Authors: Donna Richards
“Who? Who have you got locked up?” Tom gripped the phone receiver tighter, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Angela Blake, that nosey auditor. She saw you at the post office this afternoon, so I grabbed her before she could blab what she knows.”
“Calm down, Pete.” Although the words did nothing to calm the sudden churning in Tom’s stomach. “Where are you?”
“I’m at Timone. I’ve got Angela locked in a bathroom. What do you want me to do with her?”
“Now’s a fine time to ask,” he growled. “You should have thought about that before you kidnapped her.”
“So what do I do?”
“Do I have to think of everything? Just…just leave her there.” He mopped his forehead. “Are you sure she can’t escape?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Good. I need some time to think. Come back here and we’ll talk.”
“What about her car? It’s pretty snazzy, somebody will see it here.”
“Then get rid of it.”
“How?”
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“What do I care? Just do it then get back here before people start asking questions.” He slammed the receiver down and allowed himself a few moments to compose himself. Any possibility of hiding his tracks from future scrutiny had vanished. Burroughs’s actions confirmed that nosey bitch’s suspicions. What other possible motivation would explain kidnapping and detaining an auditor? And Pete would crack under pressure. No doubt about it.
Over the last few years, Timone had generated hundreds of
thousands of tax-free income. He and Burroughs could have quietly shut it down, waited a few years before starting up another phony company, if that auditor had minded her own business. But not now…
An idea crept through his panic. Why not just shut everything down?
No one else showed any interest in Timone Industries. With Angela out of the picture, no one else knew about the payout scheme. He could quietly pull the plug until the whole business was forgotten. People disappeared every day. A smile grew on his face. What’s one more, more or less? He straightened his tie, collected his papers and opened the conference door.
* * *
The miniscule light that had leaked under the locked door had faded.
Her stomach had ceased its loud protestations of hunger hours ago and resigned itself to lack of sustenance. Angie glanced at the phosphorous dots on her wristwatch. Nine o’clock. She didn’t need to place her hand over her heart to know it was beating. Its fierce pounding shook her entire body. The heavy air made it difficult to breathe, difficult to take deep breaths. Even her dark-adjusted eyes couldn’t find a hand in front of her face. She might as well close her eyes as keep them open.
The lack of light accentuated the sounds and smells of the prison.
What she’d give for that can of Lysol tucked away in her car. The smells were bad, but the sounds… She never imagined how many sounds existed in an isolated room in an abandoned warehouse. The tremble of 270
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air in the water lines, an occasional drip, and periodically the soft scurry of tiny feet.
A few times, she felt her way to the basin and splashed the brackish water on her face to keep her alert. She even succumbed to drinking some of the foul stuff.
Through it all, her mind kept slipping back to the ones who had often offered assistance in the past. How she wished they were here now.
Stephen, her mother, Hank. Most especially Hank. She should have listened. She should have stayed behind locked doors. But no, she had to prove to them all how capable she was. How independent she was. She didn’t need anyone’s help…until now. A trickle of tears cleared a path down her cheek. She was hesitant to brush the tears away with her filthy hands and risk inviting more germs into her respiratory system. That thought almost brought a laugh. As if it mattered if she got an infection.
Burroughs probably wouldn’t let her live to see a tissue, much less the people she loved.
The people she loved. She wanted to say so much to them, now that she physically couldn’t. In this hellhole she didn’t even have one of her mother’s quilts to cling to. She never told her mother how much those quilts meant to her. And Stephen. What would he do without her to preach to and bully? He’d probably have “I told you so” inscribed on her tombstone. At least now he could get on with his own life. Marry the girl of his dreams and build a family. Same with Hank. A shiver shook her spine. Hank would be able to marry his model and father beautiful children. A sob caught in her throat. She pictured his face, recalled his scent, felt his touch. The trail of tears became a torrent. Her shoulders shook with each agonized gasp. She never told him she loved him, never wanted to be that vulnerable. Now he’d never know.
