Scare Me (16 page)

He bent to his knees again, but as his body crouched it knocked the stack of food canisters sideways. Unclipped, they toppled against the cage, noisily clanging and spilling their contents.

The girl's body stiffened. As Tam stood his eyes rolled upwards. Seconds passed. The girl lifted her head again. The door at the top of the stairs banged.

Feet frantically scuffed down the concrete steps. Tam knew he couldn't make it through the door and over the gates in time. He only just scampered behind the stack of empty cages before the lights buzzed on.

He peered out and saw Skinny Man booting chickens into the air as he made his way to the cage. He stopped only momentarily to absorb the food canisters scattered about it before trotting through the door that led to the ramp.

Tam's relief was only momentary. Maybe Skinny Man would believe he'd fled and scaled the gates in such a short space of time, but chances were he wouldn't. When he came back this way it wouldn't take him long to find him.

He bit his tongue and cautiously picked his way through the chickens towards the steps. He scuttled quickly up both flights and paused at the top to see if anybody was in the loading bay the other side of the door. When he was sure there wasn't, he slipped through.

The same lorry was still parked there. He stole back across the metal gantry towards the main factory floor, swivelling his head to check the security cabin was empty as he passed it. When he reached the door the other side that led back to the slaughterhouse, however, it was locked. He pushed it repeatedly, as if it might miraculously give with a third or fourth attempt.

Tam seated himself on the edge of the gantry and dropped down four feet onto the forecourt. The red shutters were pulled down at the bay and when he reached them he saw they were padlocked into a bracket in the concrete.

He pelted back to the door that led down to the chicken house and opened it to listen. Above his breath he could hear the main door move along its runner and boom shut before a lock was shot. Then he could make out the birds' rising alarm as Skinny Man did a rapid circuit of the room before he started to climb the steps again.

Tam's chest heaved, but he couldn't catch a breath. He was trapped.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

The crab rotated, its increasingly aggressive circuits mesmerising Will as he leaned in to touch it again. He had to stroke its broken body before he let it go.

They had to leave. He could hear the ugly gull wheeling above and the click of his father's teeth on plastic behind him. Will could see his long shadow and the pipe jutting from it, black wisps of smoke across the rain-dappled sand.

He didn't want to abandon his vigil even though there was a bank of grimy clouds rolling in from the sea. The rain trickled down his nine-year-old face and the crab scored the paint pot with its pincers, more flakes of white adhering to its shell. It wouldn't survive back in the water. It was too damaged. There were fragments of its dark carapace scattered around the bottom of the pot and its legs creaked around the slivers that had slipped into its joints. He knew better than to ask if he could take it home. No pets allowed in the house.

“Put it back in the water, Will. Let it crawl under a rock to die,”
his father said.

A jolt from behind. Will blinked, but as he tried to refocus on the crab, he was looking at a blue pouch with a dog-eared selection of in-flight magazines poking from it.

He'd spent most of the hour's flight boxed in by the surly, teenage children of a drunken couple with New Jersey accents. They were sitting behind him and redirected the aggression from their slurred argument by haranguing the two brothers about how they should behave when they got to Aunt Lauren's. The kids nodded, but listened to their iPods. The couple tried to overcome this by repeatedly thumping the backs of their seats every time they wanted their attention.

Will waggled himself upright and, as he watched the herding of children back and forth to the bathroom, recalled the last time he, Carla and Libby had been on a plane. Libby was sixteen and had reluctantly accompanied them on their final family trip. Capri had been a regular destination for them since she'd been able to walk. It was the first time Will realised he'd lost touch with her.

She'd spent the whole time texting and having muted phone conversations with her friends about why she didn't want to be there. It had been like a stranger had supplanted the daughter who used to love the food and culture and wandering around the bay of the Marina Piccola.

Will had lost his patience. Her behaviour seemed to negate all the years of happiness they'd had there before. He knew there were always chapters to close as a father. Like the time he'd stored all her redundant toys in the empty attic room. Boxed and sealed away, there had been something final about stowing the props of her innocence. But on that holiday he felt as if he'd suddenly become redundant. On the third day he'd wished she'd stayed at home.

Carla had handled their daughter's doleful presence with resigned ease. But it was more than just passively dismissing it as a phase. She'd accepted her moodiness and peer-pressured behaviour because she effortlessly saw past it to the daughter who still needed love and protection.

Libby would always need their protection and Will had felt that unequivocally as soon as she'd announced her pregnancy, but he'd been far too angry with her to offer the implicit support she got from Carla. How much of that anger had been directed at what he perceived to be her carelessness and how much because they were still hurting from losing Jessie?

To Will it had seemed like Libby's announcement couldn't have come at a worse time, but it had a significant effect on Carla and how she was dealing with the loss. It energised her again and even though Will realised that Libby's baby had been entirely an accident, her stepping so quickly into Carla's shoes had been tough to accept. He hadn't put a time limit on his own healing. Suddenly events had necessitated him discarding his feelings for one child in favour of another.

