The Avenger (31 page)

You think so?

Olivia realized she should've flattered, not challenged him, acted impressed with his Latin facility, poor as it was. She shouldn't have called him on his out-of-context remark. His face twisted in an ugly grimace right before it shut down like a smooth slate erased of all emotion.

"If you turn yourself in, they'll give you leniency," she reasoned. "You have to let the police help you."

"Putasne?"
he repeated and barked a harsh laugh.

"I know Sheriff Slater and Agent Holt. They'll see that you get a fair deal."

He bent over her as she sprawled on the floor. "No one will give me a fair deal, Olivia," he spat. "No one will understand my mission."

"If you stop now, explain yourself," she argued, "things will go easier for you."

"Nunquam!"
he shouted as his sinewy arms reached for her.
Never!

Olivia scrambled to her feet and tried to make it down the hallway, to the bedroom where she could lock the door against him. But she tripped on her own awkward feet.

Never.
The single word resounded like a death knell as she crashed to the floor, her body pinned beneath the suffocating weight of him. A quick, sharp sting in her thigh baffled her and her limbs flopped cloddishly as he turned her over. Howard's face leered above her, his lips close to her mouth.

She ceased struggling and then ... nothing.

#

Jack catapulted himself down the last path – westward. Ten miles down that road he smelled his nemesis. This adversary was his target. The scent of Olivia was strong this way. Unrelenting, the enemy had hunted and had her in captivity.

Invigorated by the lust of the hunt, Jack leapt forward, closing the distance between them. Ahead, he spied the vehicle and caught the Olivia-scent laden with sweat and anxiety. He smelled fear coursing through her veins, but underlying that, resilience and determination.

Good, she was keeping her wits about her.

Olivia wouldn't be the goat sacrificed on the altar of the killer's ego. She'd fight back. And when her efforts were useless against her monstrous abductor, she'd fight some more.

Jack's dream-eyes made out the vehicle license plate and caught the highway signs that showed the direction the car traveled. He glimpsed the thick, straw-colored hair that lay at the back of the enemy's neck. Sensed the malevolent purpose that blackened his heart.

Every instinct commanded Jack to race toward the killer who held Olivia captive. But he couldn't. First, he had to be released from the dream-vision state. With wrenching effort, he forced himself back into his own body.

He awoke, prostrate on the living room floor.

Shaking his head like a wet dog, he tried to rouse his lobotomized brain from the combined effect of the drug cocktail he'd taken. He should have taken the Phens, but he was afraid they would counter his ability to find Olivia. He fumbled for his discarded cell phone and punched in the number, but his voice was controlled when he spoke.

"Where the hell are you?" Slater shouted and then continued without waiting for an answer. "Based on Ted's testimony, we got a judge to sign an arrest warrant for Randolph, but he's nowhere to be found. And that's not all."

"I know. Olivia's no longer at Isabella Torres' apartment," Jack said, his voice flat.

"You should get back here, Jack. I've got a BOLO out on both of them, but we have no idea where Randolph's taken her." Pause. "Or if he's the one who's taken her. Could be that ex-husband. Or even Diego Vargas."

Jack carried his phone into the bedroom where he wrestled with a pair of cut-off sweats and a gray, sleeveless tee shirt. "No, it's Randolph. Don't worry. I'll get her. I know where she is."

"How the hell ... where?"

Jack flipped the phone closed without answering and pressed the off button. Better that he wasn't interrupted during the next several hours. He retrieved the medicine vial and swallowed half a dozen more red pills. He wanted his hunting instincts to be rapacious. Not dulled by human feelings.

He told himself that this hunt was just another assignment, nothing more. Not the most important mission of his life. Not the one to save the only woman he'd ever loved.

Less than a minute later, clothed only in shirt, shorts and athletic shoes, he grabbed the car keys to the Blazer and followed his instincts. Sooner or later, he'd have to abandon the vehicle and track by foot, but for now, his instincts would guide him to Olivia and the killer.

Glancing up through the windshield, he grimaced at the thin jack-o-lantern grin of the moon swinging insanely in the sky.