Through her sobs, she thought she heard glass shattering.
“Hello?” she cried. “Is anyone there?” She pounded on the door. “Can you hear me? I’m locked in this room. Can you help me?” She screamed and banged louder.
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There was no response, just the scurry of tiny feet on the opposite side of the room. “Hello?” she called without any real force.
Death had never scared her before. She had faced that possibility too often to be afraid of it, but now it was different. Before she had never felt truly alive. Now…now that she had known what it was to love, to feel passion, she wasn’t willing to surrender to death. Hank. If only she could see him one more time, feel his breath on her cheek, feel him surging inside her. This was the regret. Leaving the one she loved behind.
Hours passed. The cold concrete beneath her cheek hummed with a faint vibration. An engine maybe…a car? She held her breath so the ragged sound wouldn’t distort her hearing. She tried to sit up. The effort took all her strength. She tried to call out for help, but only a dull hoarse rasp issued from her dry, cracked lips. Footsteps. Someone was coming.
“Angie. I’m going to open the door. I’ve got a gun. Don’t try anything.”
Burroughs’s voice filtered through the door.
As if she could. That stiff, rank poor excuse for a towel had more strength than she did. She suspected the slow motion echoing of thoughts was due to fever racing through her body. Without her doses of anti-rejection medicine, infection set in quickly.
“Maybe she’s dead.” The voice sounded like Tom Wilson. “If she is, it would make things a lot easier.”
The door supporting her back fell away. She tumbled out into fresher air, smacking her head on the floor in the process. She tried to open her eyelids but they wouldn’t budge.
“Angie, can you hear me?” A cold hand touched her cheek. “She’s burning up.”
“Damn. That means she’s still alive.”
“She needs a hospital.” Arms slipped around her back and under her legs.
“A hospital? Are you nuts? We want to kill her, not save her. If we just dump her in the reservoir, she’ll die without any ties to us.”
In a clumsy, awkward movement, someone lifted her. Her legs and arms dangled in the air and her head lolled to one side. A memory 272
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stirred. Someone else had carried her before. Different then. Strong, muscular, caring. “Hank,” she murmured.
“She’s awake. I’m taking her to a doctor,” Burroughs said. “You told me no one would get hurt when I agreed to go along with this thing. You said no one would find out.”
“No one will find out if she disappears. We wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t kidnapped her in the first place. Now I have to clean up after your mess, and I will. Just put her down.”
By the jostling, she guessed the one carrying her was moving.
“Put her down, Burroughs. I’ve got your gun. I’m warning you.”
“You’d shoot me? Just like that, you’d…” Her rescuer turned abruptly. A shot rang out and the floor smacked her back and thighs. A sharp pain ripped through her arm. Something softer than the floor but equally uncomfortable cushioned her head. Her thin grip on the conscious world slipped away.
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Hank pounded his fist into a ball of dough, sending tiny floury clumps to the ceiling. Where the hell was she? He folded the flattened dough in half and turned it.
“I told her to stay here. I told her to keep the door locked. But did she listen?” His fist ground into the yeasty mass until his knuckles scraped the counter. He had called Stephen the minute he returned home and found Elizabeth’s car missing. Stephen had no answers. That bodyguard he had assigned to Angie never returned. Hank called the police and recited the litany of threats and accidents. They promised to look out for the car and call him the minute they heard anything.
Pacing hadn’t helped him work out frustrations. He was afraid to go out looking for her in case she came back. He was about to start pounding the walls when he thought of dough instead.
Bam! Not that this mess would ever see the inside of an oven. Bam!
The pot in the coffeemaker bounced on the hot plate.
The phone rang as his fist was in mid-descent. He grabbed it before the second ring. “Did you find her?”
“Mr. Renard, it’s Mrs. Blake. Angela’s mother.”
His breath caught in his throat. She was too calm for someone whose daughter was missing.
