The Kill (45 page)

He had no concept of what time it was—no idea how long he’d dozed off—but he figured it had to be morning by now. It seemed as though hours had passed since Thompson left, though living in complete darkness took away one’s sense of time. So did lack of nourishment. It wasn’t that he felt like eating, but his stomach grumbled noisily for food and his throat felt as if it was lined with sandpaper.

The scraping sound was unremitting. A slow back-and-forth, with an occasional screech. He cocked his head, angled to hear better. Suddenly, the door burst open and light flooded the room. Blinking against the brightness, Manning saw his mother drag her bound arms down the sink leg and scoot to face away from the sink. They locked eyes and he raised an eyebrow, but she just gave a slight shake of her head.

“Time to rise and shine,” Thompson said, swinging the door closed. His muck boots squeaked on the cement floor, leaving muddy treads as he crossed the room.

“Look here, Manning. I brought you breakfast.” He plunked a bottle of Early Times whisky on the stainless-steel developing table, then reached down and tugged at the tape on Manning’s face. His mouth tightened with annoyance as the strips stuck together.

“See, that’s the problem with duct tape.” Thompson whipped a box cutter out of his back pocket. “It’s a sticky little bugger.” He slid the blade to the locked position, then whipped it across the tape behind Manning’s ear. White-hot pain shot down Manning’s neck.

“Oops. Looks like I nicked you,” Thompson said, ripping the strips of tape from Manning’s face. “Don’t worry. There won’t be time for infection to set in.” He balled the duct tape into a wad and tossed it into the utility sink like a basketball. “And he scores!”

Manning clenched his jaw against the searing pain, exchanging a look with Margaret. If Thompson retrieved the tape from the sink, would he see what Margaret had been working on? She must have had the same thought, because she leaned back and rested her head against the center of the sink basin.

Thompson unscrewed the cap on the whisky. “Sorry I couldn’t spring for Maker’s Mark, Manning. I’m on a bit of a tight budget these days. But I figured beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Manning yanked his head back as Thompson pressed the bottle to his lips.

Thompson chuckled. “No sense trying to be virtuous at a time like this. Consider it your last supper.” He waved the bottle slowly in front of Manning’s face. “Come on. You know you want it.”

The brown liquid sloshed in the bottle, sending Manning’s thirst spiraling. And not just for something wet. He’d fought like hell not to drink booze since Abigale had arrived, but the sour mash aroma kicked his longing into high gear. His licked his parched lips but clamped his jaw shut.

“Come on.” Thompson shook the bottle enticingly, the way you’d try to lure a dog with a treat.

Manning turned his head to the side. “Get that the fuck away from me.”

“Sorry, not an option.” Thompson grabbed a fistful of Manning’s hair, yanked his head back, and jammed the mouth of the bottle between his lips. Whisky glugged out, flooding Manning’s mouth, and he gave in for a moment, let the beautiful burn sluice down his throat and quench his thirst.

No!
Manning shoved aside the craving and fought the urge to swallow. Whisky pooled in his throat, gagging him. He whipped his head to one side, then the other, broke Thompson’s grasp, and pulled away from the bottle. Thompson jumped back as Manning choked, spewing a mouthful of whisky. As Manning coughed, gasping for air, he tried to wrap his mind around what Thompson was doing. There was more to this than Thompson giving him his “last supper.” There was a reason Thompson wanted him drunk.

“Careful, some of that went down the wrong way,” Thompson said. He set the bottle on the table. “I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath.”

Manning’s chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded in a strangled whisper.

Thompson flashed a cold smile. “We’re going on a road trip. And you get to drive.”

“You want me to drive drunk?”

“Something like that.” Thompson grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Time for round two.”

Even though Manning knew what was coming and fought like hell not to swallow, a healthy dose of whisky slid down his throat. Thompson waited until Manning stopped sputtering, then crammed the bottle in his mouth again. And again. A numbness crept over Manning, robbing him of his strength—even his desire—to fight. He felt the edge melt off his pain, ratcheting the throb in his arm down to a bearable ache.

