No Remorse (45 page)

She checks her watch. One thirty five.
Come on!
She presses the talk button and the tiny radio inside her ear canal crackles. The battery’s already shorted once this evening from the rain. “Any luck, Wayne? I’m catching a death here.”

Detective Wayne Dern, one of her two backup guys, replies: “Hahaha, catching a death. Good one, Kase. We’re about four clicks away. Mallard’s just turned onto the main road out of town. Heading your way, but don’t get your knickers wet just yet. I’ll get back to you.”

This is the third location they’ve tried tonight. The backup team would drop her well ahead of where Lenny Mallard was cruising, then circle round to follow him at a distance. They’ve put a GPS on his van, so they’re able to track him from a distance. And they have a helicopter on standby. But all the technology in the world can’t force Mallard to drive a route that will take him past where she’s waiting. He’s an unpredictable bastard, and street smart, which is why he isn’t behind bars, although Police in three states suspect him of involvement in at least five missing girls.

Another car stops beside her. She shakes her head and takes a photo of the plate with her phone as the guy drives off. There’s been no shortage of offers; in the past hour alone, five drivers had slowed or stopped. She knows that in her flat heels and five-foot-six height, with her small face, bottle blonde hair and long ponytail she looks considerably younger than her twenty-nine years. According to Wayne, self-proclaimed expert in such matters, she has “slurry appeal”, which he explained once means she is easy on the eye and has a flirty smile, sleepy eyes, and a way of standing that tilts her head suggestively as she flaunts her boobs and booty. Wayne recently transferred to Serious Crimes from Vice so he’s a graduate in Slut Studies.

Most of the guys who’ve stopped for her so far are probably harmless. Lonely guys, maybe good samaritans even. But you can never be certain. After a few minutes of innocent conversation driving along, you might suddenly be confronted by the lurking demon. At best, propositioned for sex. At worst, raped and murdered. All of the vehicles she photographs will be followed up later for priors, and whether they’re on the sex offenders' register.

A few more minutes pass, seems like hours. Then finally, her earpiece tingles again. Mallard’s about a minute away, Wayne tells her. About bloody time, she thinks, as the adrenalin kicks in. Headlights appear in the distance. Kasey moves to the verge and stretches, deliberately exposing her navel, then steps onto the roadway and thinks naughty thoughts, smiles, and sticks out her thumb. The slurry routine.
This is it, sweets. You’re on stage.

Mallard’s van drives straight past her without slowing.

Fuck!
She drops her arm.
Rejected!
Her shoulders slump with the burden of failure.
Did he even see her in the rain? Has she been too forward?

Then, moments later, the van slows and comes to a stop down the road. He starts backing up.
Thank God.
Must have changed his mind after checking her out. She grabs her pack and lugs it a hundred meters or so through the rain to meet the van. Leans down by the passenger window.

He's got the window open just a fraction. Not committed yet. The door will be locked, she knows, and she doesn’t even try the handle. He could easily be spooked and drive off. Strange, she thinks, he’s playing Enya. She spots a crucifix and a rosary hanging from the rearview. Despite the blurry glass, she recognizes his face from the mugshots. He’s actually quite good looking, which somehow makes things worse. The wedge of jaw accentuates his strong neck, and prominent cheekbones and droopy eyelids give him a laid-back appearance that's obviously deceiving. His ears have no lobes like they’ve seen too much rugby. It's definitely Lenny Mallard.

“G’day,” Kasey shouts above the music, not wanting to steer the conversation in any particular direction. She pitches her voice a little higher than normal to sound younger, less authoritative, and gives him a big, warm smile. The stud through her left eyebrow will tell him she's enough of a rebel to be hitching alone at this hour of the night.

“Where you headed, baby?” Mallard’s tone is friendly and he’s dressed neat casual—light blue shirt, khaki chinos. Appears a safe bet for a hitchhiker, and that makes Kasey more nervous. This guy is smart, and cautious.

“Anywhere friggin’ dry would be good, mate. Goin’ to Airlie. Truckie just dropped me here. Asshole wanted me to blow him while he was driving! Not even safe, that’s not. You a cop? Look like a cop.”

Lenny returns her grin. “Electrician. Just finished my shift at the hospital. Can take you as far as Noosa. Bed in the back if you wanna rest. You wanna chat, throw your gear in and hop in with me. Got a joint if you don’t mind sharin’. No pressure, hey.”

