Death in a Major (22 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
R
EMAINED CONSCIOUS,
but pain and confusion clouded my mind. Someone loomed over me, I knew that much, but beyond that all my brain could compute was the fact that I was in danger. Blinking away the tears of agony that interfered with my vision, I reached one hand toward my phone. My fingers had barely made contact with the device when a booted foot kicked it out of my feeble grasp.

When I tried to turn my head to look up at my attacker, a fresh spike of pain stabbed through my neck, freezing my movements. Large, strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me to my feet. I cried out as more pain tore through my neck. My attacker's arms wrapped around me and lifted me off my feet. I opened my mouth to scream, but a meaty hand clapped over my face before I could let out anything more than a whimper.

I kicked my feet and wriggled my body, struggling as much as I could. My heel hit a shin and my attacker grunted, but my efforts didn't seem to have any other effect. Still, I continued to struggle, fear and outright panic spurring me on despite the pain screaming through my body.

Within seconds of grabbing me, my assailant had me over by the curb and shoved me into the back of a black van. He tossed a wrench—­probably the weapon he'd used on me—­into the vehicle and I made a move to grab it. I didn't move fast enough. My attacker had crawled in behind me and now pinned me down face-­first, a knee pressed into my back. I tried to scream again, but he stuffed a cloth in my mouth and secured it there with a bandana tied at the back of my head. I wanted to turn my face away, to shake my head in an attempt to make it more difficult for him to fasten the bandana, but I couldn't. My neck didn't want to move and the pain brought fresh tears to my eyes.

I flailed the rest of my body as much as I could, but my attacker was far stronger than me. He yanked my arms behind me and snapped a pair of handcuffs around my wrists. Keeping a knee pinned to my back, he snapped another set of cuffs around my ankles. He removed his knee and I rolled over, sobbing into my gag as my neck protested with a vengeance. A flash of surprise registered in my terrified mind. My assailant wasn't a man as I'd thought, but a large, muscular woman. A woman I'd seen before.

Not allowing my surprise to make me hesitate, I drew up my knees and aimed a double-­legged kick at the brawny, dark-­haired woman kneeling over me, but she ducked out of the way and my legs met nothing but air.

Before I had a chance to try again, the woman hopped out of the van—­taking the wrench with her—­and slammed the double doors. A door up at the front of the vehicle opened and the van rocked with the addition of new weight settling into the driver's seat. The front door slammed as well and the engine roared to life, the vibrations rattling through my bones and making me even more aware of my aching knees and throbbing neck.

With a rumble, the van pulled out onto the street and set off to who knew where. Despair hovered over me, a shadow ready to swallow me up in its darkness. What was happening to me? Who was the woman who had grabbed me?

In the moment when I'd first understood that someone had hit me from behind, I thought it was Dr. Beaufort. I figured he'd only pretended to leave and had doubled back to take out his anger on me. But now I was at a loss. The only time I'd ever seen this woman before was at Mr. Major's funeral.

What could she possibly want with me?

And how would anyone find me?

I hoped with all my might that someone had seen the woman grab me and shove me into the van. Maybe the guy walking his dog across the street. No, too much time had passed before my attacker struck me. The dog walker was probably long gone.

But apartments across the road looked out over the street. Maybe somebody saw something and called the police.

But what if they hadn't?

The looming shadow of despair edged closer to me.

No, don't think like that
, I scolded myself.
Find a way to save yourself. Survive. Escape.

I tried to piece my thoughts together, but it wasn't easy. Every time the van drove over the slightest bump, new shots of pain distracted me. The smell of motor oil reaching my nose didn't help much either. Together, the uneven motion of the van and the unpleasant odor made me queasy. I tried my best to breathe steadily in and out through my nose, knowing I couldn't risk being sick with a gag stuffed in my mouth. I didn't want to choke to death before I had a chance to escape.

Think
, I told myself as I got a handle on both my despair and my nausea.

I wiggled my wrists and ankles, but the cuffs held tight and my abductor had left no room for me to slip out of them. Lying on my back, my bound hands squished beneath me, I lifted my head as far as my aching neck would allow. That was only about two inches, but it was enough to let me get a look at the van's back doors with their darkly tinted windows.

Although slim, there was a chance I could shift my way over to the doors and open them before the driver caught on. But even if she wasn't keeping a near-­constant watch on me through the rearview mirror, what was I supposed to do once I got the doors open? Throw myself out into the oncoming traffic?

I didn't relish that idea. It seemed a more likely way to get killed than to stay put.

Even if I timed everything right so I opened the doors while the van waited at a red light, I'd likely land right in front of the next vehicle, unable to get to my feet quickly with my wrists and ankles bound. Again that seemed risky.

