No signal.
“Shit,” she muttered, not at all cheered by the silent reminder to herself that this sort of thing happened to Scully and Mulder all the time. On TV, it was purely a question of cutting off the protagonists from easily accessed help, she knew that. Increased dramatic tension.
In real life, it was the universe giving her a hard time. Probably as payback for this absurd and undoubtedly wrong interest in a thief.
Chewing on her bottom lip, she looked at her surroundings. It hadn’t been what anyone would have called a good neighborhood to begin with, and the last big earthquake had made a shambles of most of the buildings Morgan could see. Obviously, rebuilding wasn’t high on any landlord’s priority list. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance, but other than that there seemed to be no signs of life.
Swallowing, Morgan found her can of pepper spray in her purse, left the bag on the floorboard of the car, and got out. Her cell phone went into a back pocket of her jeans, just in case she was able to get a signal at some point. She locked up the car, then put her keys in a front pocket, reasoning that the police whistle would do nothing except draw unwelcome attention to her here.
The damned thing hadn’t been helpful
at all.
There were a few scattered streetlights casting a weird glow down through the fog, but they provided enough light for Morgan to find her way back to the van. It loomed up suddenly before her, freezing her in her tracks for a long moment until she realized there was no one in it. She checked just to make sure, but it was empty.
It was parked before a building that looked to be ten or twelve stories high, maybe an old office building, she thought. Most of the doors and windows were boarded up, and though she couldn’t see it clearly, Morgan had the feeling this building had been condemned for a long time, even before the earthquake had rattled it. There was a smell about it, musty and disused, that said no one had lived here in a long time.
She checked her cell phone, and again the backlit display informed her the device was worse than useless. Unless, of course, she wanted to calculate a tip or play a game.
“Technology,” she said under her breath. “Yeah, right.”
She nonetheless made her way around the building with the utmost caution, looking for a way in. She found it in the rear—a warped door pulled half off its hinges—and about seven or eight stories up she saw a dim light coming from a boarded-up window. She paused for several minutes, her ears straining for any sound. She thought she heard a couple of dull thuds from up there, and once a ghostly laugh, but mostly what she heard was the frightened pounding of her heart.
She had to take several deep breaths before she could gather the courage to enter the building. It was awfully dark, even after her eyes adjusted a bit, and she had to use her free hand to feel gingerly along the wall.
The floor seemed fairly solid under her feet, and there didn’t seem to be any obstructions of old furniture and the like to hinder her, but there were squeaks and rustles in the darkness that made Morgan grit her teeth and move a bit faster. She located a stairwell almost totally by touch, and her relief turned to wariness when she realized that there was dim light spilling down from somewhere above.
She moved with even more caution, her can of pepper spray held ready. Although she couldn’t help but wonder how the small can would fare against three large and probably armed ruffians. Telling herself fiercely not to borrow trouble, she continued, always up. By the time she reached the fourth floor, she could see fairly well, and by the sixth she knew the light was only a couple of floors above her.
On the eighth-floor landing, she found a rusted old fire door hanging open, and just inside the hallway a battery lantern sat innocently on the floor. Morgan was tempted but didn’t pick it up. Instead, she peered carefully through the doorway. She could see more light coming from a half-closed door at the end of the hallway and, when she strained, hear the indistinguishable sounds of voices.
Morgan checked her cell phone again, hoping she was high enough now, but there was still no signal. Jeez, here she was trying to be a Superfriend, and you’d think the bad guys had put a bubble of kryptonite around her.
It was almost funny. Not quite, but almost.
Now what?
she mouthed to herself. After a slight hesitation, she slipped through the door and into the hall. Pressing herself tightly to the wall, she made her way slowly, her eyes fixed on that partially opened door. She was over halfway there when one voice rose harshly above the others and froze her—because it was so vicious and because she recognized it.
“It won’t take us long to find out who you are. I’d kill you now, but you might come in handy for something later on. There might even be a price on your head.”
And then, almost inaudible but reaching Morgan’s straining ears like the sound of sweet, insouciant music, came Quinn’s dry reply.
“No honor among thieves? I’m saddened, gentlemen, deeply saddened. To say nothing of being disillusioned.”