One madman chasing another madman, he thought wildly, while a third one watched from above. He stepped on the accelerator and the car sped forward.

Chapter Twenty-seven

When consciousness returned, Olivia's eyes fluttered open to complete darkness. She sensed rather than saw a cramped interior and felt the claustrophobic confinement around her. She lay on her right side, her arms clasped around her knees and her knees pushed up against her chest.

When she tried to stretch her legs, her feet banged against a hard surface. She groped over her head to feel cool, smooth metal. Beneath her, she touched what felt like coarse woven fibers – carpet, she guessed. She inhaled the distinct odor of gasoline and exhaust fumes. She was lying in the trunk of a car. Not her car, she surmised. Not Howard's little sports car either. The smooth, quiet murmur of the engine belonged to a larger automobile.

A surge of adrenaline shot through her body and drove out reason. Too many movies about kidnapped women stuffed into car trunks where they couldn't move or breathe. Where they died. She had to get out of here!

Breathe. Stay calm. Don't panic.

Obeying her own commands, she inhaled deeply through her nose and slowly blew the breaths out of her mouth until she gradually relaxed. Contrary to what she imagined, the air in her tiny prison, though redolent of oil and gasoline, was clean. No noxious fumes wafted up to choke off the oxygen. She felt cramped, but otherwise, seemed unharmed.

The car suddenly lurched. Then the steady thrumming of the wheels beneath her. For about five minutes – though she had little sense of time in her dark box – the car traveled steadily on smooth pavement. She tried to identify passing landmarks. At intervals, a tiny stream of light signaled the passing of lighted areas, a gas station or restaurant. She peered through the darkness at her wristwatch, but there wasn't enough light inside the trunk for her to see the non-luminous dial.

What seemed like an hour later, the terrain changed and she felt the rougher bump of a different road, the frequent start-and-stop jerks of the vehicle. Stop signs? Had they left the city? Were they driving through a residential area? Or were they traveling on county roads, notoriously less well paved?

In a little while, she noticed a gradual climb, the automatic shifting of the gears as the car made its way up an incline or a sloping mountain. Howard drove steadily upward, the speed moderate, the road rough. Not freeway, she thought although their speed seemed fairly fast, over fifty miles per hour.

Where was he taking her?

The bastard had drugged her, she thought, in a rush of fury. She recalled the needle prick high on her leg. How did Howard know about drugs and syringes? Her naivety emphasized how little she knew about her kidnapper.

He must've followed her or someone at the jail had leaked the information. But why had he chosen her for his sick games? What part did she play in his crazy religious scheme?

Did he count on her staying asleep during the entire journey? Or would he be expecting her to pounce from the trunk and fight back once he released the lid? He'd have to open the trunk at some point. Else, why kidnap her? Jack said the DLK was organized, planned. She was sure Howard would have a plan for her. But what?

Cramped, sticky, and exhausted, she listened to the relentless drumming of the engine's motor and the rum-rum-rumming of the wheels on asphalt. Hours must have passed by now. She dozed at one point, and was finally roused from her stupor by the slowing of the car and the distinct crunching of tires on gravel.

He was stopping! Suddenly alert, she strained to listen. The sound of the engine dying, the faint clank of metal, the gurgle of liquid, like water being poured from a jug. He was filling the gas tank.

She forced herself to think logically.
Distance.
He'd driven far enough to require another tank of gasoline. What was that? Two hundred miles in a big sedan? Less, if he'd started without a full tank. No, Howard was far too methodical not to have planned for this.

Without thinking of the consequences, propelled only by the need to survive, she twisted from her side to her back and thumped her bare feet against the trunk top as hard as she could. If they were in a public place, someone had to hear the noise. But her leverage and angle were all wrong, and in the small space, she couldn't put enough power into the kicks.

She yelled as loudly as she could. "Help, someone help me! I'm in here!"

"Shut up, Olivia." Howard's voice was close and so deadly calm that she instantly closed her mouth and abandoned all hope of attracting attention.

