough to leave bruises. Even though she could feel it flex, it held.

"Okay, Claire, where would the board be the weakest?"
At the bottom, of course.

She dropped to the floor and rolled over on her back, her hands underneath her, and began pounding the board with her feet, ignoring the pain shooting through her legs. She felt it give slightly.
Oh, god, it's working.

Again and again she kicked. At last the bottom of the board swung out, loose. Light showed around the lower end. The opening would be small, but she could force her way through it. She rolled herself up on her knees and shoved with her shoulder, pushing the board out further. Clambering to her feet, she used her legs for leverage, thrust her head through the narrow space, then her shoulders. She fell through to the snow outside. Rolling away from the barn, she lay still for a few seconds, catching her breath.
Now what?
If she didn't get away before Tony returned
—
she couldn't waste time thinking about it. He might show up any minute. Leaning against the side of the barn, she got to her feet once more and rounded the corner.

The gun.
She wondered if Tony remembered it when he drove away or left it lying in the snow. If she could get the gun and get to those fir trees.... Could she pick it up? If she did, could she shoot with the gun behind her? Maybe enough to scare someone if they couldn't see her. She didn't know, but she had to try.

She staggered through the deepening snow, following the tire tracks to where the car had been. Scuffing the snow with her foot, she found the gun. Exhausted, she dropped to her knees, leaned sideways, straining her fingers toward the gun. She couldn't reach it, not with her hands bound behind her. Despair threatened to overwhelm her.

Do not go gentle, girl.
Her mother's voice sounded in her head.
Rage, rage!

Claire smiled. "Yes, ma'am," she whispered. She lay down again and scooted on her back until she felt the gun under her fingers. So cold. Like an icicle. Wrapping her already frozen fingers around it, hoping Riley had been right about its not going off accidentally, she turned over and clambered to her feet. Squinting toward the barn, she saw a clear trail leading from the barn to her present position. Wherever she went, Trapp and Stahl could follow her. The snow wasn't falling fast enough to hide her tracks.

The stand of firs—if she reached them and hid
…
Trapp wouldn't know what shape she was in. If she managed to fire toward him, maybe he'd back off. It would at least give someone a chance to hear and investigate. She didn't know about Stahl, just hoped he was as inept as Joey Fortunato. Whatever happened, she wouldn't give up. Soon it would be light enough to see the surrounding area. Maybe there were houses and people would wake up.

Just as she reached the trees, headlights swung across the drive near the old house. The lights disappeared. She could barely hear the engine. A dark Mercedes appeared, creeping over the pale snow like a great spider feeling its way toward prey.

Riley's car, the one Trapp brought her here in, wasn't in sight. Had Trapp left her to Stahl? Her body trembled with cold and fear. She almost dropped the gun but held on, twisted so the little Walther pointed in the general direction of the barn. Seven shots, Riley said. She'd use three to scare them, no more. The other four she'd save, for when they got close. Trapp would want to get close, want to see what he'd done—or might still do. Her fingers traced over the gun for the safety. She could barely feel anything.

The car door opened, feet stepped onto the snow. Trapp abandoned Riley's car, came back in the Mercedes. He got out on one side, a fair-haired man on the other. Frankie Stahl.

Crouched behind the tree, she waited while the two men went into the barn. Trapp's shocked voice reached her.

"She's gone! How could she have gotten out? I locked her in with her hands tied. She was barely conscious." Trapp came back outside and walked around to the place where she'd gotten out.