“Cool. Might sit up front, ‘cause you got no windows in back. What’s your name, love?”

“Lenny. Hold on, I’ll help with your gear.”

“Oh, you don’t need to—” she begins, but Len’s out the door and hoofing it around the back of the van.

Mallard slides open the door and for a moment she tenses. Inside is a mattress and about a dozen speakers.

“Like a little music while you play around, eh?” Kasey gives him a cheeky grin and heaves the pack onto the mattress.

Mallard has moved up behind her and she feels the prick of a sharp object jabbed against her back.

“Ow!”

“Don’t move.”

“Please, don’t hurt me!” Her voice is shaking. She stops breathing and stays absolutely still.

“Give me your phone.”

She removes her fanny pack and passes it to him. “Take it. And my cash. All in there. Just please, don’t hurt me.”

“Now, you got two options, baby,” he says. “Get in as you are, or after I shove this knife in your kidney. Choose.”

Even though she’s been expecting some kind of ambush, she’s surprised how scared she is. She’s shaking, partly from restraining her urge to lash out, but she’s also afraid. This guy has killed before. Shaking is okay, though, because he’ll think he’s got her stitched up. Underestimating her has been the downfall of a good number of scumbags.

“Please,” she whimpers as she climbs in the back, “I’ll do anything you want. Anything…”

“Oh yeah, baby. You surely will.”

Mallard slams the door shut and locks it. There’s no handle on the inside.

Kasey feels like she’s inside an alien stomach. The back of the van is as dark as a lava tube and there’s a solid Plexiglas partition separating her from Mallard up front. He pulls back the curtain and his nasally voice comes through the speakers like the ticket-seller at a train station. He’s puffing on a joint.

“Just relax, baby. Welcome to the Trawler. I’m not gonna hurt you, long as you behave and do what you’re told. Got a couple of hours drive ahead of us, so just lie back and enjoy it.” He coughs a laugh and pulls the curtains shut.

She fights back the urge to panic as a bleak fear envelops her along with the blackness. Then she realizes she’s not in immediate danger and fear gives way to exhilaration. She’s got this far. Now all she needs to do is trick him into confessing.

“Hey!” She tries to provoke a response. “Hey! Why are you doing this? Let me out! Please!”

The music is turned up, drowns out her yelling. Damn. She needs to get him to listen to her, and reacting like a normal captive obviously isn’t the right strategy. The back of the van is padded, probably soundproofed against captives screaming for help. The van takes off and rumbles along, rocking back and forth to Enya’s synthesized reverbs. It has a sweet, putrid scent like rotting fruit and another underlying metallic aroma, like freshly caught fish. Or dead flesh.

The backup guys know she’ll call in if she starts to feel at all woozy, like he’s gassing her. She begins to feel around, to get a sense of her space. Her left hand brushes against two metal rings bolted to the chassis, and she flushes with outrage at how they could been used before. In the front top corner of the compartment, her fingers touch a smooth semicircular plastic box like the cover of a security videocam. She doubts it would have an infrared capability, but she surreptitiously checks the Glock tucked down her left sock and boot to make sure it’s out of sight.

“You okay, Kase? Just give us one-word answers if you can risk it,” Wayne says. Now she’s been taken, they’ll have called for the helicopter.

“Fine,” she whispers, speaking with her face between her knees.

“We’re about two clicks back.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll check in every ten minutes. Jesus, is he playing Enya?”

“Mmm.”

“Don’t forget to switch on the recorder.”

“Yeah.”

Leaning against the back of the van she drags the backpack closer, like a security blanket. She’s kind of surprised he’s allowed her to keep it. In one of the pockets she finds the audio recorder and, careful not to pull it out, switches it on. In the darkness, she takes off the wet top and pulls out a dry shirt and towel. After drying herself, she puts on the fresh shirt. She can’t change the wet bra though, her microphone is sewn into one of the straps.

Now she waits, analyzing scenarios of how the rest of the night might play out.

She begins to feel light-headed. The cargo compartment must be airtight, and she’s taking shallow breaths, trying to conserve air. She’s located a small vent flush with the Plexiglas and wonders if it’s for air, or possibly something more sinister? She’s called out a few times, rapped on the partition, but her kidnapper has ignored her.

