Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (27 page)

A small pinched face leaned out. The girl had a tangle of black hair and huge eyes. Even with her face in shadow from the lights inside, Clare could see the bright red of fever.

“Did you bring Oscar?” As if Clare’s arrival was what he’d been clamoring for, the dog stopped barking. He sat in the snow, his tail wagging.

“I did. Honey, we have to get you out of there. Quickly.”

“Did Ted and Helen send you?”

Oh, God.
Clare wasn’t going to start by lying. “I’m helping the police. Climb through the window, Mikayla. You need your medicine.”

The girl shook her head. “The police are bad.”

“No, honey, I promise they’re not. Let me help you so you don’t feel sick. Climb through the window.”

“I don’t have a coat.”

Clare unzipped her parka and pulled it off. “I’ll give you mine. Hurry, honey, hurry.”

The girl pressed her lips together. Then, decision made, she hoisted herself over the window ledge. Clare reached up. “I’ll catch you.” Mikayla let go. Clare’s knees nearly buckled—eight-year-olds were a lot heavier than she had assumed—but she wrapped her coat tightly around the girl and reeled backward. She could feel Mikayla’s feverish heat despite the thickness of her sweater. She turned and staggered downslope, Oscar bounding alongside her.

For a moment, she thought the shot was another tree splitting. Then her mind registered the high-pitched echo of a gun, and she broke into a clumsy run.
Get into the trees. Hide in the dark. Just a few more yards.

“Stop right there!” Another shot cracked and whined. “Next one goes in your back!”

She stopped. Mikayla clung to her like a lost hope, arms and legs cinched around Clare’s neck and waist. For a second, she thought,
Drop her and run.
They wanted Mikayla, not her. She could escape, get help—then she realized that if the girl was out of harm’s way, the kidnappers would have no reason not to shoot her. She had no illusions about her ability to dodge a bullet.

She turned around. “I’m unarmed,” she said loudly. “Please don’t hurt us.”

She couldn’t make out the features of the man wading through the snow toward them, but he was big and broad-shouldered and armed with a rifle. Just like—Russ.
Oh, God, love, keep on going. Keep on going and get help. Don’t come closer.

“I’m not going to hurt her.” The man’s voice sounded disgusted. “Mikayla, what do you—”

Another man rounded the corner of the house, barely visible as a silhouette against the window light. “What the hell’s going on back here? Can’t you—”

Beside Clare, Oscar let out a growl that sounded more wolf than dog. He sprang through the snow and broken ice, snarling. Mikayla screamed. The man who had just been speaking let out a choked cry.

“Oscar, no! No, Oscar, no!” Clare reflexively reached toward the dog careening through the snow. If this other guy was armed—

Clare couldn’t see him raise his gun, but she heard the loud report, the echo, another report. Oscar yelped, twisted, veered away toward the direction of the unseen road.

“Run, Oscar! Run!” Clare had no idea if he knew what the command meant, but she couldn’t keep from shouting it over and over again. The man Oscar had attacked fired one more round into the shadowy trees, but even from a distance Clare could tell that he hadn’t brought the dog down. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

Mikayla was crying, her face buried in Clare’s sweater. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Oscar’s okay.”

“That was scary!” Mikayla said tearfully.

“Yes it was.”

Then the big guy plucked the girl out of Clare’s arms and settled her on his hip. He pointed the rifle at Clare with his other hand. “Don’t get any ideas.” He was coatless and hatless, his head shaved, with full-sleeve tattoos visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt.

The other man floundered downslope and joined them. He had taken the time to put on a parka and toque before leaving the house. Slighter than the man holding Mikayla, but still not anyone Clare would like to tackle in her ungainly state. The dark mustache and chin beard circling his mouth made him look like Evil Mr. Spock. “Missed the bastard.” He had sounded incongruously laid-back, like a surfer lost in the Adirondacks. “Shoulda shot him back at the foster home.”

“Shut up.” The tattooed man nodded toward Clare. “What are we going to do about her?”

The bearded man stepped closer. “She must be the one who brought Amber. Her and the cop.” He waved his semiautomatic at her. “Where is he?”

“Cooper’s Corners,” she lied. “I was supposed to stay in the cottage next door and let him know which way you went if you left.”

“Shit.” The bearded man half-turned away from her. “We’re in it now.”

“We were in it the minute you decided to go off-script at the damn foster house.”