But wait. Maybe I didn't need to throw myself out of the vehicle. If I could get the doors open maybe I could signal to the driver behind us, if there was one. Surely the sight of a gagged and handcuffed woman in the back of a van would be enough to get them to call the police and take note of the van's license plate number.

At the moment, that seemed like my best option.

Biting down hard on my gag to stifle any cries of pain, I eased myself into a sitting position. Once I'd accomplished that, I sat still for a few seconds, breathing deeply through my nose as the aggravated pain in my neck and back slowly abated.

With my bound hands helping me to scoot along, I then shifted inch by inch toward the back doors. It didn't take long for me to get within reach of the doors, but then I had a decision to make. I wasn't sure if I should try to open the doors with my feet or shift around and use my hands.

My feet, I decided. I didn't like the idea of opening the doors with my back to them while barely balancing on my sore knees. Most likely I'd end up toppling out onto the street.

I couldn't turn my aching neck far enough to check if the driver was watching me so I simply hoped that she wasn't. Leaning back against my hands, I raised my feet up in the air and nudged one of the door handles with the toe of my shoe.

The van swerved with a squeal of tires. I slammed over onto my side with a shock of pain so intense that I cried out against my gag. The driver hit the brakes hard and my head smacked back against the floor of the van with another violent stab of pain radiating through my neck and back.

“What do you think you're doing?” My kidnapper loomed over me, her face blurred by my tears.

Even if I hadn't had a gag in my mouth, I wouldn't have been able to respond to her question. I could barely breathe through the terrible pain, and the only sound I managed was a pathetic whimper.

Unmoved by my extreme discomfort, the woman grabbed me under the arms and dragged me toward the front of the vehicle. My pain intensified to the point where I thought I might pass out. But I didn't.

When I was sitting with my back almost up against the console between the two front seats, she dropped me with a thud and climbed back into the driver's seat.

“You don't want to try anything like that again,” she said as she restarted the van's engine. “Trust me.”

As she set the van into motion again, I closed my eyes, tears rolling down my cheeks and pooling above my gag before getting absorbed by the fabric. I could hardly move my neck at all now, but the pain eased slightly as I held still and my tears stopped flowing.

I couldn't give in to the pain and fear. I had to think, to find a way to get out of this horrible predicament.

If only I knew why the woman had grabbed me. The fact that I'd seen her at the funeral made me strongly suspect that my abduction was somehow related to my investigation into Mr. Major's death. But who this woman was and why she would have felt threatened by my sleuthing, I didn't know. I couldn't even figure out how she could have been aware that I was looking into the matter.

But maybe the reason why she'd grabbed me didn't really matter. Whatever the reason for my abduction, I needed to escape.

Breaking my way out of the moving van or signaling for help no longer seemed like much of an option. The vehicle would have to stop at some point, though. My hands weren't of much use at the moment, but my legs could still kick. If I could manage to incapacitate my abductor once she had the back doors open, maybe I could buy myself enough time to get away.

Okay, so I wouldn't be able to run with my ankles cuffed together, but I could shuffle. And if there were pedestrians or passing cars nearby, maybe I could get someone's attention. Perhaps it wasn't the best plan in the world, but it was the only one I had.

Sitting there in the van, waiting as the dark-­haired woman took me farther and farther away from home, I had a hard time not letting despair take hold of me. I drew my legs up closer to me and wished I could somehow get a message to Detective Salnikova or JT.

Or anyone.

But it was pointless to wish for that. My phone was all the way back at my apartment building, abandoned on the pavement.

I thought of JT and pictured his face with his eyes the color of sunlit root beer, but that only brought a terrible ache to my chest, one intense enough to rival the pain in my neck. I couldn't think about not seeing him again, couldn't even contemplate the possibility.

I had to focus. I had to be ready to make my move, whenever I might have the chance, no matter how desperate it might be.

The woman hadn't spoken since her threat after catching me at the back doors and I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. In some ways I wanted more information from her, but in other ways I didn't. If I didn't know how bad my situation truly was, I could still hold out some hope. And hope was all the fuel I had.

After what seemed like well over an hour, the van made a final turn and came to a stop, idling in place. By then, the light outside had faded and through the tinted back windows I could see a streetlamp glowing in the distance. I wondered why we had paused, but as soon as the question formed in my head I knew the answer.

A familiar rumbling sound came from outside, lasting several seconds. As the rumbling ceased, the van eased forward and the already dim light coming in through the tinted windows faded even more. The van stopped and the rumbling started up again. We'd entered a garage.

From my spot behind the front seat, I watched the garage door lower behind the van, knowing that the closing door lessened my chances for escape. Behind me, my abductor climbed out of the van and slammed the driver's door shut. Less than five seconds later, the back doors opened. The muscular woman climbed into the van and advanced toward me. I tried to shrink away from her, but I had nowhere to go.

