Terrified (30 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: Terrified
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Her cell phone rang. Megan quickly grabbed it and glanced at the little screen. The caller ID showed Candy’s number. Megan clicked it on. “Hello, Candy?”
On the other end, she heard a high-pitched squeaking noise. Megan covered her other ear with her bandaged hand so she could hear past the traffic noise. “Candy, is that you?” she asked.
Then she heard a click. Megan realized it wasn’t Candy hanging up. It was that scratchy old tape recorder again—the one Josh’s abductor used.
“Aunt Lisa?”
Candy’s voice came over the tape. It sounded as if she’d been crying.
“Aunt Lisa, he knows. Glenn’s with me now. We’re at my apartment—in Fremont, 1229 Leary Way. He—he wants you to come here at once. He says if you don’t get here by three o’clock, he’ll kill me—and he’ll have his partner kill Josh… .”
On the scratchy tape, Candy gasped, and then broke down sobbing for a moment.
“He means it, Lisa. By three o’clock, he said, not a minute later. Please, hurry … 1229 Leary Way, the top floor, Unit 5D. I’m sorry… .”
There was a click. Megan could tell it was the tape recorder switching off. Someone was still on the other end. “Glenn, is that you?” she asked. “Are you there? Glenn, why are you doing this? It’s me you want… .”
She heard a second click. This time, she knew he’d hung up, and no one was there.
Megan turned and hurried back to the car. She kept repeating the address to herself as she started up the ignition, backed out of the space, and peeled out of the lot. The Fremont neighborhood was about six or seven miles away, but it was on the other side of town. She had less than forty minutes to get there. It probably took twenty minutes on a good day. But so far, this hadn’t been a good day.
Megan drove toward Western Avenue along Elliott Bay. She figured it was the fastest route to the Fremont district. Still, there would be a lot of stoplights.
She kept a tight grip on the steering wheel with her one good hand as she turned onto Western. The wipers intermittently squeaked against the windshield. The road, which ran between the Seattle Viaduct and the piers, was full of tourist and ferry traffic. To her frustration, Megan never inched past twenty-five miles per hour on the speedometer, and she caught every damn red light. The cars in front of her seemed to take forever to realize when the lights turned green. Some idiot in a car ahead of her was probably texting or on his cell phone or lost. There couldn’t be any other reason why they were going so slow.
By the time she passed the ferry terminal, it was 2:38 according to her dashboard clock. She wasn’t even halfway there yet. Tears in her eyes, she pressed on past all the tourist areas. As the road curved to Elliott Avenue, she heard the
ding-ding-ding
of a railroad crossing gate. “Oh, God, no, please, this isn’t happening,” she murmured. The crossing was about half a block ahead, and she considered passing the cars in front of her and weaving around the gates before the train passed through. But it was too risky. The oncoming freight train blasted its horn, and the gates were down. She stayed in her lane and stopped with everyone else. Three cars idled in front of her. From what she could tell, the freight train was about four city blocks long, and it merely crawled by.
Megan took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She searched through her purse and found the cell phone from work. Then she reached into her sweatshirt pocket and took out a folded-up slip of paper with Candy’s and Glenn’s cell phone numbers on it.
She took one more deep breath and pressed the numbers on the cell phone. It was the first time she’d telephoned her husband in nearly fifteen years.
Listening to the ringtones, Megan watched the train pick up speed as it churned by. The crossing gate warning still chimed out. But she could clearly hear a click on the other end of the line as it went to voice mail.
“I can’t pick up right now,”
Glenn said on the recording.
“Leave a message, along with your phone number.”