“That’s not going to be a problem. There’s no evidence left. Having the po-po running around in our backyard, that’s a problem. You shoulda shot him when you had the chance.”

Mikayla made a whimpering sound. “Shut up.” The tattooed man glared at the other guy and hoisted the girl higher against his chest. “You’re scaring Mikayla.”

“She’s sick,” Clare said. “She needs her immunosuppressant drugs. Please, let me get her help.”

The man turned on her. “I know she’s sick, lady. I’m going to get her medicine as soon as I can.”

“How? Do you think a doctor’s going to hand over a bunch of prescriptions to her kidnapper?”

The bearded man barked a laugh. “
You’re
ballsy.” He looked at the tattooed man, still smiling. “Want me to do her?”

“No. Jesus, will you think first for once? What good would that do?”

The bearded man shrugged. “She won’t be annoying you.”

“Let’s just get her into the house, okay? Before I turn into a goddamn Popsicle out here?”

“All right. All right.” The bearded man gestured with his gun. “Up you go.”

The men flanked her, one on each side. It was bad strategically, because if they had to fire, they were more likely to cross each other’s line. It was fine in practice, though, because she knew she couldn’t get more than a couple of yards away in this snow. She was trying to figure out a way to avoid going into the cabin, and drawing a blank. She wished she knew what Russ would do when she didn’t show up at the rendezvous point on the road. They hadn’t discussed that possibility. Stupid.
Every backup plan needs its own backup plan,
her survival school instructor, “Hardball” Wright, drawled in her ear.

As with their cabin, the door opened onto a roomy kitchen. Inside, the bearded man gestured with his gun. “Take off your boots. And your coat.”

“I’m cold,” she lied. She could hear the furnace blowing, keeping the house toasty warm. The overhead light seemed almost too bright after the kerosene lanterns at her cabin.

“Do I look like I care? You’re not getting the chance to split out the door first thing my back’s turned. Take ’em off.”

“Wait.” The big guy kicked the door closed and set Mikayla down. “Go back to your room, baby. And shut that window.”

“But I’m hot,” Mikayla said.

“Shut the window. I’ll bring you an ice pack for your head.” He gave her a swat on the bottom that straddled the line between playful and threatening. Mikayla left the room. He turned toward the bearded man. “I been thinking. What if the cop hasn’t cleared out for the Corners?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, would you leave your pregnant wife behind all alone in a freezing lake house?”

The bearded guy looked baffled. “I dunno. Maybe?”

The big guy shook his head. “He’s onto us.” He jerked his thumb toward Clare. “She said she was supposed to keep an eye on us. That means she already knew something.”

“Dude, you threatened to shoot her. Maybe that tipped her off.”

“No. She knew. Which means he knew. And I’m betting”—he turned toward Clare—“he’s still out there. Which means we got a chance to stop him before he gets to the Corners and calls in.”

“He’s already called in. He’s been in touch with the state police.” Clare threw out a bomb, hoping it wouldn’t explode in her face. “They’re the ones who ran your license number, Travis.”

The bearded man winced. “Shit.”

The big guy looked skeptical. “Then why hasn’t there been any action? One state cop car this morning? And nothing since? Unless you’re a cop.”

Travis shook his head. “Amber said she was some kind of minister. That girl was in a huge hurry or something to leave with that boyfriend of hers. I didn’t ask her too much.”

“Good.” The big guy grabbed Clare’s arm and yanked her toward him. “C’mon.” He nodded toward Travis. “This is the best chance we’ve got. If we can make her and her husband disappear, the only thing they’ve got is your truck out here. Mikayla and I can be long gone before anybody shows up asking questions.” He stripped Clare’s coat off and tossed it on the kitchen table. “Switch with me.” He held his rifle out to Travis, who swapped his automatic. Clare had time to see the muzzle and think
.45
before the big guy twisted her hair in his fist and brought it to her temple. “Are you gonna be a good girl?”

She tried to nod, but her head was immobilized. “Yes,” she said.

“Good. Travis, tape her hands behind her back.” Travis opened a drawer and held up a roll of duct tape. He wound the sticky stuff around and around her wrists in a figure eight.

“That’s good,” the big guy said. “Open the door.” They walked outside awkwardly, Clare’s head tilted back, her belly thrown forward, the man tight behind her, using her as a shield. He pushed her to the edge of the low front porch. She could hear the creak and groan of ice-heavy branches, the spattering of rain on the roof overhead, the click as Travis shut the door behind them. He stepped to the side and raised the rifle.

