Finding You Page 11
“I’m going to put you on speaker,” I told him, since I didn’t want to give up the phone, and since Stan was driving the car with one hand and keeping a tight grip on the gun with the other.
If I gave him the phone, he might put the gun down. But I wouldn’t have any opportunity to get at it, and I would have given up my phone. I’d rather keep hold of the phone, in case it turned out to be useful. Part of me—the sentimental part—was loath to give up my lifeline.
“You goddamn effing son of a bitch,” Ty began, and then went on to tell Stan, in excruciating detail, exactly what he would do to him if he—Stan—harmed a hair on my head.
It was a bit surprising, to be honest. Ty doesn’t usually lose his temper, and I’d never heard him lose it this way. The FBI expects its agents to behave professionally, with a certain sense of decorum, and there was nothing professional about this.
At first Stan seemed to find it humorous, but as the threats and curses went on, becoming more and more inventive, the grin slipped off his face to be replaced by a surly and then sulky look.
“Turn it off!” he ordered after a minute or so.
I pulled the phone back into the backseat and turned off the speaker. “Ty? He doesn’t want to listen to you anymore.”
Ty took a breath. Meanwhile, Stan growled, “I said, turn it off!”
“I did turn it off,” I told him. “You can’t hear him anymore, can you?”
“You OK?” Ty asked, as Stan got even more angry.
“I meant, turn it all the way off!”
“So far,” I told Ty. “We’ve been driving this whole time.” To Stan I said, “In a minute.”
“Now!” He turned around in his seat and pointed the gun at me.
“We’ll crash,” I told him. “There’s a car up ahead.”
He turned back around without shooting me. Good.
“Where are you?” Ty wanted to know.
I glanced out the window. “No idea. I’ve never been here before.” Somewhere on the north side, judging from the turns we’d made. “Near water. A marina. Boats.”
“Shut the fucking phone off!” Stan bellowed.
“In a minute. Keep your shirt on.”
“He’s undressing?” Ty asked tightly.
“No, he’s not undressing.” Sheesh. “He’s driving the car. And yelling at me to turn the phone off.”
“Don’t,” Ty said. “Keep talking to me as long as you can without forcing him to hurt you.”
No problem. “How’s Enrique? And Carmen?”
“Fine,” Ty said. “And a little less fine. The ambulance is on the way for Enrique. Stan knocked him unconscious. He’ll have a hell of headache when he comes to, and I think he probably has a concussion. But his skull is intact.”
Good to know. “And Carmen?”
“Awake and aware. She was tied to the bed in the master bedroom. And this time he didn’t bother drugging her.”
I pressed my lips together. “Is she all right?”
“As all right as can be expected,” Ty said. “She’s waiting to go in the ambulance with her brother. I’m waiting for someone to bring me a vehicle. Where are you now?”
I glanced out the window again, while in the front seat, Stan was muttering dire threats about what he’d do if I didn’t get off the phone immediately. “Same thing. Water on the right, parking lot on the left. Cars and boats.”
“Islands?”
I couldn’t see any and told him so. Meanwhile, Stan was coming close to losing it. “If you don’t turn off the fucking phone right fucking now, I’m gonna fucking shoot you!”
“I better go,” I told Ty. “He looks like he means it.”
“Don’t push him so far that he hurts you.”
I doubted that was an option anymore, but I didn’t say so. “I love...”
That was all I got out before Stan swung around in the seat and popped off a round. The sound of the shot in the interior of the car was excruciatingly loud, and I think I screamed in sheer surprise. It wasn’t so much in terror, because the bullet didn’t come close to hitting me.
Or perhaps I shouldn’t say that. When it comes to bullets, a hundred yards is a little too close, while this certainly came a lot closer than that. But it buried itself harmlessly in the leather and stuffing of the seat with a small puff of dust, half a foot from my elbow.
We screeched to a stop, and I got thrown forward against the front seat, and then back again against my own. Stan’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear his voice. I could read his lips, though. “Gimme the phone.”