It was an innocuous greeting, and yet Megan felt her stomach lurch just hearing his voice again. She waited for the tone. “Glenn, it’s me,” she said evenly—though she found it hard to breathe. “What are you doing? Josh and Candy haven’t done anything to you. They’re totally innocent. For God’s sakes, let them go. It’s me you want. If you’re so bent on hurting me, then fine, come after me. But Josh and Candy are innocent. They’re your family. You were always talking about the importance of family. And now you’re threatening to kill them. What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you …”
A beep tone cut her off. Was it him clicking in, returning the call? She wasn’t certain. With the phone to her ear, Megan listened for a moment. Then a recorded voice came on:
“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need assistance, dial the operator… .”
She clicked off, and watched the last few cars of the freight train pass by. She stashed the phone back in her purse.
The crossing gate opened, and the cars started moving again. Megan merged onto Fifteenth—another long, busy stretch of road with four lanes and several traffic lights. She got lucky and caught only green lights for the first three signals, speeding through them at nearly forty miles an hour. But then she got stuck behind a semi, which blocked her view of anything else in front of her. She tried to build up some speed to merge into the other lane. Suddenly, the semi stopped. Megan slammed on her brakes. The tires screeched on the slick, wet road. The Taurus still careened toward the semi’s bumper. Her purse flew off the passenger seat and fell to the floor. The car managed to stop just inches from the back of the truck.
Megan’s heart pounded furiously against her chest. She reached down toward the spilt contents of her purse and snatched up her cell phone. She set it on the empty passenger seat. After a minute, she still hadn’t gotten her breath back, but she noticed the traffic in the lane to her right started moving. The light must have changed, but the semi didn’t budge. “C’mon, for God’s sake, please,” she cried.
Finally, the truck rolled forward. Megan almost cut off another driver switching lanes. She got the horn and the finger, but managed to merge in front of the truck. Pressing harder on the accelerator, she flew ahead and watched the speedometer needle shoot up to forty-five miles an hour—ten over the speed limit. She sailed through several green lights. Then about a block ahead, she saw the light at the Ballard Bridge turn yellow.
“Oh, no, the bridge …” she muttered, pushing the pedal down even further. The signal turned red as she shot through it. Speeding over the wet, grated gate, the car reverberated and there was a loud deafening roar. The gate had already gone down behind her. She passed over the center of the bridge and watched the gate in front of her begin its descent, too. Megan swerved around it. For a moment, she thought the car might tip over as she jerked the wheel to one side and steered back into her lane.
Spotting the turnoff to Northwest Leary Way, she slowed down and got off Fifteenth, thinking any minute now a policeman would be on her tail. The dashboard clock read 2:51.
Uncertain where the building was, Megan desperately searched for address numbers on the storefronts and buildings along Leary Way. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel. Past the raindrop-covered passenger window, she spotted the number 1206 above a mini-mart. It was close enough. She pulled over into the first available space along the side of the road.
Switching off the ignition, she grabbed the cell phone, and shoved it in the pocket of her sweatshirt. Then she reached under the seat for the revolver.
It wasn’t there. Her hand frantically groped around, but she still didn’t feel anything except the underside of the seat. Then she realized the revolver had probably shifted when she’d almost collided with the semi. She glanced under the dashboard and found it—next to the brake pedal. She tucked the revolver in the waist of her jeans, and then pulled her sweatshirt down to cover it.
The neighborhood was a slightly funky, former industrial area with newly constructed townhouses amid some slightly rundown shacks. Megan noticed a small pizza joint, a tattoo parlor, and then a dumpy, neglected storefront that had antique vacuum cleaners, TV sets, and standing lamps on display.
JODEE’S JUNKTEEKS
&
APPLIANCE REPAIR
said the slightly faded sign above the door—along with the address number, 1229. The shop was in a classic, narrow brick building—with four more stories above it.
Megan crossed the street. The entrance had an ornate iron grate to cover the big window in the door. She pushed the door open and stepped into the lobby. A windowed door to the shop was at her left—with a calligraphy lettered sign displayed behind the glass:
CLOSED—SEE YOU LATER—JODEE
! The black-and-white hexagon tiles on the floor were slightly chipped in spots. On the wall to her right she noticed an old-fashioned set of brass mailboxes; and beside that a buzzer panel with nameplates.