“What was his name?” the big guy asked.

Clare thought he was addressing her until Travis said, “Van Alstyne. Russ Van Alstyne.”

“Van Alstyne!” The big guy’s yell nearly deafened Clare. “We know you’re out there! We got your wife!” He poked her with the gun. “Say something.”

“He’s not there.” She was praying it was true. Or if not, that he’d ignore her captors and keep going for help. They would keep her alive as bait. She hoped. But once they had Russ …

“Did you hear me, Van Alstyne? We’ve got your wife! Come on over and check it out! You can see her from the road!”

That was true. The lamps bracketing the front door clearly illuminated Clare and her captors. She swallowed. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried to calm her thudding heart.
Please, God, no flashbacks right now.
She just had to keep it together. They weren’t going to hurt her. Not until they got what they wanted.

“Dude. What if he just waits us out?”

“He’s not going to sit on his ass out there and watch us waste his wife.”

Travis made an impatient noise. “So say we waste her. What then? He calls the po-po down on us.”

“He’s not going to let her die.”

“Dude, you don’t get it. We can’t off her. If we do, we got no hold on him. But if we can’t off her, we got no hold on him anyway.”

“But…” The big guy sounded like his brain was screwed around that conundrum.

“If I can figure that out, I’m guessing he can figure it out, too.”

“That’s great. So what does your genius tell us is the solution?”

“We rape her.”

Oh my God.
Clare’s mouth went dry. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“I’m a married man.” The big guy sounded outraged. “I’m not gonna cheat on my wife.” If she hadn’t been so terrified, she would have laughed.

“I’ll do her,” Travis said. “I’ve always wanted to try a pregnant chick.” He stepped next to Clare. Grinning, he raised her sweater. She heaved, trying to break the duct tape binding her wrists. He ran his hand up her belly and fondled her breast. “Nice tits. Yeah, I’ll do her.” She kicked, lashing sideways with her foot, but she couldn’t connect.

The big guy yanked her hair. “Do that again and we’ll hit your stomach. We can hurt the baby without killing you, you know.”

There was a roaring in her ears. Bright spots shot upward across her field of vision.
You’re hyperventilating,
a part of her brain said.
Get it under control or you’ll pass out.

“Move her on back, dude. I don’t want my ass to get iced.”

“Van Alstyne!” The big guy bellowed even louder as he dragged her toward the door. “You out there, Van Alstyne?”

“That’s good.” Travis leaned the rifle against the door. He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.

“You better show yourself, Van Alstyne! My buddy here’s fixing to fuck your wife!”

Travis closed in on her again, blocking her vision. He grinned. “Just relax, sweet thing. You might even enjoy it.” She twisted her head, but the big guy’s grip in her hair held her fast. She squeezed her eyes shut as Travis reached for her pants.

14.

After leaving their unsuspecting host’s house, Russ had gone up to the road. If there had been any tracks to tell him where the tow had taken off to, they were gone now, erased beneath a steadily thickening layer of ice. Russ had broken through the trees and walked down South Shore Drive till he was near Travis Roy’s house. Across the road was its small garage, just a windowless box, large enough to shelter a couple of cars from the rain. He’d figured one way or another, there were vehicles inside. He’d just begun breaking into the garage when he heard the rifle shot.

Oh, hell no.
He should have insisted Clare stay in the cabin with Bob Mongue. He should have told her to wait in the house they broke into. He never should have suggested splitting up so he could surveil Roy’s lake house. Plodding down the forested, snow-swamped slope as fast as he could, Russ made his way toward the house. The only good thing about the storm was that the constant spatter of freezing rain and the groan and snap of overburdened timber hid any noise he might make.

He got as close to the cabin’s side as he dared. He rested the barrel of his rifle in the crotch of a sapling that would likely never make it to spring and peered through the scope. Kitchen. No one there. Two windows down, a roomy living room, and there was a man sprawled out in a way that suggested watching a TV. Russ could see the back of his head and the tops of his shoulders over the edge of the chair he was sitting in. Buzzed hair, almost bald—not the one he had met at the door. Then the bearded man walked past the window, headed for the kitchen. So, two. At least. He breathed a sigh of relief when there was no sign of Clare in danger. But there was no sign of the little girl, either. She could be in one of the bedrooms on the other side of the house. Or she might be someplace else entirely, along with the tow rig or his truck.