The hand he held out got the point across, too. I put the phone into it and watched him lift it to his mouth. I couldn’t hear the words this time either, and I saw him only in profile, but I’m pretty sure he said, “That’ll be your girlfriend if you call back.”
And then he turned the phone off, got out of the car, and tossed it in the water.
So much for my lifeline to Ty.
I thought about slithering over the seat and making a break for it, but before I could, Stan came stalking back and pulled open the back door. He reached in. I scrabbled over into the far corner and kicked at him, and he grabbed my foot and yanked me out. Then he grabbed me by the arm and yanked me upright.
“I still have a couple bullets left,” he told me through the ringing in my ears, as he dug the muzzle of the gun into my side, “so don’t do anything stupid.”
No, sir. I tried very hard not to do anything at all as we made our way through the parking lot toward the water. But then curiosity got the better of me. “What are we doing here?”
“We’re going on a boat,” Stan said.
My heart sank. Just like I’d tried to convince Ty and Enrique, the safest way to stay hidden was to go to one of the small islands to the north of us, in the Gulf of Mexico, between the Keys and the mainland. There were dozens of them, from Key West all the way to Marathon, and although the Coast Guard was out in force, they couldn’t possibly check them all. He could take me there, do whatever he wanted to me, and then take his time burying the leftovers somewhere isolated, where nobody would find me. My parents would never know what happened to me.
I tried to yank free, but his fingers dug into my arm, and the point of the gun dug into my ribs. I blinked at the tears in my eyes, but they wouldn’t go away.
There was a movement to my right, where an older man got out of a car. He went around to the trunk and pulled out a bucket; probably something slimy, like bait.
“Keep walking,” Stan said, his voice tight. “One wrong move and I’ll shoot you, and then I’ll shoot him.”
He sounded like he might mean it. I kept walking, even as I shot longing glances at the old guy. He looked up from fiddling with his bucket and watched us move past. I gave him a strained smile, but didn’t dare to do anything more.
The pavement gave way to a metal sort of ramp heading down, and then a floating pier. It was made of concrete, but it undulated gently up and down as we walked. All along it, boats bobbed on the water. Sleek, white sailboats with tall masts, powerful speedboats, humble fishing boats, and fancy cabin cruisers with foreign flags on the stern. Several flew the blue Conch Republic flag: a conch shell on top of a sun bracketed by stars, and the words Conch Republic above and We Seceded Where Others Failed below.
Here and there, people were out on decks doing things. Checking out the weather, enjoying breakfast in the sun, or getting ready to go somewhere. Some of them watched us pass, but nobody said anything. I didn’t either. The barrel of the gun digging into my ribs was a powerful deterrent.
Eventually there was nowhere else to go, just the turquoise water of the Gulf of Mexico stretched out in front of us, and I started worrying that Stan was going to toss me in. Surely he wasn’t so far gone that he’d shoot me in front of all these witnesses. Was he?
“This way.” He yanked on my arm. And that’s when I saw the last boat in the marina. It was sitting at the end of the row, bobbing gently up and down.
“A houseboat?” I couldn’t quite keep the amazement out of my voice. It even had flower pots on the window sill.
Stan didn’t answer, just kept me moving. I stumbled along, wondering what would happen if I tried to yank free and throw myself sideways off the pier and into open water.
Stan might shoot at my head when I came back up.
He might hit me.
Or I might drown. I’m from Ohio. Other than Lake Erie to the north, hours from Braxton, Ohio doesn’t have that many large, open areas of water. I can swim, but not terribly well. I’ve spent the past couple of years in Chicago, which might as well be on the beach—the lake looks like an ocean—but it’s only warm in Chicago during the summer, and in the winter it’s so cold you can ice skate on the lake. I hadn’t had much occasion to become a champion swimmer.
Then again, if it was a choice between getting raped and drowning, I’d take my chances in the water.
