The Lonely Mile (24 page)

Fifteen seconds later, he eased up to the siding, pressing his body between the two windows and exhaling, only now realizing he had been holding his breath. He picked a window at random and peered into the dark interior of the garage. It appeared as empty as the house. The lights were off, and no movement disturbed the stillness.

Directly across the inside of the garage was a door to the main house, probably into the kitchen, or maybe a laundry room or mud room. Gardening tools stood against the walls, along with an assorted detritus of rural American life littering the garage, but Bill gave none of it more than a preoccupied, passing glance.

Of much more interest to him was the vehicle parked in the middle of the bay. It was Martin Krall’s truck.

CHAPTER 50

May 28, 4:02 p.m.

SPECIAL AGENT ANGELA CANFIELD cursed the remoteness of the road leading to Martin Krall’s home. Her Bureau Caprice leapt over a ridge, airborne for a moment before bottoming out as it landed, the car’s frame screeching and scraping over the cracked pavement of the narrow road. Angela didn’t know much about what sort of equipment was under a car but she doubted it would all survive the trip. She sped grimly on, hoping none of what broke off would be necessary for the continued operation of the vehicle.

There were no speed limit signs posted along this God-forsaken cow path, probably because they were laughably unnecessary. Any rate of speed above twenty miles an hour was nearly impossible to maintain, and right now, Canfield was somehow keeping it up near forty-five.

Things were going downhill fast—”becoming a goat-rope,” is how her partner Mike Miller would have described it, and while Angela wasn’t sure what a goat-rope was, or how a goat-rope was any worse than any other kind of animal rope, she couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. It really
was
a goat-rope.

She risked a glance at her watch. It was stupid to take her eyes off the narrow road at these speeds in these weather conditions, suicidal even, but she just couldn’t help herself. It was 4:02. Three minutes after she had last looked. Angela wondered how far behind Bill Ferguson she was. It mostly depended upon if Ferguson had jumped into his car and headed here immediately upon leaving Ray Blanchard’s office. If he had done that, she would likely be too late.

But what were the odds he would have come here immediately? Chances were he would go home and prepare. He would retrieve his gun, assuming he didn’t already have it with him, of course, and then probably toss some supplies into a bag. It was what she would do under the circumstances. If he had done that bit of prep work, then she figured she might have time to get there just before everything went sideways, not that it wasn’t already.

The right, front tire of the big Bureau-issued Caprice sank into the sandy shoulder, slewing the vehicle to the right, toward the massive trees of the thick, primeval forest. Instinctively, without even realizing she was doing it, Canfield babied the wheel to the left and eased off the gas, waiting until all four wheels had returned to solid ground—relatively speaking—before once again stomping on the accelerator and regaining much-needed speed.

A few drops of water struck the windshield, fat and loud, advance scouts for the army of rain that was undoubtedly about to follow. Great. Angela Canfield cursed again, hoping she would not be forced to run through the rain but accepting that she probably would. It was just her luck.

She rounded a corner going much too fast and nearly plowed into the back of Bill Ferguson’s van. She stood on the brakes, watching as the other vehicle loomed in the windshield, becoming cartoonishly large, certain she would not be able to stop in time. She envisioned herself stuck inside the wreckage of the car as the drama played out a couple of hundred feet away inside Martin Krall’s home, and she cursed again. Then her Caprice bounced to a stop, the front bumper just kissing the rear of the van, both vehicles lurching once before settling.

Special Agent Canfield leapt out of her car almost before it had stopped rocking, drawing her weapon and cutting across the deserted road at an angle, moving toward the dilapidated house ahead in an all-out sprint.

CHAPTER 51

May 28, 4:05 p.m.

A QUICK INSPECTION OF the window frame through the dirty glass showed thumb locks securely fastened on both windows, but Bill could find no contacts or any signs of wiring that would indicate the presence of an alarm system. He set his backpack down on the ground and knelt next to it, unzipping the canvas bag and rummaging through the items he had taken from his store less than an hour ago. The moist wind whipped his hair, and his sleeves flapped uncontrollably.