Now his reality had ruptured again and the family-to-be of Libby, Luke and their unborn child – a family he hadn't even yet acknowledged – was in jeopardy. He still felt winded, but fate never waited for anyone to catch up. He knew it was why Carla had put away the picture of Jessie.

He considered his situation and estimated how much time he'd spent speculating about how Jessie could have impacted their lives. During that last holiday with Libby, he'd mourned a daughter he could still see and touch and ignored her presence for the whole week.

The seat was punched again. Will unbuckled himself, stood up and turned on the squat and brawny couple sitting behind him. They both wore the same Somerset Patriots sweatshirts and red-rimmed eyes. Unshaven Dad had a cobweb tattooed on his neck and a lobe-stretcher in both ears.

“One of you want to swap seats with me?” he said, about to lose his temper.

The couple exchanged a slow glance.

“You could even try talking to them then.”

“Fuck's it got to do with you anyway?” Dad started undoing his seatbelt.

But his wife placed a hand across his lap. She recognised something in Will's eyes. “We're good here. Swap places, Paul.”

 

Tam gritted his teeth and allowed a nervous belch to disperse itself in his throat. He'd scrambled underneath the lorry and was lying in a pool of pungent oil just behind its cabin. He couldn't see what was going on. His position only afforded him a view to the edge of the loading bay and not what was happening on the gantry above.

Skinny Man was pacing back and forth along it, his feet making the metal tremble. He was talking to someone the other end of a phone. He recognised only a handful of the English words he used from his days in the market with Songsuda and his parents.

The conversation ended and Tam held his breath while the man caught his.

“Puki mak kau!”

Tam flinched from the curse and scrambled further back on his stomach. He heard Skinny Man stride back along the gantry and descend the steps to the cage again.

 

As soon as he was clear of security at Chicago O'Hare, Will called the number to confirm his arrival. This time they answered. “Don't hang up. Listen to me.” He waited. They were silent, but Will was sure he could hear the sound of breath under the clucking and babbling.

He ducked into a bathroom off the concourse. “We want a photo. Something dated.” A father and son pushed past him as he stood inside the swing door. He lowered his voice. “Post something on the site and let us know they're unharmed.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

 
 

The sibilant Asian voice seemed to hang in the air.

“What are you talking about?” Will hissed back. “We want a photo of them both.”

“Choose one.”

Will could feel the sound of the man's breath moving the hairs in his ear. Now he wanted him to hang up. He shook his head, not willing to concede to what he might be asking. Frantic birds' wings buzzed within the clamour.

“My choice then.” The hushed voice was impatient.

“Wait. What are you asking me?”

“Which one you care about the most?”

“I'm her father for God's sake. You don't need to ask me that.”

He was amusing himself, relishing his misery. Will tried to visualise himself there, standing by the cages, next to the man with the phone in his hand. He imagined what he'd do if he were there.

As if in response, the sound of metal chair legs scraping ended the conversation.

What had it meant? He wandered to the exit, disturbed by the implication of their exchange. Was he being asked about the subject of the picture he'd demanded? Or had he been forcing him to make a choice between hostages? He'd been using his desperation for entertainment and Will prayed he wasn't abusing Libby and Luke's emotions in the same way.

He joined the lines of people waiting outside for taxis. He'd considered renting a car, but suspected a cab would be quicker for getting into the city. It was a half hour drive from the airport.

The wind cut through him as he opened the laptop against the chrome rail. The pop up hadn't been revised. As the line moved steadily, he slid the casing along it. Soon it was his turn. A car pulled up and a Jamaican woman with a mouthful of tarnished gold was smiling at him.

“You gonna be OK with all that luggage?” She nodded at the laptop.

He climbed into the back of the yellow taxicab and pulled the door shut. It moved off immediately. “Downtown, but we may be detouring on the way.” He looked at his watch, 3.33pm.

“First time in the city?” There was a note of peevishness in the question.

He looked up from the laptop, registering it was the second time she'd asked him.

“Sorry,” he said absently. “Flown through before.”

“Business or pleasure today?”

“Neither.”

As he remained riveted to the screen, he could feel hostility from the front seat.

“Well, whatever you're here for, you'll find a truckload of it in Chicago.”

The city rocketed upward before them, skyscrapers jostling for position as they folded out across a powder blue horizon. It felt like the cab was shrinking and soon they were dwarfed in the buildings' cool shadows. They jerked through traffic lights and over pedestrian crossings while the driver used one muscular arm to navigate the wheel. Her other hand, fingers tipped by multi-coloured nails, attempted to coax something satisfactory from the radio.

No address was being displayed, but Will's heart was thumping against his ribcage. In one tiny zone of this vast sprawl of civilisation, people were about to die. Or had already been butchered.