“Mr. Renard, are you there?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Did you—”
“The police just called. Angela has been taken to OSU Hospital. We’re on our way now.”
“Has she been hurt? What happened?”
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“I’ve told you all I know. I’ll know more once I’m at the hospital. I just thought you should know.”
He didn’t know if he said goodbye, or just hung up on the poor woman. He ran for his car and sped toward the medical complex. It wasn’t until he noticed the bits of dough and flour clinging to the steering wheel that he realized he hadn’t stopped to wash his hands.
After parking the car, he ran into the hospital and found his way to the Intensive Care Unit. Two pairs of eyes turned toward him in the hallway outside the ICU.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here.” Stephen started toward him.
“If it hadn’t been for you, Angela wouldn’t be fighting for her life right now.”
His throat squeezed tight, making each breath painful. “Fighting for her life?” He looked at the two drawn faces in the hallway. “Can someone tell me what happened?”
“They found her at a warehouse with two of your people. She’s been shot. One man is dead. The other has a bullet in him. Must have been a real blood bath.”
“Angela’s been shot? Is it serious? Do the police know who—”
“There’s more to it.” Mrs. Blake put a restraining hand on Stephen’s arm. “You know of Angela’s prior surgery?”
“You mean her heart?”
Mrs. Blake nodded. “The transplant saved her life but also made her extremely receptive to viruses. She needs to take medications every day, several times a day, to fool her body into accepting the new heart.”
“Yes. I know all this.”
“Then you realize how serious it is that she hasn’t taken her medication. Plus, she picked up a bug that has escalated into a full viral infection. These things alone would land her in a hospital.”
“Her body was trying to fight off that infection.” Stephen picked up the conversation thread. “Then she was shot. If Angela doesn’t make it. If she can’t pull through, I’m going to –-”
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“Mr. Renard?”
They all turned to see a tall man in a brown sports jacket walk towards them. “Mr. Henry P. Renard of Hayden Industries?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Fisher with the Columbus Police.” He quickly flashed a badge. “May I talk to you for a few minutes?” Hank agreed. “Let’s go down this way then.” Together they walked down the hall, out of earshot of the others.
“Mr. Renard, are you aware that two of your employees were shot earlier this morning at a warehouse belonging to Timone Industries?”
“Timone?” Damn, she must have decided to go investigating on her own. “Who was shot?”
The detective glanced down at his notes. “Thomas Wilson was found dead on the scene. Pete Burroughs is in surgery with a gunshot wound.”
The detective glanced at Hank. “Can you tell me what those two men were doing at Timone Industries, and what they were doing with Ms.
Blake?”
“She was right.” Hank muttered under his breath.
“Sir?”
“Angela…Ms. Blake suspected Wilson and someone else, probably Burroughs, of stealing from Hayden. She decided to investigate on her own.” Hank stopped walking and turned to the detective. “But Angie would never shoot anyone. I don’t understand why Burroughs and Wilson were shot.”
“Is Ms. Blake your girlfriend, sir?”
Hank narrowed his eyes.
Girlfriend
sounded demeaning for all that Angela meant to him. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Renard?”
The question hit him hard in the stomach. “No. You think I had anything to do with this?”
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sure didn’t look like he committed suicide. I’m thinking maybe a jealous boyfriend…”
“That’s ridiculous.” Hank snarled. “I haven’t been anywhere near that place.” Down the hallway, the ICU door opened, and a doctor extended a hand towards Angela’s mother. His stomach clenched. He should be there, learning about Angela’s condition. But he was here with this—
“Where were you around midnight, Mr. Renard?”
“I was home calling the Westerville police every five minutes to see if they found Angela. Now, if we’re finished here.” He started to walk back towards Angela’s family.
“Easy enough to check. Listen, Mr. Renard,” the detective called to his back. “Don’t go disappearing on us. We’ll have more questions for you later.”