He found his glass cutter and lifted it out of the bag, then stood and faced the window to his left. He pressed a small suction cup to the pane of glass directly above the lock’s thumb latch, adjusted a small screw setting, then quickly ran the razor-sharp diamond-tipped blade of the glass cutter in as wide a circle as possible.

He dropped the glass cutter into the backpack and took out a small hand towel. He wrapped the towel around the knuckles of his right hand and tapped sharply on the window pane in the center of the circle he had just scored. A small piece of glass roughly the size of an Olympic medal popped out of the window and dropped to the cement floor on the inside of the garage. Bill cringed, waiting for the glass to shatter and for Martin Krall to come running into the garage to investigate, undoubtedly carrying the Glock he had brandished last week at the rest stop.

Neither happened. The glass struck the floor on its side like a coin being spun on a table, made several wobbly revolutions, and came to rest under the window. Bill quickly reached through the hole he had just made and thumbed the latch, then pushed up the entire bottom unit. He picked up his backpack and put it back on, then hoisted himself up and clambered inside the garage, hoping he had been right about the lack of an alarm system.

His feet hit the floor, and he stood silently, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky dimness of the garage’s interior. Although it was daytime, it had gotten so dark outside that precious little light penetrated the windows.

Before trying to get into the house, Bill thought he’d better check the interior of the truck, on the off chance Carli was being held inside the enclosed cargo box. It seemed unlikely, but who knew how Martin Krall’s disturbed brain worked? He walked to the box truck, Browning held in his right hand, backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled open the back door of the cargo box, and his jaw dropped in amazement. Now he understood the significance of the truck to Martin Krall.

Inside the cramped space, Krall had custom-built his own, portable, mini torture chamber. On the right side of the cargo area, a small metal-framed cot sat bolted to the wooden floor, outfitted with sturdy leather straps with adjustable buckles which, presumably, were used to immobilize the arms and legs of his victims. A ball gag, attached to an adjustable Velcro strap designed to fit around the backs of his victim’s head, hung on the side wall next to the cot. Traces of a stain, faded to a dull, brownish color but still clearly recognizable as blood, covered the cot’s thin, filthy mattress.

Bill thought about Carli and his blood ran cold.

Rage and fear jockeyed for position as the dominating emotions inside Bill Ferguson’s skull. The fear was sickening, paralyzing. It screamed at him.
Carli’s dead. You’ve found her too late. She suffered degradation and humiliation and terrible debilitating pain at the hands of the sick bastard
.
You’re too late!
He bent over, hands on his knees, and thought he might be sick right there on the floor of Martin Krall’s rolling torture chamber.

Then he refocused his mind on Carli, on the sweet, all-American Girl exterior that belied the tough little fireplug within. If anyone could go up against this perverted sociopath and come out alive, it was Carli. He would not believe she was dead. He would not acknowledge that possibility until he saw the evidence with his own two eyes.
Carli’s alive, I know she is,
and I will get her back. Right now.

Bill’s hands were shaking, and his stomach rolled and churned like the storm clouds outside. He hoped he would be able to hit what he was aiming at with the Browning if it came to that—
when
it came to that. Determined, he strode toward the doorway that would bring him inside the home of Martin Krall.

On cue, as if underlining the significance of the moment, the storm outside broke with a vengeance. A crash of thunder shook the entire house as lightning struck a tree that must have been just outside, maybe in the very spot Bill had occupied mere moments before. A half-second flash of brilliant, white light shot through the two windows behind him and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves jangling, thankful he had engaged the safety on the Browning. He reached for the knob on the door that opened into Martin Krall’s house, fearing it was locked, praying it would not be.

It was time to find Carli.

CHAPTER 52

May 28, 4:12 p.m.

“OUR TIME TOGETHER IS limited,” the kidnapper said, “and thanks to your little act of treachery last night, we have already lost more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Carli like he expected an apology, like she was somehow in the wrong for trying to escape the terrible fate awaiting her. She had been trying not to think about specifics regarding her immediate future, but it was hard not to, given the circumstances of the situation. In any event, it seemed fairly obvious to Carli what her immediate future held in store for her, and the prospect was horrifying.