“There you go. It feels good, doesn’t it?” Thompson set the bottle down. “Just wait a minute. Don’t get too greedy.”

Jesus Christ
. Manning closed his eyes and felt the room begin to spin. What the hell was Thompson up to?

Thump-thump-thump
. As Manning’s eyes flew open, he saw his mother kicking her feet against the floor.

“What’s the matter, Margaret? Do you want to say something?” Thompson asked.

Her eyes flashed at him.

“Okay. Certainly. I didn’t mean to exclude you from the party.”

Thompson knelt beside her, avoiding skin this time as he sliced the duct tape with the box cutter. He stripped the tape from her mouth. “Sorry, there’s just no easy way to do that.”

Tears glistened in Margaret’s eyes, but a fierce determination steeled her face. “What are you doing, Thompson?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“You’re getting Manning drunk. Why?”

Thompson rose, then spread both hands against the developing table. “The two of you are going to suffer an unfortunate automobile accident.”

A chuckle vibrated in Manning’s throat, exploding into a hearty laugh. “That’s your brilliant plan to kill us? Get me drunk and hope I get in an accident? I’ve got news for you, Thompson, I have a fair amount of experience driving drunk. We just might survive.”

“No. You won’t. You see, it’s raining like a son-of-a-bitch outside. Flood warnings are in effect for the entire D.C. area until midnight tonight. The waters are raging in Goose Creek. Add the slick roads, a drunk driver, and you have a tragic combination. If the crash doesn’t kill you, the floodwaters will.”

A
bigale checked the wall clock in Margaret’s kitchen. Again. Three o’clock. And still no sign of the furnace repairman. She’d rushed over there shortly after nine a.m. when she’d received a text message from Manning asking her to go to Margaret’s to meet the serviceman. She’d spent the day lounging around with Duchess, watching television. Waiting.

At least Manning was on his way back home. She still hadn’t spoken to him, just received a couple of text messages. But he’d promised he’d be home by dinnertime. She couldn’t wait to tell him about her meeting with Dario. And she also wanted to get his take on the photo she’d captured of Thompson entering Dartmoor Glebe. Abigale had tried calling Thompson earlier, but there was no answer at his house or on his cell and she didn’t want to leave a voicemail. She had sent Manning a text with the picture, even though she doubted he’d be able to see much viewing it on his cell phone. He had texted her back, asking why she’d sent the photo, and she’d replied that she’d tell him when they spoke.

Abigale’s cell rang and she snatched it up, relieved to see Manning’s number on the Caller ID. “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me.”

“I’m so glad you finally called. Where are you?”

“On our way home.”

The call was full of static, but even so, Abigale could tell Manning’s voice sounded odd. Strained. “It’s a bad connection. I can barely hear you. Are you driving in bad weather?”

“Kind of.”

“It’s pouring rain here. There are all kinds of flood watches. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Manning’s tone was flat. Abigale wondered if he and Margaret had been arguing. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Jus’ tired.”

Was he slurring his words?
“How far away are you?”

“Uh, I dunno. A ways.”

He
was
. “Is Margaret with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s driving?”

“Me.”

“Manning, have you been drinking?”

“Lissen, I’ve gotta go, Abby. Just—”

“What?”

“Develop your pictures.”

Develop her pictures? What was he talking about? She used a digital camera. Manning knew that.

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Can I talk to Margaret?”

“She can’t talk right now.”

Dread dropped like a lead weight in her stomach. She couldn’t talk? Was Margaret really with him? She couldn’t imagine Margaret letting Manning drive drunk. “God, Manning, I’m worried about you driving. Maybe you should spend the night wherever you are and drive home in the morning.”

“I can’t. Abby, lissen to me, okay? Know the photo you sent me of the hunt horn?”

“Yes.”

