The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) (15 page)

Driving back to town, Robert mulled over the choices as they appeared to him. He considered the option of just giving up on the story altogether. Just put what little solid evidence he had in a file and send it anonymously to some other hungry young reporter, eager to make his name. He dismissed the idea, however easy it might seem. Any repercussions from the mysterious Line aside, he was able to admit to himself that he didn’t trust anyone else to do the story right, to see it through properly. His ego wouldn't allow it.

So the next step would be to involve Eliza. It was time for him to stop hiding it, if only for the possibility that he might be hauled off somewhere by Agent Gumb and some cadre of black-suited goons. The danger would be great, but at least he would be able to share his burden with someone other than disheveled men who had nothing left but bad memories.

“Fuck!” he shouted, and hit the steering wheel. He couldn't put her in danger, and he wasn't even sure anymore if she would stick with him. In a moment of clarity, he realized that he had been treating her like shit and she would be dead right to just cast him off like so much dead weight. His throat ached with a sudden and familiar thirst that he tried to ignore.

He drove through the city with no clear destination in mind, the road just rolling out before him. He considered trying to get in touch with Line again, enlisting his help in getting the story out, but he realized it wasn’t feasible. Even if he managed to make contact without being caught, and if Line would even agree to it, there would be no credibility. An anonymous hacker and a lone journalist, with unnamed sources and hearsay along with a photo that might or might not be genuine. The story would be squashed before it even got told.

Robert pounded the steering wheel again. The wipers hammered back and forth across the windshield, leaving a second or two of clear sight before the road was hidden again behind a curtain of rainwater. He pulled in to a gas station and picked up a bottle of whiskey, the second cheapest they had. He sat back behind the wheel and took a deep gulp out of the bottle, followed by more of the same over the next couple of hours as he alternated between thinking about and trying to forget his problem at the same time.

*****

The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the passenger seat with the morning light in his eyes. He moaned and put a hand over his eyes, kicking the empty bottle with his foot as he moved to open the door. He got out and puked onto the asphalt, then had a look around.

He was on a road that he didn’t recognize, somewhere far out of the city. He squinted and could see Beacon in the distance below him, a gray and brown smudge in the surrounding green. He turned around and saw that he was parked near to a secluded driveway, overhung with drooping trees. He thought the tree limbs looked like spider legs.

He sat back in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, but the engine only coughed and spluttered. He tried again, to no avail, and punched the steering wheel. Then he got out, and after tucking his shirt in and brushing it down ineffectually, he walked down the driveway. The damp gravel crunched under his feet.

The closer he got to the huge house at the end, the more he felt that he had seen it somewhere before. It wasn’t until he got to the door that he remembered. It was the Mortimer house. He had seen it on a piece about some charity or other that the family was donating a large sum to.

He had only knocked once with the huge ornate knocker when it swung soundlessly open. Standing there was a man who looked to be in his late fifties, dressed in a tuxedo and waistcoat. He bent a little at the waist and stepped aside to let Robert in. He came to a set of open double doors that led into a drawing room.

He recognized all the people sitting there. Trevor and Sandra Mortimer, the wealthy couple who owned the house and most of Beacon according to rumor, sat together on one long sofa. To one side on a small chair was Agent Gumb, still wearing his sunglasses indoors. He smiled at Robert as he appeared in the doorway.

Senator Charles Frey, sat in a plush armchair, smoking a fat cigar and swirling a glass with some rich brown liquid inside.

“Mr. Duncan!” crowed Gumb, standing up to greet him, “what a pleasant surprise. Fancy seeing you here!” He laughed, holding his stomach as he did.

“So this is Robert Duncan,” Trevor said, sitting forward. “I must say, you’re not at all like I pictured. Please, have a seat.” He indicated one of the free seats in front of them. Robert moved slowly, pushing through the air like it was water, and fell into the comfort of the chair. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the four of them. Sandra nodded to the butler over Robert’s shoulder, and he heard the door clicking closed behind him.

“What the hell is this?” Robert asked, his voice rough and raspy. Sandra reached for a jug on the table and poured him a glass of water. He drank it eagerly, and his hand shook as he reached to put it back on the table.

“It would appear,” Frey said, “that fate has brought you to our door. Car trouble, is it?” His voice was silky, a voice that was easy to listen to and easier to agree with.

Robert stared at him. The smile on Frey’s face wasn’t like the one in the photo, but it wasn’t too far off, either.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be driving around in that condition. It’s an accident waiting to happen,” Frey said.

Gumb chuckled. “Yeah, he’s right, you know. I don’t know why you didn’t just stay at home. It’s a lovely place you’ve got.”

Robert made to stand up. Quicker than Robert’s eye could perceive, Gumb had his gun out and pointed at him. He sat back down, his hands still shaking.