“Don’t even think about it,” Stan growled. He took a firmer grip on my arm, the tips of his fingers digging into my skin. I’d have bruises tomorrow.
If I survived until tomorrow.
And if I did, bruises were the least of the injuries I would have to worry about.
“C’mon.” He pushed me from the pier on to the moving deck of the boat, and then through the door to the cabin. “In.”
I went in.
THE INTERIOR was dim. There were shades on the big, square windows in the front, and the small windows along each side were no bigger than portholes. The ceiling was low—
“Down,” Stan said, giving me a shove toward a staircase. It was only six steps deep—somewhere between three and four feet, maybe—but the ceiling opened up a little once we got down there.
I looked around
Other than the tiny bridge upstairs, a couple of feet of standing space with a wheel, the entire interior of the boat seemed to consist of this one room with a tiny bathroom tacked on at the back. I could see the outline of the toilet bowl through a half-open door. Other than that, this single room served as bedroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen, and it was no bigger than eight by twelve.
A tiny kitchen was tucked in next to the stairs, with a table and two chairs making up the dining area. Against the wall opposite stood the sofa with a small coffee table. And in the opposite corner from that, a queen-sized bed with a tiny nightstand. A chest of drawers served as both wardrobe for the bedroom and TV-stand for the living room, with a couple of feet separating it from either.
The nightstand had a picture on it. Since Stan had released his death grip on my arm and was just guarding the staircase to make sure I didn’t make a break for the upstairs and freedom, I walked over to look at it. And found myself staring at the Fuentes family. All of them dark and good-looking and smiling at the camera.
And now Juan was in the hospital and Enrique was on his way there, and God only knew what Stan had done to Carmen, but from what Ty had managed to get out, it sounded like she was due for a trip to the doctor, too. I put the picture back down, shuddering at the thought of the rape kit and the questions she’d have to answer. She’d had no memory of the last time Stan raped her. This time she’d remember every detail for the rest of her life.
And unless I kept Stan talking long enough that someone would come rescue me, or I could figure out a way to rescue myself, so would I.
I turned to him, and tried to focus on keeping my eyes away from the bed and my voice even. “Is this Enrique’s place?”
Stan shook his head, looking around with a sneer. “The faggot’s.”
“Juan lives here?” It was the last place I would have guessed he’d live, but taking another look around, I could see why he’d like it. The boat might be old and a bit decrepit, and the furniture not exactly new, but it was put together with care and a certain amount of style. Colorful throw pillows on the couch and bed, a bright comforter. And Juan had always had a sort of obsession with Captain Tony Tarracino; he’d told me once that the only thing he wanted to do as a kid, was grow up to work at Captain Tony’s Bar. I guess living on a houseboat was just another part of the dream.
“I’m curious,” I said, both because I was and because I’d decided to try to keep him talking for long enough that I might avoid getting raped. “Ty had a theory—”
Stan’s face went stony at the sound of the name, and I backpedaled.
“What happened to Juan... was that really just so that Detective Fuentes would be distracted and wouldn’t be at the Courthouse on the day you planned to escape?”
Stan smirked. “Am I good, or am I good?”
Not all that good, if we’d figured it out. Although he’d gotten away with it so far, so maybe I shouldn’t say anything.
“So that was really the only reason why? You asked your buddy to beat up Juan just so you’d have a better chance of getting away?”
“I asked him to kill him,” Stan said. “What’s one less faggot? But he couldn’t even do that right. Fucking moron.”
Or maybe, hopefully, Stan’s accomplice had decided that he didn’t want to be an accessory to murder. That assault was as far as he’d go. Still too far, if you asked me, but better than it could have been.
“What’s this thing you’ve got about the Fuentes family, anyway? Carmen wouldn’t go out with you in high school, so you raped her, and had her brother beat up, and kidnapped her, and raped her again, and knocked her brother out so you could steal his car keys... That’s assault on a police officer, by the way. You keep adding to your charges. Not to mention what you did when you shot Martoni and Sullivan. When they catch you again, they’ll put you in jail and throw away the key.”