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled, dragging me toward the open doors and out of the vehicle. I nearly toppled over when my bound feet hit the garage floor, but I leaned one shoulder against the van and found my balance.

As soon as I wasn't in any danger of falling, my eyes darted about, taking in my surroundings as quickly as possible. I needed to find an escape route so I'd know which way to flee when I made my move. There weren't many options available. Only one, actually—­a side door to my left. Its dead bolt was in the locked position, but it was a more likely escape route than the large sealed door at the rear of the van.

My kidnapper slammed the van's door shut and grabbed my elbow, dragging me toward the side door of the garage. I decided to wait until she unlocked and opened it for me before making my move. That way I wouldn't have to fiddle with the dead bolt with my hands cuffed behind my back.

One big hand still gripping my upper arm, the woman turned the dead bolt and opened the door. I was ready to wrench myself out of her grasp, to drive my shoulder into her before attempting to flee. But as the door opened, I realized that my way to potential freedom wasn't clear.

Another woman stood on the other side of the door, illuminated by the yellow glow of an overhead light. Her dead-­straight, dyed red hair hung to her shoulders and her blue eyes held no warmth. As soon as I saw her, I knew for certain that my abduction was related to Archibald Major's murder case.

I knew that because the woman standing before me was Mr. Major's killer.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

“
N
ICE JOB,
B
ERNICE.
Stash her in the basement for now,” Frances Barlow said before leading the way along a narrow concrete path to the back of a house.

The burly woman maintained her grip on my upper arm and dragged me along behind Frances. While I now knew that my abduction had to do with my investigation into Archibald Major's murder, I didn't know why Andrea and Kevin's half sister wanted me out of the way. How could she have known that I was a threat, that I had information linking her to one or both of the murders?

Seconds later, I had an answer to that question. Although darkness had fallen during my trip in the van, a porch light illuminated enough of the house for me to notice something of interest—­purple siding.

I knew my location. I was barely a stone's throw from where I'd spoken to Janet the day before, from where her friend's dog had found Kevin's body. Either Frances or Bernice—­presumably her daughter—­must have been the one watching me and Janet with binoculars. Plus Bernice could have seen me at the graveyard, as I'd seen her. So they'd known about my snooping and maybe thought I was getting too close to the truth for comfort. Or maybe they just didn't want to give me the chance to get close to the truth. Either way, I'd obviously worried Frances.

All the bits and pieces of information in my head were like various parts of a musical score, coming together to create a symphony. More importantly, knowing my location gave me more hope. If I could only get away from my captors, I knew where I could go for help.

Unfortunately, getting away from Frances and her daughter would be no small feat. I considered trying to make a break for it right then and there, but I could only shuffle along, and it was two against one. Plus Bernice's grip on my arm was so tight that I had no chance of wrenching out of it.

As she pulled me toward a dark stairwell, I tried my best not to panic. She put an arm around my waist and half carried me down a short set of stairs and through a door held open by her mother. She continued to half carry and half drag me along a short hallway.

My eyes darted about, trying to assess my new environment, but there wasn't much to see in the dim yellow light of the hall. As we passed by an open door I caught a glimpse of a room with shelves holding an array of trophies. Pictures hanging crookedly on the walls in the hallway showed a younger version of Bernice accepting the prizes while dressed in what looked like wrestling gear.

A championship wrestler. No wonder she'd had no trouble overpowering me. Not that I would have been much of an opponent for anyone with decent-­sized muscles.

The thought had barely passed through my head when she shoved me into a dark room. One of my captors flicked a light switch, and I blinked as the room became bright. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I took in as much of my surroundings as I could in those first few seconds. I stood in a small powder room in desperate need of renovations. Discoloration marred the white porcelain of the pedestal sink, and the scarred beige linoleum flooring featured a large dark stain.

Most importantly, I noted that the room had no window.

“Get rid of the gag,” Frances ordered.

I couldn't help but flinch when Bernice stepped closer and reached toward my head. She untied the knot in the bandana and yanked the cloth from my mouth.

After coughing a few times I sucked in a deep breath and glared at Frances. “What do you want with me?”

A cold smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “I want you out of the way, of course.” Her chilling smile disappeared. “But first you'll tell me how much you know.”

Despite the aching and trembling of my body, I made sure my voice came out strong and steady. “I know you killed your father.”

Her eyes flashed with a disturbing glint, but I pressed on, a flicker of anger now fueling my words.

“I know you've been involved in community theater for years.” I recalled the picture I'd studied earlier that day, and the familiarity of one of the ­people shown in it. I'd missed that detail during my first examination of the photo, but it had ultimately revealed the truth to me. “You disguised yourself with a wig and glasses and insinuated yourself into Mr. Major's life as his companion and housekeeper, Marjorie.”