“You fucking bastard,” he said in a soft voice.

Sandra tutted. “Mr. Duncan, please. There’s no need for profanity.”

Robert turned to the Mortimers on the couch.

“Do you know what he’s done? Do you know he has tortured children, probably still does?”

Trevor waved a hand at him. “Please, that’s just gossip, Mr. Duncan. Merely an attempt to tarnish the senator’s good name. Besides, even if it were true, we’ve all made mistakes.”

Robert’s mouth hung open. Frey chuckled and puffed on his cigar, sending a cloud of smoke up to the chandelier above them.

“What’s your part in this?” Robert asked the Mortimers.

“Our part?” Sandra said. “We’re merely contributing to the senator’s campaign to improve the country. It won’t be long now until he announces his candidacy for the highest office in the land, isn’t that right, Charles?”

Frey nodded. “Yes, indeed. I plan to do great things, when I’m elected. Wonderful things, that will benefit not only this country, but the world. It’s just a shame we have to deal with these gutter rats trying to sully anything of value.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Robert said. “I’ll tell everyone, about this little cabal here, about the kids, everything. They’ll lock you in the pervert’s wing of the prison.”

Frey chuckled, and the other three smiled. “I don’t think so, Mr. Duncan. In fact, I don’t think you’ll be reporting much at all, anymore. Was the water okay?”

Robert looked down at the empty glass, and noticed that his vision was beginning to blur. He suddenly felt dizzy, more than could be attributed to the hangover. He fell forward onto the floor, looking up into the eyes of a wooden snake that was holding up the table.

*****

The cold floor on Robert’s cheeks and the pounding in his head were his first sensations on waking up. He slowly, painfully opened his eyes and saw the layers of dust that were under his bed. His mind was sluggish, trailing its knuckles along the ground of his consciousness, trying to stand upright.

He got up and saw the ruin of the bed, and brushed the loose bits of foam and feathers that had clung to him while he had been unconscious. His head hurt, but in a markedly different way than a hangover. Images flashed in his mind of snakes and spiders.

He saw that his laptop was on the table in the living room, one unbroken item among many broken ones. The rest of the room looked like a localized earthquake had shaken the apartment. He opened the lid of the computer and saw a basic loading screen. The contents had been wiped, apart from a simple email application with an icon that was blinking to inform him of a new incoming mail. It was a forward of a press release from an anonymous address.

NEW PRESS SECRETARY FOR PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL

Eliza Rush, up-and-coming photojournalist, has recently been appointed to the Frey campaign’s press division. It is this publication’s opinion that she is more than qualified for the job, having produced numerous high-quality pieces for some of the top news outlets. Her undercover work has garnered special praise...

He heard a sound rising in volume, and realized it was coming from his own throat. He put his head back and screamed at the ceiling. He stood, sweeping the laptop onto the floor as he did. He overturned chairs and the living room table. He threw pictures and empty bottles at mirrors and walls. Then he stopped cold, and went outside to his car.

It was parked in its usual spot, and he threw open the driver’s side door. The envelope that he had gotten from Line was there, on the passenger seat, now dog-eared and used-looking.

It was also completely empty.

“Sergeant Baker?”

Andrea gripped the phone in one white-knuckled hand and twirled a pen with the other. She was staring at a blank spot on her living room wall as she spoke.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

There was a brief pause.

“Paula White, Internal Affairs Bureau,” she said, almost snapping the pen as she clenched her free hand.

Baker cleared his throat on the other end of the line.

“Yes, Ms. White, what can I do for you?”

“Please, call me Paula. I’m calling about a former colleague of yours down there, Richard Lyons.”

There was another minute pause before he answered.

“Look, he’s not down here anymore, he got bumped up to Beacon as part of that program.”

“We’re aware of his recent transfer, Sergeant. In fact, it’s my understanding that you were the one who put him forward for it.”

Again a pause. “What’s this about?”

Andrea covered the mouthpiece and breathed deeply before speaking again.

“Well, Sergeant, we’ve received some unsettling complaints, and I wanted to get some background on him. Just to be sure. Have you ever had any incidents or reports about his behavior?”

Yet another pause.

“Not really, no.”

“Not really?” Andrea sat forward, her feet coming down from their perch on the table with a thump. She thought she heard Baker swear faintly.

“No, we never had any of that. He was a good cop, still is, I’m sure.”

“Sergeant, I’m going to be straight with you. It was on your recommendation that he was tipped to be promoted, and he worked under you. I’m sure you understand the implications. If it comes down to it and he’s found guilty of any wrongdoing, you’ll also be investigated for dereliction of duty, at the minimum.”

Baker exhaled loudly into the phone, and Andrea could imagine his face filling up with red. She waited to see if she had overstepped or not, holding her breath.

“There was something,” he said in a quiet voice.

