Sting (13 page)

A
fter what Shaw had said, Jordie had difficulty looking him in the eye. In her peripheral vision, she saw him pull the familiar knife from his pocket. Then he stood there, waiting.

She wished she could muster the obstinance to make him wait, to make him order her, but she was too anxious to have her hands freed, so like an obedient and well-trained pet, she turned around. With an efficient snap, he cut through the cuff.

When she came back around, he was rummaging inside the trunk of the car. He returned to her carrying several things, including one of the unused camouflage-print bandanas.

“How many are you down to?”

“I have a few more.”

She wondered which would run out first, the bandanas or her time.

He passed her the bandana and a small bar of soap, the kind furnished in an inexpensive hotel, no larger than a wafer and still wrapped in glossy white paper. He then handed her a bottle of water. “Be frugal with it.”

When she realized that he was suggesting she wash, the idea of it was so appealing, she wanted to weep with gratitude. On the other hand, the extended kindness made her wary, and her expression must have conveyed that.

He motioned behind him. “As long as you behave yourself, you can have that half of the building, and I promise to keep my distance and my back turned.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn't.”

She looked past him into the gathering gloom at the back of the building. Although the early dusk would partially conceal her, the deeply shadowed space wasn't inviting. Being clean, however, was.

She stepped around him and walked into an area of the cavernous building where the darkness was deepest. At eye level on the rough wall, a two-by-four ran horizontally to form a narrow ledge. She unwrapped the soap bar and placed it there along with the bottle of water.

She glanced over her shoulder. Shaw was folding up the tarp, which she took as a good sign. He wouldn't be doing that if he planned on needing it soon. Nor would he be enabling her to wash. In any case, he wasn't looking her way.

Holding the corner of the bandana between her teeth, she pulled her top over her head, and, before she could talk herself out of it, peeled off her jeans. She had difficulty getting them past her sandals, but she wasn't going to put her bare feet on the floor if she could avoid it.

Really there was no difference between being in a bra and panties and wearing a bikini. But feeling exposed and vulnerable, she hastily poured a palmful of water and worked up a lather with the soap between her hands.

When she'd washed every place she could reach, she soaked the bandana and used it to wipe away the soap. With the last of the water she wet the cloth again, then went over herself a second time.

“Time's up.”

She froze and gave him another glance. His back was to her. He was pulling on his shirt. She called to him that she was almost finished.

“I'm counting down from sixty,” he said.

“That's not enough time for me to air-dry. The humidity—”

“Fifty-seven.”

She cursed under her breath and hurriedly pulled on her jeans. Her skin and underwear were damp. Even so, she felt considerably better. Trying not to dwell on the dried bloodstains on her top, she pulled it on and pushed her arms through the armholes. She scooped her hair from the neckline and gathered it into a ponytail, tying it with the wet bandana.

“Thirty-four.”

She reached for the bar of soap and, in her haste, dropped it to the floor. “Damn!”

“Twenty-two. Twenty-one.”

She crouched and groped along the floor looking for the soap.

But she discovered something else. Something completely unexpected.

Immediately, she recognized it for what it was, but if she hadn't been this close to it, it would have gone unnoticed, because it was stuck between the bottom of one of the vertical slats and another two-by-four that ran along the floor like a baseboard.

She took hold, but it was tightly wedged in the crack between the two pieces of lumber, which, despite their age, were unforgiving. She applied herself to pulling it free, but if she managed to, where could she hide it until she had an opportunity to use it? The timing had to be perfect. She would have to be close to him, and lightning quick, because she wouldn't get a second chance, so the jab would have to count and be—

“Ten, nine, eight.”

She gave one final tug.

“Seven. Six.”

“I'm coming.” She used her last five seconds to calm her breathing, then stood up and started toward him. “I feel much better, thank you. It was wonderful, truly. Who knew that a sponge bath could be—”

“What have you got behind your back?”

“Nothing. I'm just tucking in my top—”

She didn't even get the last word out before he was on her, turning her around and seizing her wrist. He pried open her fist. In it lay the bar of soap.

“I wanted to keep it,” she said meekly. “You may have fewer of these than bandanas.”

Her heart didn't stop thudding until he finally released her from an incisive stare. “I'm gonna eat,” he said. “You can or not.”

He let go of her hand and moved away. She trailed him, but her mind was on the weapon she'd had to leave wedged between the planks in the wall. In order to relocate it in the darkness, all she had to do was look for the empty water bottle she'd left at eye level on the makeshift ledge.

Her problem was going to be getting to it at all.

Jordie was up to something.

If Shaw hadn't discerned that the second she came toward him with that chipper smile and babbling monologue, the way she was wolfing down the beanie wienies would have been a dead giveaway. Her conversation was still lively.

“My skin was gritty with dried sweat. Didn't washing off make you feel better?”

“Nothing like cleanliness.”

“And now this fine cuisine.” She shot him a smile that was almost flirtatious.

Yeah, something was behind her change in mood and batting eyelashes.

She emptied the small can and licked the bowl of her spoon clean. “Want something else?” he asked.

“No thank you.”

He took the can from her, tossing it and his own empty into the trunk before lowering the lid. When he did, the light went out, and so did Jordie's fake smile.

She looked around with worry. “What happens when we lose all daylight?”

“It'll get dark.”

“But…we…we can open a car door so we'll have the dome light. Or keep the trunk open.”

He shook his head. “Too much drain on the battery.”

“I saw one of those big square flashlights in the trunk.”

“For emergency use only.”

“You could—”

“A light can be seen for miles, Jordie.”

“From as far away as the main road? How far is it from here?”

“No light.”

“So we'll just sit here in the dark all night?”