“R’member that day you lost it and I rode back to get it in the storm?”

“Of course I do.”

“Think about that.”

What did that mean?
“I don’t understand, Manning. Are you saying you’ll be okay driving even though it’s raining? It’s not the same thing. And you’re not eighteen years old anymore.”

“Jus’ think about it. I’ve gotta go. I love you, Abby.”

Abigale felt her world start to spin. Manning had never told her that before. “Manning, wait—Manning?” He was gone. She punched redial, but the call went immediately to voicemail.

She paced the kitchen, cell phone clutched in her hand. Something was wrong. She was certain Manning had been drinking. And he’d sounded so down, said things that made no sense. Developing pictures? And mumbling about the hunt horn? Why had Manning chosen this time to tell her he loved her? It was almost as if he was saying goodbye. She tried to push away the horrifying word—
suicide
—but it buzzed around her mind like a pesky fly. She had to find out if Margaret was with him.

She called Margaret’s cell phone. Voicemail.
Damn it!
She scrolled through her list of calls, pressing redial when she found the number for the kennels. She’d spoken to Smitty last night, after she’d received Manning’s text asking her to let him know that Margaret was staying in Pennsylvania overnight. Smitty hadn’t known anything about Manning and Margaret looking at hounds in Pennsylvania.

“Hello?”

“Smitty, hi, it’s Abigale. Have you heard from Margaret?”

“Hello, Abigale. No, I haven’t. Have you?”

“No. I just spoke with Manning.”

“You sound upset. Is something wrong?”

Abigale hesitated. Should she tell Smitty that she thought Manning was driving drunk? That he sounded depressed? “I’m just worried about him driving in this weather.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. The roads are flooding something awful. I’d feel a lot better myself if they weren’t in that sports car of his.”

Manning’s sports car? “Are
you sure they’re not in Margaret’s truck?”

“Sure as I’m standing here. I just drove right past it; it’s still parked in front of the barn at Dartmoor Glebe.”

“That makes no sense. I assumed they drove Margaret’s truck to Pennsylvania.”

Smitty chuckled. “You ever driven Manning’s BMW M Coupe? It’s a right bit more fun to take on a road trip than a truck.”

“Maybe, but what about Manning’s broken arm? Shifting gears?”

“He’s been driving it. Must be he’s making out all right.”

“But that was before he had Kevin cut his cast off.”

“Well, where there’s a will there’s a way. I can’t imagine Manning wanting to drive Margaret’s old truck. And even though she’d never admit it, I think Margaret gets a kick out of riding in the BMW. Besides, if they’re on the highway, there ain’t much shifting involved.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Will you call me right away if you hear from either of them?”

“Sure will.”

“Thanks, Smitty.”

Abigale grabbed Margaret’s hunt directory and sank down on a kitchen chair. Duchess, who had been eyeing Abigale anxiously from her dog bed, lumbered over and flopped down by her feet with a weary snort. “I feel the same way, girl,” Abigale murmured, patting her on the head.

She felt a little better after talking to Smitty. Maybe there was nothing to worry about beyond the safety of the BMW on flooded roads. Still…the whole trip just didn’t make sense. She flipped through the hunt directory until she found the listing for Thompson. She hadn’t wanted to call him at the office to ask why he had a key to Dartmoor Glebe, but she didn’t mind interrupting him at work to ask about this. If he could shed some light on the hound trip, she’d feel a whole lot better. She pressed the keys for his office number.

“Good afternoon, Knightly and Knightly.”

“Thompson James, please.”

A few seconds ticked by. “Just a moment.”

Abigale rubbed Duchess’s stomach with her foot while she listened to elevator music.

“Hello, who is this?” a man’s voice demanded.

It didn’t sound like Thompson. “Abigale Portmann.”

“Why are you calling here for Thompson James?”

Abigale hesitated. Maybe Thompson wasn’t allowed to receive personal calls at work. “I need to speak with him. It’s a bit of an emergency.”