Andrea’s pulse quickened.

“There was a guy who wanted to make a statement. Said that Lyons had hurt this girl and then tried to pin it on him. But the guy was a fruitbat! He had already kidnapped three girls. I just figured he was trying to get the arrest thrown out, or some shit.”

“You never investigated?”

“No. I didn’t believe him. I still don’t. There’s scum out there that will try anything to get out of trouble. You should know that better than most, Ms. White.”

Andrea’s mind was racing as she thanked Baker and promised to keep him in the loop, hanging up before he could ask any questions. She flipped open her phone to call Cap when his number appeared on the screen. She frowned and answered it.

“Cap? I’ve got something on—”

“Nox! Oh, fuck, Nox, she’s gone!”

Andrea stood up, spilling the few papers open in front of her. His voice terrified her.

“Cap, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“It’s Karen! Somebody’s taken my daughter!”

*****

Andrea arrived at Captain Hugo Slade’s house, skidding to a halt just by the door, crushing the flowers that occupied a patch of earth near the driveway. The air was thick, heavy with the impending deluge that hung over the city. Black clouds hung like tar in the night sky. She pushed on the front door and it swung inward.

Cap was on the couch, his back to Andrea as she entered. The living room was dark apart from one small lamp that was lit next to the couch, illuminating a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Cap?” Andrea asked softly.

“He’s taken her. He’s taken my baby girl.” He turned to Andrea, and when she saw his face she took one step back. His eyes were red and puffed up, and his face looked like it had taken on the pull of gravity and been defeated. He looked ancient, broken and lost. A memory surfaced of a poem she read at school about a mariner who had killed a bird and was cast out on the sea as punishment.

“Who? Who’s taken her?”

Cap looked at her with his wounded eyes. “I don’t know. They have to have been watching, they knew when she would be here alone. Marcy was out. I was at the station. When I got home I found this on her bed.” He held out a piece of paper to Andrea. She came forward and took it from his outstretched hand. She read the handwritten note silently.

Slade,

I know your first instinct will be to call this in, but I wouldn’t do that. Not if you want her to at least have the chance of an open casket. I’m watching, and listening.

There were some numbers and letters written at the bottom of the note. Andrea thought she recognized some of them.

“What do these numbers mean?” she asked.

“They’re mine and Marcy’s phone account numbers, and some of the radio frequencies we use. He really is watching and listening. She’ll be dead before the first response team gets to them, if they can even find them.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry.”

There was a knock at the door. Andrea looked at Cap, but he didn’t seem to have heard it. He was looking at a spot on the floor. She had never seen him so defeated.

She turned and opened the door. There was a young girl of around seventeen there with bright blond hair falling around her shoulders. She frowned at Andrea.

“Hi,” the young girl said. “Karen home?”

Cap called out from the couch, his voice cracking. “Jessie? That you?”

The girl pushed past Andrea and into the living room. “Mr. Slade? What’s going on?”

Cap sobbed once, the sound ripping at Andrea’s heart with sharp talons. “Karen’s missing. She’s... she’s been taken.”

Jessie’s eyes widened until it seemed they would roll down her cheeks and onto the floor. She put one hand to her mouth and then walked to the sofa to embrace Cap. “Oh, my God, Mr. Slade, I’m so sorry. What can I—”

She stopped mid-sentence.

“Have you got your computer, Mr. Slade?” she continued.

Cap frowned, the furrows deep on his forehead. “Yeah, why?”

“Get it for me.”

Cap heard something in her tone, an authority that didn’t match her youth, and walked in a daze to the kitchen to get his laptop.

“What do you have in mind, Jessie?”

Jessie turned to Andrea. “Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Nox; I work for Karen’s father. What’s your idea?”

Jessie shook Andrea’s hand as Cap came back and put the laptop on the living room table.

“Me and Karen, we...” Jessie paused, looking down at her feet.

“What is it, Jess?” Cap asked, tension leaking into his voice.

“I don’t want to get in trouble,” Jess said.

Cap took two steps forward and picked Jessie up by the shoulders, pinning her up against the wall. “Out with it, you silly little bitch! Karen could die!” he screamed. A moan answered him from upstairs.

Must be Marcy. What a fucking night.

Jessie started crying. “I’m sorry, Mr. Slade, but we go out to the clubs sometimes! To hook up.”

Cap put her down, looking from Jessie to Andrea and back to the young girl. “I don’t get you. What does that have to do with anything?”

Jessie sighed, the sobs subsiding, then sat on the sofa and picked up the laptop. “Well, we wanted to be safe.” She sniffed and ran her forearms under her nose. “In case something happened, you know? So we got these GPS strips for our ring
s―
”

Andrea frowned. “GPS strips? Where the hell did you get those?”