“You just tell me where I can let you out,” she said above
This Old House
. She was obviously eager for a more talkative fare.

The details could arrive any moment and he didn't want to end up stranded when they came through. But there was no way of knowing how long that would take and he couldn't drive round with her indefinitely.

She dropped him outside The Honky Tonk Barbecue on the corner of 18
th
Street and Racine Avenue. As he stood on the sidewalk, he felt more alone than any time since he'd left the UK. There was a small coffee house opposite so he dodged the traffic to get to the other side. Cars beeped and he hoped there wasn't an officer nearby to stop him for jaywalking.

 

When Poppy heard the key in the lock, she knew the rest would be plain sailing. There had been no guarantee he would make the stop off, only a damn good chance.

She was hidden behind the bar, her arms encircling her knees. Her new sushi knife was on the carpet with the Taser next to it, lithium battery fully charged. With so much to do, it was unlikely he would stop for a drink. Maybe he would want to pour himself a stiff one afterward, but it would be too late by then. She listened to his laboured breaths as he entered the apartment and passed the den. Not exhaustion, panic.

She knew where he'd go first and the door opening and slamming confirmed it. The mini fridge in front of her started to hum, the beer bottles inside jingling against each other. Redundant stock now, he'd never put any of them to his lips. She wondered which movie he'd seen last and hoped it was a good one.

She swiped her cherry balm across the smooth tightness of her dry mouth. Patches of heat radiated from her cheekbones and numbed her ears. She listened to the activity in the other room for a while longer and then tensed her legs. Poppy grabbed the knife and Taser and pushed her back up the wall. She slid off her suede boots and padded barefoot down the hallway to where he was.

They met as he left the back room and he had his arms full. Two heavy cardboard boxes, which meant he was unable to defend himself. His eyes were wide before she Tasered him. As he lay shuddering at her feet, Poppy looked down at the middle-age spread hanging over his belt and the grey roots in the dyed black bowl of his hair. Just an oblivious heap of skin and bone now.

This had been the gamble, but he'd behaved in exactly the way she'd envisioned. She was back in charge of the schedule again. Events could unfold at her pace now. She had the rest of the day and nobody to disturb her.

 

The door to the cage opened and Libby heard the creak of knee joints as someone crouched over her.

Moments later she'd forgotten Luke and Mum and Dad. The place where the needle had been jabbed into her became an indistinct coordinate on a map of what little remained of her. The narcotic in her veins washed away her prison, her predicament, the hands upon her and everything else.

 

Normally the scent of coffee beans was like a magnet to Will, but the potent wall of arabica he'd walked into had made him feel nauseous. Garish paintings by local artists covered every inch of the walls. He'd squeezed himself behind a table at the rear of the tiny café and hoped nobody would wait on him. They had, so he'd ordered a coffee he didn't want to drink.

He called Carla and told her he'd demanded the photo evidence. He didn't tell her about the choice he'd been asked to make. He was still convincing himself he'd been choosing who was to be photographed. She asked if it had been her he'd spoken to. Will said no – it was a male voice, Asian. He said he'd contact her when he was at the next location.

He opened up the laptop so he could watch the address box. Now he had to sit, wait and speculate.

Even when it did appear, he didn't feel confident about finding the address himself. Interstate driving was all well and good, but he didn't rate his ability to navigate the traffic of such an immense and unfamiliar city. A taxi still looked like his best option.

He clicked through to the photos of the interior again. Thankfully, none of the rooms looked as if children occupied them. He studied the minimalist furnishing of the space with the circular bed in it. He wondered if she was inside, waiting. Or if there was blood already spilt over the oatmeal carpets.

Then it struck him that the images hadn't been taken through the windows. They had to have been photographed by somebody standing inside the rooms. If it was an apartment maybe it wasn't at ground level. Had they broken in to get the snaps?

How could he be seated here when he knew what was about to happen? Every shred of him felt as if he should be moving, feet pumping while he hunted for the place so intimately photographed for him. He knew it was futile. The city was colossal.

Or maybe the location was one block away.

 

Weaver picked up after one ring. “I'm clear.”

“Are you in a cab?” Pope tried to balance his considerable frame on a chrome barstool in the window of the juice bar.

“Just left the pick up zone.”

Having sat six rows back from him on the flight Pope had easily tailed Frost from the airport while Weaver recovered the camera from the carousel. “18
th
and Racine, I'm in the Vita-Shakes bar. Frost is sitting tight in the coffee shop opposite. He got the better deal.” Pope looked down at the green wheat grass drink on the plastic orange shelf in front of him. “He could move anytime. Tell your driver he's got a fare for the day.”

“Be there soon as I can.”

Pope positioned Weaver's iPad on the shelf. He skated his finger over the next house, but no box appeared. Where the hell was the poor bastard being sent next?