After almost two hours the van slows, turns sharply and accelerates again along a bumpy track. The music is turned down.

“Still awake, baby?”

“Please. I can hardly breathe. Can you stop for a moment to let in some air? And I need to go to the toilet.”

“Baby, you make a mess in my van and you’ll be eating shit for dinner.”

“You all right?” Detective Danny Campbell, the other backup, says through the earpiece.

She can’t risk answering, so she addresses Mallard. “You don’t need to do this. I’ll cooperate. Blow job, anal. Whatever turns you on…”

“Jeez, if only my wife would say that…” Wayne says, contravening radio procedure. Inappropriate too, in the circumstances. She’ll give him stick back at the squaddie later, although she knows there’s no malice intended.

“Just shut the fuck up, lady,” says Mallard. “I don’t want to know what a fucking slut you are. Takes all the fun out of it.”

At last, he’s given her an opportunity. “What do you mean? You…you’ve done this before?”

Mallard laughs. “Enough to know what I like and what I don’t. Just relax, baby. You’ll get there soon enough.”

“Oh my God? How… how many times have you grabbed girls, like with me?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. I know what I’m doing. Might let you see my trophies later. If you behave. What’s your name, baby?”

“Trophies? What trophies?”

“Listen, baby, just answer the fuckin' questions—don’t ask them.”

Mallard's breathing hard through his nostrils. He's upset. Is that good? Will he more likely slip up angry, or aroused? Seems to clam up when he’s angry. So…

“Okay, I'll be good. Name's Catherine… but they call me Candy. You know, like, eye candy.” She gives a nervous giggle. “And if you treat me nice, and I’ll treat you
extra
nice.”

“Now, that sounds more like it. Just watch the slutty talk.”

“Lenny’s a cute name. You heard of Knuckles Breen from up the Cross? Guy with the huge hands. And you can guess what else… Grabbed me like this a couple of years ago. Tied me up and did stuff. Let me go after, ‘cause I was extra nice. Helped him find another girl, I did. Watched what he did to her. Fuck, got me hot.”

“You’re fucking shittin’ me.”

“I’m not, but. Knuckles, he doesn’t like it when girls are all over him. Likes the hunt. Girls that aren’t really, you know, willing? Know what I mean?”

Silence. The bastard must be thinking about this.

The van suddenly revs high and rides a hump on the track. Kasey launches and falls heavily, her head cracking against one of the metal rings. Sparks, stars in front of her eyes. She grabs the rings as they vehicle bucks and weaves like it's sloshing through mud.

“Not much further now. I’m getting hot just thinking about you, Candy. You hot, baby?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fucking hot,” Kasey yells. “There’s no fucking air in here, BAYBEE!”

The van slows. They’ve been on the track about thirty minutes. The van stops. The engine dies. Kasey feels her heart rate jump. Something’s about to happen.

“Stopped,” she whispers into the radio. She reaches for the Glock. “You close?”

“We’re on the track. It’s as muddy as hell. Should’ve brought a four wheel drive. The chopper can’t land anywhere close, either. Too many trees.”

After a few moments, Mallard pulls the curtain back, switches on the light and turns to regard her through the acrylic. He’s smoking another joint and gives her a stoner grin.

“Welcome to your new home, baby. We’re gonna have some fun, you and me. I want to hear more about how you helped this other guy. Maybe you could help me get another girl or two. But first, you gotta show me what you got. Strip off and move away from your pack so I can see you proper like. You open up, then I’ll open up, got me? Have to tie you up for a while, ’til I know I can trust you.”

“You can trust me, honey. I’ll be good, I promise. I’m not like other girls.” She puts on her cutest voice even as she tightens her grip on the pistol, anger rising as she contemplates others who’ve been in this situation. Even with backup, no way is she going to allow him to tie her up.

“Yeah, you might be different. Still can’t let you out without making sure you don’t go all crazy an’ stuff on me. Take off all your clothes, so’s I can see you’re not hidin’ anything. When I slide the door, I’ll have a shotgun pointed at you. You have even your panties on, I’ll blow your hands off. Then you’ll blow me, hands or no hands.”

He leans down, and there's a soft hissing. Kasey feels a draft. Air, or some kind of gas is coming through the duct. “What’re you doing?” She presses the radio button so the backups can hear. “Don’t gas me!”