“I know a guy over at Beacon Uni who is like, a genius at electronics, he did it for us. That way, even if we lost our phones and stuff we could still be found if...” Cap looked at her, a horrible hope lighting up his eyes.

“Well, get the coordinates! Now, for Christ’s sakes!” he shouted.

Jessie nodded, her fingers flying over the keys for a few seconds before a simple map appeared on the screen. There was a pulsing red dot. It was on the docks, out by the last pier.

Andrea took her phone from her pocket and put it beside her on the hall table. She reached for her gun, but realized she had left it at home. Cap saw her reaching and went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He removed a six shot revolver with a big barrel and pressed it into Andrea’s hands.

“If she’s alive, you blow him away,” he whispered in her ear, “and if she’s gone, I want that fucker alive. Understand?”

Andrea nodded, and ran to her car.

*****

When Andrea arrived at the gate that led onto the pier, the rain was falling, filling up the empty space between the earth and the sky. The wind was calm, letting the rain fall where it would. She got out of the car: the gates closed in front of it. She wrenched them open with some effort, grunting and cursing, water flying from her head as the piece of metal holding the gate in place popped out. She pushed them open and they swung out in a lazy arc to their resting place. She walked in, leaving the car parked there in the entrance with the lights on, illuminating her path and silhouetting her against the concrete.

She reached the edge of the stone pier and looked down the long quay to her right. The waves beat softly against the stone just a few feet away. She saw the boat bobbing up and down near the end where the stone jutted into the water, that last piece of man-made land until the ports on the island far out in the bay. The name was sinking and rising with the movement of the water:
Elsewher
e
.

She checked around her and saw no other boats, no sailors or sketchy dock workers carting off contraband into an idling truck. She started her way down to the end of the pier, her coat wrapped tight around her, her hands in her pockets, her right wrapped around the butt of the gun, the left around a small silver flashlight. When she got near enough to see, she shined the light onto the deck of the
Elsewhere
. The immediate image was of rust and rope piled around wet wooden barrels. There were two figures on the boat, both with their backs to her, looking out over the ocean. The figure closest to Andrea seemed to be holding the other near, as if to whisper something in the other’s ear.

She saw the handcuffs swinging from a belt.

“Turn around, slowly!” Andrea called out, raising her weapon out of her pocket and pointing it at the people on the boat as she switched on the flashlight.

The one Andrea now suspected was police turned very slowly, holding the other person out in front of him. Andrea registered the blond hair lying limp and wet against an exposed collarbone. She saw with quick, hot realization the knife held to her throat.

She saw the gold badge of the Beacon City Police Department on the hip of the man holding the knife, and the shiny eyes and thin grin.

“Lyons,” she said, her tone a strangled sound.

“You just couldn't keep your suspicions to yourself, Detective,” Lyons said, his eyes never leaving Andrea’s. The girl was wide-eyed, completely and utterly lost in her terror, the possibility of rescue not even considered yet. She breathed in and out rapidly, her chest heaving up and down, her gaze somewhere behind Andrea. “Kids often end up paying for their parents' shortcomings. She'll be paying for yours as well.”

Lyons’ grin stretched out the bottom half of his face. Andrea opened her mouth and closed it again. She was a lap or two behind in her head, trying to accept the shock of who she was facing down the barrel of her gun, even though she had known somewhere back in the recesses of her mind.

She came back to the present suddenly, feeling her mind click into place like a soldier snapping to attention. He was the killer they’d been looking for, and he had been beside them all along. That meant he was even more dangerous and cunning than they had allowed for. Than she had allowed for.

“So you figured it all out, well bravo to you. A fantastic show of investigative skill. I honestly don't know where I went wrong. Any tips?” Lyons giggled, then shook the rain off his head. The words came to Andrea through a buzzing sound that filled her head, a torrential rage washing over her brain. She saw flashes of images, the bodies, the crime scenes they had found. He had been right there, the whole time, behind his twelve-inch grin. She had shared his bed.

She breathed steadily for a few seconds, and control inched back. She would have to be very careful now, her instinct told her. He was obviously a master manipulator, and if she let him get inside her head now she and the girl would both be dead before long. Her curiosity couldn't be completely repressed, though, and she had to ask.

“Why?”

“Why? Jesus, you are so fucking predictable. What, you want to hear about Daddy? About the private sessions with men in suits in secret places? The things they did to us?”

Andrea frowned, rainwater dripping from her brow. “Us?”

“Ah, so boring. You're interested in the wrong things. The wrong questions. I thought you were smarter.”

Andrea's mouth moved, soundless, rain getting on her tongue. She tasted her own sweat, her own fear, and in the back of her mouth, the sharper taste of anger. Anger that she had been fooled, that she was down here facing off against Lyons on her own, trying to talk him down from whatever he wanted to do.