"No one can hear you," he continued in the same speciously controlled voice, "and if you continue with such unseemly behavior, I will open the trunk and slit your throat."

Howard's words, spoken with such aplomb, such cheery declaration, chilled her far more than any ranting or screaming could have done. She froze. She hardly breathed. Sweat dripped from her hairline and pooled in the creases of her neck. Her hands were clammy and her stomach roiled in the first waves of nausea. She felt hopeless for the first time since Howard had burst through Isabella's front door.

A few minutes later, the car eased across gravel and began its steadily increasing speed toward what would surely be Olivia's slow and painful death. Her brain worked feverishly. Where would he take her? Someplace private, isolated. She shivered in the cooling trunk interior.

Howard would want to be alone for whatever he had in mind.

#

The Judge and Myron Higgins were the only passengers on the plane besides the pilot and copilot. Warren wasn't happy making this unplanned trip to California. He'd given up field assignments years ago, and he was too damn old to start up again, he thought, as he patted the shoulder holster under his arm. But he was still a crack shot and he'd do whatever needed to be done. He scowled and puffed on his cigar.

The Learjet 29 had been specially modified by expanding the long-range fuel tank. The alterations diminished the passenger capacity, but Warren wasn't taking a crew anyway. With a strong tail wind, the plane landed in record time – four hours after leaving Baltimore.

Dr. Davis' recent findings alarmed the Judge. If, as he suspected, Jack was taking mega-doses of the lysergic acid compound, he could be in serious trouble. Damn fool probably wasn't taking the Phens either, which would intensify the problem.

Fortunately, the mad scientist had developed an antidote. Trouble was, Jack needed to take the serum within twelve hours of his last stepped-up dosage of the red pills.

Holt was the best agent Warren had ever recruited, and he had no intention of losing such a valuable commodity.

As soon as they landed at the Sacramento International Airport, he put a call through to the Bigler County Sheriff. When the connection went through, a deep voice barked into the phone. "Slater."

"Sheriff Slater, this is Warren Linders."

A pause during which Warren imagined the Sheriff was putting the name with the position. "What can I do for you, Judge Linders?"

Warren liked the calm, easy-going tone of the Sheriff and the fact that he knew him. It'd make cooperation easier. "I think we can help each other. I need to find Jackson Holt ASAP."

"And that would be because ... ?"

"I'm gonna save the damn fool's life."

An hour later four of them, including a pretty young ADA, were in a patrol car headed for a reclusive spot where Slater speculated the killer had property. Sheriff had better be right because Warren had no idea where Jack was.

He wanted this ended today. The DLK assignment had gone too damn long.

#

The sudden absence of noise – the thrum, thrum of the tires on asphalt followed by the crunching of gravel and jarring of wheels dipping in ruts – ceased. The silence was deafening.

Olivia strained to listen, taking in shallow puffs of breath, alert for the tiniest sound, but heard only the smooth, gentle hum of the engine. Nothing else, not even the opening of a door or the crunching of footsteps on gravel or the rustle of leaves in the wind. The anticipation of impending doom held her fixed like a deer caught in headlights.

She tensed her muscles and waited.

Suddenly the engine turned off. She thought she heard the slick whisper of cloth against leather. Slacks sliding across the car seat? Then the slamming of a car door. She tightened her body, gauging how quickly she could lash out at Howard with a strong, swift kick. She curled her hands into themselves, tightened her legs, and readied herself for battle.

Nothing.

She strained again to hear his footsteps. What was he doing standing there? Waiting for something? Someone? Did Howard have an accomplice? Ted Burrows! Was that pervert Ted part of her abduction? She remembered the ugly anger of his threat at the jail house. Was this her payback?

No, couldn't be. No matter what, Slater wouldn't let Ted go free.

After what seemed like endless minutes, she heard the quiet tread of soles on hard ground, the sound diminishing by the moment. He was walking away from the car, away from her. She heard the altered noise of the steps, a crunch and rustling as if he'd walked from packed dirt into leaves or underbrush. The sounds grew fainter and fainter until she couldn't hear anything at all.

Then silence descended like the weight of a boulder on her chest.