C. Blanco—5D
was listed on the bottom.
Megan decided to head on up without announcing herself. She didn’t see any stairs, but straight ahead was an old freight elevator. She opened the door and stepped inside. Covering one wall was an old, gray, padded blanket—the kind movers wrapped furniture in. Megan pressed number 5 on the panel. The button lit up, but the elevator didn’t move. Megan realized she had to close the inner accordion gate to activate it. She pulled at the handle, but the gate didn’t budge. Then she glanced down at the floor and noticed a knife stuck in the grate. Maybe it was supposed to be there; maybe it was holding something together. But she took a chance and dislodged it. Setting the knife in the corner, she shut the gate. Something clicked, and with a loud hum, the elevator started its slow, rickety ascent.
Megan checked her watch: 2:55. She was five minutes early. As she stared at the passing floor numbers on the doors, Megan felt sick to her stomach again. She nervously touched the revolver handle under her sweatshirt. She knew she was walking into a trap, but she didn’t have any choice. Glenn held her son hostage—along with Candy now.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. She slid the accordion gate to one side, and then pushed open the outer door. One of the overhead lights sputtered in the dim, windowless corridor. Behind her, the elevator made a clicking noise and the hydraulics hummed again as it descended. Megan saw the door to unit 5D was open a crack. She heard a cooking show on TV. Someone was talking about making brine for chicken.
She knocked on the door, and it squeaked farther open. She stepped inside. “Candy?” she called apprehensively. The TV volume was on loud, and some music kept chiming from another part of the apartment. It sounded like someone’s cell phone ringing to the tune of The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.”
The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Dirty dishes covered the counter of the kitchenette. In addition to the loud TV, the living area had an old sofa with a bedroom pillow at one end and a pile of laundry at the other. The mini-blinds against the big window were closed, leaving the room in a murky, gray darkness. A tall brick-and-board bookshelf stood against one wall, displaying a number of elaborate glass pieces—obviously Candy’s creations. Next to the homemade shelves sat a desk with a computer monitor that had a fish tank screen saver. The desk chair had been tipped over. And the purse Candy had been carrying earlier was lying on its side with half the contents spilled out on the weathered hardwood floor.
“… then when we’re done with that, we put the chicken in the smoker for fourteen hours, and just let it soak up that mesquite flavor,”
the woman was saying on TV. The cell phone had stopped ringing.
A big folded-out screen, which looked like three louver doors hinged together, created a separate bedroom area behind the sofa. Megan slipped her hand under her sweatshirt and took out the revolver. Peeking around the tall screen, she looked at the unmade full-size bed. A clunky antique lamp—probably from the nightstand—lay across the bed with its big shade dented and askew.
“… that’s what keeps it so succulent and juicy,”
the woman on TV continued.
“It’s really worth all the extra time and effort, don’t you think?”
Megan’s focus shifted to the bedroom floor, where an ashtray must have been knocked off the nightstand along with that lamp. Cigarette butts were scattered around. A few of them were in a puddle of blood by the bathroom door.
“Oh, Jesus, no,” Megan whispered.
All at once, the cell phone rang again with its rendition of “Every Breath You Take.” That wasn’t Candy’s phone. Megan had heard Candy’s phone ring when they’d been in the art studio’s break room and Glenn had texted her back. It had just been a normal ringtone. This phone was ringing on the other side of the bathroom door. She knew some of the song’s lyrics:
Every move you make … I’ll be watching you …
For a moment, Megan stood there frozen. Finally, she turned the knob and opened the door. She stared in horror at the trail of blood on the tiled floor—leading to the bathtub. The shower curtain was open.
Someone was slouched low in the tub—with one leg hanging over the edge. Megan recognized Candy’s denim work overalls.
She braced a hand against the tiled wall. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Careful not to step in the blood, she made her way toward the bathtub. The phone kept playing that tune.

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