“You scared of the dark?” When she didn't answer, he said, “It's always dark when your eyes are closed.”

“I slept too long today. I won't be sleepy for hours.”

“Then I guess we'll have to think up something we can do in the dark. For hours.” He walked to where she sat on the upended crate. “Oh, sorry. Did that sound like another lewd innuendo? Didn't mean for it to.”

She shot him a sour look.

“Actually, I was thinking we could call Panella back,” he said. “That would kill some time.”

Watching her watch him, he replaced the battery in Mickey's phone and clicked it on. As the phone booted up, he studied her face in the minimal light of the screen. “What were you doing back there?” Using his chin, he motioned toward the back of the building.

“Taking a sponge bath.”

“What else?”

“I was avoiding the mouse droppings.”

“That's all?”

“What else could I have been doing?”

“I don't know, but I don't like surprises.”

“So you've said.”

She was looking straight into his eyes, challenging him. He got to the call memory and pressed his thumb against the screen, then put the phone on speaker.

Panella answered after the first ring. “All right, asshole,” he said in his garbled voice. “Two million.”

Jordie drew in a startled breath. Her lips remained parted. Her eyes seemed to dilate.

Panella was saying, “I've already notified an offshore bank that I'll be making a wire transfer in that amount. After I get indisputable confirmation of the kill, of course.”

“I'll text you a photograph.”

“No.”

“Didn't think so,” Shaw said. “So how do I confirm to you she's dead?”

“I'm making arrangements for that.”

“Um-huh. I'll bet you are. Like the arrangement for me that you and Mickey had planned.” When Panella didn't respond, Shaw said, “Not that I mistrust you, Panella, but I'm gonna require a show of your good faith.”

“What would show my good faith?”

“Half up front.”

“Forget it.”

“Half up front, or I take one of those options I outlined to you earlier.”

“Know what would show
your
good faith? If you'd stop screwing around and get the job done. Now.
Before
her double-crossing brother gets himself recaptured. It doesn't have to be fancy. I just want Josh Bennett to know she's dead. Soon.”

Shaw waited several beats, then said a brusque “I'll get back to you” and clicked off.

For the entirety of the conversation, he hadn't broken eye contact with Jordie. After he hung up, ponderous moments passed with neither of them moving, then she took off like a sprinter. He barely managed to grab her shirttail and hold on as he pulled her back. She came around swinging, her fist landing hard on his cheekbone.

“Goddammit!”
The pain brought sudden tears to his eyes. He lost his grip on her top, and she got several yards away from him before he lunged after her. He caught her from behind in a bear hug and pinned her arms to her sides.

“Stop it! Listen! You don't have to die!”

She kept struggling, until she realized the futility of her struggle and what he was saying sank in. Her ponytail swept across his face as she whipped her head around and looked at him over her shoulder. “What?”

“Are you gonna listen? Or act like a madwoman until you force me to shoot you just to get rid of you?” She didn't say anything but ceased straining to break his hold. Not completely trusting her capitulation, he relaxed the bear hug, but took her arm and pulled her back to the crate. “Sit down.”

She backed onto it, but looked ready to spring off it at any second, and he noticed the furtive glances she kept casting toward the back of the building.

He touched his throbbing cheekbone with the heel of his hand. The skin hadn't split, but it was swelling. “That hurt like bloody hell.”

“Don't expect an apology.”

He removed the battery from Mickey's phone, but as he slid the two components into one pocket, he withdrew another phone from his other pocket. Recognizing the Extravaganza logo on the case, she sat up at attention.

“That's mine.”

“That's right.”

“You told me you'd hidden it.”

“I retrieved it this afternoon while you were asleep.”

He opened the back of her phone and inserted the battery. “By powering it up, I'm taking a chance that the signal will be triangulated and bring the law right to us. But I want you to see something. Your fate really is up to you.” He clicked the phone on. When he got to her call log, he turned the screen toward her.

“Last night, nine twenty-three, incoming call. No ID, no number. But you called it back three minutes later, and again at nine forty-seven. I'm guessing that call was made while you were driving, because your house is several miles from that bar out in the boonies. At roughly ten o'clock you walked in and took a bar stool, looking as out of place as a frosted cupcake atop a pile of cowshit.

“Only one person would get you to a honky tonk like that in record time. Now…” He bent over her, bringing his nose to within inches of hers. “Where is brother Josh?”

She wilted. “That's my saving grace?”

“That's it.”

“Then I'm dead.”

“That's entirely up to you. You die or you live. I either take Panella's measly two million, or you direct me to Josh and his thirty.”

“I can't! I've told you a hundred times that I don't know where he is!”

“You also told me that nobody called you to that bar,” he shouted, shaking the cell phone near her face. “You lied about that, you're lying now.”

She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. He noticed the red marks and bruises on her wrists left by the cuffs, and that gave him a pang of regret, but he didn't let it stop him.

“Josh put in a distress call, didn't he, Jordie? An SOS. He asked you to come pick him up at that out-of-the-way bar.”

“No.”

“And drive him to a hiding place?”

“No.”

“Or maybe he didn't have a hiding place yet and needed your trusted input. Were you going to have a brother-sister confab and discuss options?”

“No.”

“Was he going to leave a message for you at the bar, let you know where he was headed?”

When she didn't reply to that, he tilted his head. “Was that it?”

“No.”

“Where was he going?”

“I don't know! Stop with the questions. You're only wasting your breath. I haven't talked to Josh. He didn't call me last night.”

“You're lying.”

She gave her head a firm shake.

“Then if it wasn't Josh, who did you talk to on the phone?”

“Nobody,” she said, but the turbulence in her eyes evidenced how fast the wheels of her mind were spinning.