What were her options? None. Pacifism seemed to be the best choice—the only choice, really—so she vowed to continue her strategy of delaying the inevitable as long as possible. “Why is our time limited?” she asked, surprised at how calm and steady her voice sounded. She didn’t feel calm
or
steady.

She didn’t really think he would answer, but he surprised her. “Because you don’t belong to me,” he said with a smile. He seemed, in his own twisted way, genuinely to want her to like him. Why else would he bother to explain? “I’m just a middleman. I took you to deliver you to someone else, and the agreement is that the two of us get just one week together before that delivery takes place.”

Carli shivered. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to spook the guy, who was clearly more than a little disturbed, by showing her fear and demonstrating weakness, but the matter-of-fact lunacy in his voice was chilling. “What happens after our week together? Where will I go? Who are you going to deliver me to?”

The man shrugged. He was still standing in the exact spot she had first seen him in when the lightning flashed. Carli knew it was only a matter of time before he moved forward and began doing what she knew he was planning, but, for now, he seemed more interested in explaining himself than getting down to business.

“Beats me,” he said. “I think you’re going to end up somewhere in the Middle East eventually, but all I’m really sure about is my end of the agreement. It’s pretty standard every time I deliver a girl. I get her for a week, and then the people who placed the order take possession after that. So, after my seven days are up, I deliver you to a specific location and leave you there. Sometime after that, my colleagues come by and retrieve you. Once delivery is finalized, I receive a nice little wad of cash from my contact and wait for the next order. That’s all I know.”

Hearing what the future held was terrifying, but even more so was the dispassionate way the man outlined it. Carli had learned about sociopathic behavior in a school psychology course last semester, and this man exhibited the classic signs. A subject that had seemed theoretical and remote in a textbook, nothing more than words on a page and questions on a test, had become terrifyingly real.

In one way, though, oddly, she felt comforted by his words. If this crazy man was allowed to hold her here for a week, that meant she had nearly six days left before he carted her off to who-knew-where to face that unthinkable fate. One thing Carli Ferguson knew—one thing of which she was one hundred percent certain—was that her dad would come and save her within a week. He would never rest until he got her back. She didn’t
think
it, she
knew
it.

The idea of being sold into slavery was as terrifying as it was hard to imagine, especially if it meant Carli would spend the rest of her life as the property of some Arab sheik in a dusty desert, halfway around the world, but she refused to dwell on the consequences of being taken outside of the United States by some slavery ring. If that happened, she knew she would disappear forever. But it wouldn’t come to that. She refused to believe otherwise.

“You know,” the man said thoughtfully, “I was planning on bringing you upstairs for a shower and some clean clothes before we consummate our special relationship, but I don’t think I can wait that long, despite the fact that you’ve peed your pants, you messy girl. You can clean up after we finish.”

Another blast of thunder shook the house, and the accompanying lightning flash illuminated the I-90 Killer as he strode forward, hands fumbling with his belt buckle. Carli shrank back against the bed’s headboard, acutely aware of the headboard pressing into her back like the bars of a prison cell.

Rain pelted the casement window set high up in the foundation wall, and she could hear the wind whistling and moaning, whipping around and through the shoddy construction of the house. With eyes wide and afraid, she watched him approach. She was breathing heavily, almost panting, her terror now complete and overwhelming.

She listened to the wind roar—it sounded like the approach of a freight train—and wished she was out there in the storm. Or anywhere else.

CHAPTER 53

May 28, 4:12 p.m.

BILL THANKED GOD OR karma, or maybe just plain old luck—it was about time he got some—for the noise of the storm. Between the crashing of the thunder, the keening of the wind whipping through the trees and around the house, and the splattering of the windswept rain against the windows, the racket was practically deafening. It prevented him from hearing anything on the other side of the door that connected the garage to the house as he pressed his ear against it, but he figured the opposite would also be true—the constant noise would mask the sound of his approach as he made his way through the house.