“They have to catch me first,” Stan said, with a smirk that said clearly that he had no fear of that happening.
I scowled at him. “You’re not all that, you know. We... Enrique and Ty found you this morning. They’ll find you again.”
The smirk disappeared. “Nobody’ll come looking for me here. So don’t get any ideas about anyone coming to rescue you.”
“I don’t see why not,” I said. “I mean, it’s logical that you’d be here. Sullivan’s and Martoni’s places were just sitting there empty because they were both in the hospital. Juan’s also in the hospital. His place is also sitting empty. I bet you whatever you want that as soon as he gets a car, Ty will be on his way over here. Straight here.”
“Then we’d best get started,” Stan said and gestured with the gun. “On the bed.”
Oops.
That hadn’t been the plan. I had planned to keep him talking. But instead I’d only pushed him into acting faster.
“Wait a second. I still don’t know whether it was Sullivan or Martoni who beat up Juan.”
Stan grinned. “It’ll give you something to think about.”
Just lie back and think of Sullivan?
“No,” I said.
Stan blinked. “What d’you mean, no?”
“I’m not getting on the bed.”
“But I’ll shoot you,” Stan said. He lifted the gun, but in a sort of half-assed way, like he couldn’t quite believe we were having this conversation.
I had a hard time believing it myself. I’d taken some self-defense classes right after coming back from Key West last year, and one thing the instructor had been adamant about, was that you don’t argue with a man with a gun. Or a man with a knife. If you can get away from him without getting hurt, do it, but don’t risk your life arguing with someone who has the ability to kill you.
Stan had the ability to kill me. I should probably just get on the bed and focus on surviving.
But damned if I could, or wanted to. My heart was beating like a voodoo drum, but I shook my head. If my voice wasn’t entirely steady, I think that’s understandable. “No, you won’t. If you shoot me, I’ll scream and bleed all over Juan’s bedspr
ead, and all over you, and you don’t want that. Besides, people will hear the shot and come running.”
It looked like he hesitated. I did have a point, after all. Not that I’d keep quiet if he tried to rape me, but there was no sense in bringing that up. He’d figure it out soon enough.
The gun was still pointed at me, but not in a very determined fashion. It was aimed at my knees more than my stomach or chest at the moment. If he shot me there, I might not be able to run away—and the sharks were likely to get me if I jumped in the water—but I’d survive.
I was so busy watching the gun and calculating what I would do if he shot me, that I wasn’t watching Stan. When he backhanded me across the cheekbone and temple, it came out of the blue.
Oww!
Pain exploded in my head, and I staggered sideways. That brought me into contact with the sharp edge of the coffee table, and my legs buckled. Before I could fall all the way, Stan grabbed me and yanked me back up. He propelled me a couple feet across the floor and gave me a shove in the direction of the bed. “Next time,” he informed me through clenched teeth, “do as I say.”
I landed and bounced. Juan must like to jump on the bed.
I would have bounced all the way off on the other side if I could have. Instead, I fetched up against the wall with a thud. The boat rocked a little. It took me a second or two to scramble around from my knees to my butt, and by then Stan was on me. He was still holding the gun—I guess maybe it made him feel safer, or maybe he planned to use it to threaten me when we were in close quarters—but the proximity made me able to make a grab for it. My head was still pounding, and sick, oily waves of nausea rose in my throat. I certainly wasn’t able to scream; if I opened my mouth, I’d probably throw up all over Stan. And while that wouldn’t make him happy, and might even make him back off, it would also incapacitate me for the time that it took.
So I fought with my teeth gritted, my nails—which I keep short because I do a lot of typing—digging into the skin of Stan’s wrist. I had both of my hands wrapped around the one with the gun, and for once, I wished I had nice, long, super-enforced talons—like Carmen’s—that could really do some damage.