Bernice spoke up, a note of pride in her voice. “My mom's great with disguises.”

A murderer and her proud daughter. Great.

I'd have felt more comfortable passing the time with snooty Elena. But since I didn't have a choice about my company at the moment, I needed to focus on staying alive.

“Mr. Major never caught on?” I asked, hoping to keep them talking so they wouldn't harm me.

“Of course he never caught on.” Frances nearly spat the words out. “He'd never so much as seen a picture of me. Never wanted anything to do with me. The only reason I bothered with the disguise was so the police wouldn't put two and two together if they ever decided to question me.”

“Which they did, right?” I said. “Once they knew you stood to inherit under Major's will.”

Bernice made a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle. “They asked their questions and they went on their way. Mom had them completely fooled. They have no idea that she and Marjorie are the same person.”

The pride she had for her murderous mother turned my stomach, but I didn't have time to focus on my nausea.

Frances glared at me. “Or do they? How much have you told them?”

“Everything. They're probably on their way here as we speak.”

I hoped my falsehood would scare them into fleeing, leaving me to find my way to safety. That hope was dashed a half second later.

“You're a terrible liar,” Frances said, a cold, satisfied smile curling her lips. “Perhaps you should have tried acting classes.”

Her daughter let out another snorting chuckle. “Too bad you won't have the chance.”

An icy trickle of fear worked its way down my spine. “But why kill your father? And why go to such lengths?”

Once again, Frances's eyes flashed with a chilling, unnerving glint. “Don't you get it? My whole life, he denied that I was his daughter. I wanted what was mine, what I deserved.”

“You mean money?” I guessed, willing to bet she didn't mean a father's love.

“Of course I mean money.” She scowled. “But I couldn't just kill him outright. That wouldn't do me any good.”

“Because you weren't mentioned in his previous will.” I thought I was catching on.

“Damn right she wasn't,” her daughter put in. “The bastard.”

“So you needed him to write a new will. But how did you get him to do that?”

Frances's scowl transformed back into a creepy, cold smile. “I doted on the old crank. Agreed with everything he said and got him to like me. Then I told him my sad story about how my biological father had abandoned me, denied that I even existed, leaving me and my mother to fend for ourselves. It took time, but eventually I ignited a tiny spark of guilt inside of him. One day he confessed to what he'd done, to abandoning the daughter that resulted from his affair. I encouraged him to make things right by remembering her in his will.” Her unsettling smile broadened. “And he did. I waited a little longer after that and then put the rest of my plan in motion.”

“By putting
Brugmansia
in his flask.”

Frances shrugged one shoulder. “It was so convenient, with the plant growing right there on the patio. He couldn't have made it much easier for me if he'd tried.”

I shivered at her complete lack of remorse. “What about Kevin?”

“Troublemaker,” Bernice muttered. “I took care of him.”

Frances patted her on the arm. “That you did. And you did a good job too.”

Bernice beamed at her mother's praise and I shivered again.

“Kevin decided to check out his half sister,” Frances explained. “Tracked me down and followed me from my house to Bernice's house here. The real problem was that he wasn't quite as stupid as you might think.”

“He recognized you?”

“I caught him peering into my car when it was parked out front of Bernice's house. I'd left my wig on the backseat and when he got a good look at me, he put two and two together.”

“So you killed him.”

“
I
killed him,” Bernice corrected me. “Right here. And I dumped him in the woods later that same night. Which is what I'll do with you too, you nosy busybody.”

I would have bristled at her name calling if her threat hadn't muted me with fear. The stain on the floor beneath my feet was a bloodstain. My stomach clenched.

“Or close enough,” Frances amended her daughter's statement. She took a step backward, out into the hallway. “Come along, Bernice. We need to plan exactly what we want to do with her. I'm thinking the river might be better than the woods this time.”

Bernice speared me with her dark eyes once more before stepping out of the powder room and shutting the door. I listened as something heavy scraped across the floor out in the hallway. The powder room door rattled in its frame as whatever my captors had pushed or dragged bumped up against it.

“That should hold her,” Frances said, her voice only slightly muffled by the closed door.

Two sets of footsteps moved along the hall away from me, fading completely a few seconds later.

Once left in silence, I sagged against the stained sink, my head swimming with all the new information. Frances's story was so similar to Ernest's. Both had harbored anger and resentment toward their biological father. But there was a vital difference between the two half siblings—­Frances was a killer and Ernest wasn't.

But I couldn't waste any time thinking about the differences between Ernest and Frances, or all the details I now knew about the two murders. I needed to save myself.

Quickly.