“Shut up,” the harsh voice ordered. “There’s no way you’re going to get loose, so don’t bother trying. You can yell all you want; there’s nobody to hear you. I’ll be back in the morning when I decide what to do with you.”
Morgan remained frozen for an instant longer, then gasped and slid along the wall to the nearest door. Not only was it not locked, it didn’t even have a doorknob. She pushed it open and slipped into the room, then closed it again and pressed herself against the wall, trying to control her breathing. Within minutes, she heard footsteps passing the room where she was hiding, the heavy steps of large men.
She counted to ten slowly, then very cautiously opened her door and peered down the hall toward the stairwell. They had left the lantern, which rather surprised her, but she supposed they had flashlights. She debated for a moment but decided she could go back and get the lantern once she found out what Quinn’s situation was. She was too impatient to wait any longer, hurrying down the hall toward the now-closed door.
When she neared it, she noticed a large, shiny metal hasp instead of a knob on the door; it was open since there was no padlock or pin with which to lock the hasp in place over the staple. And the door itself was a metal one, set with what looked to be very solid hinges.
Morgan wondered briefly what these very new bits of hardware were doing in this decrepit building—and a few possibilities garnered from thrillers on the late show made her shudder.
She was just reaching for the hasp when she heard the distant thuds of returning footsteps. Morgan looked toward the other end of the hallway, saw the flickering light of someone climbing up the stairs holding a flashlight, and felt a rush of panic. If she tried to move away from this door, she knew she would be seen; he’d be in this hallway within seconds, and the next nearest door was too far away for her to reach in time.
There was nothing else to do.
Swiftly, she opened the door to Quinn’s prison and nipped inside, closing it gently behind her.
It was pitch dark and utterly silent in there. Morgan, pressed against the wall by the door, held her can of pepper spray ready as the heavy footsteps neared the door. Then, while she waited tensely, she heard several metallic noises, the faint squeak of a hinge, and then a solid click.
The footsteps went away, leaving Morgan sagged against the wall and filled with a horrible realization. Somebody had come back with a padlock, dammit.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
W
onderful. She and Quinn were on the eighth
floor of a condemned building, in a room with a very businesslike locked door barring their way, and even if they could pry the boards off the windows it was doubtful there was a fire escape.
While Morgan leaned there, silently cussing herself and Quinn, she heard a faint rustle and then a conversational voice.
“I seem to be saying this far too often lately, but—Morgana, what the hell are you doing here?”
She took a deep breath, relaxed her death grip on the can of pepper spray, and shoved it in an unoccupied pocket. “I happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said, proud of her careless tone. It almost matched his.
“I see. Well, leaving the absurdity of that aside for the moment, do you happen to have a trusty penknife or pair of sewing scissors?”
“Not on me. I have a cell phone, but no signal. A police whistle—and no friendlies near enough to hear it. My trusty can of pepper spray. And my car keys have a compass on them.” She paused and sighed. “The universe hates me. I take it you’re tied up?”
“Afraid so. And they took all my tools.” He sighed as well, then spoke briskly. “This room is about twenty feet square, and my wretched cot is located about eight feet away from the door. If you could make your way over here and try your hand at untying these ropes, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Morgan was surprised at her own calm. The only thing she could figure out was that she was in shock. So she was able to slowly cross the room, estimating the distance, until she felt the cot against her legs, and then kneel down on the hard floor beside it. Now, in which direction lay his head?
Querulously, he said, “What on earth is taking so long? All you have to do is—” He broke off with a peculiar sound.
Morgan hastily withdrew her hands, which had landed rather off target, so to speak. “Um—sorry,” she murmured.
Quinn cleared his throat. “Not at all,” he disclaimed politely, with only a trace of hoarseness in his voice. “I’ve always wondered what the attraction was in being held immobile by various bindings and . . . uh . . . caressed. There is a certain appeal, I must admit. Though I would, I believe, prefer to have my own hands free should you choose to—”
“Shut up,” she ordered fiercely. “It’s dark in here, that’s why. I can’t see what I’m doing.”
He sighed. “Yes, of course. Foolish of me to think otherwise.”
Morgan reached out again, this time with extreme caution, and encountered the bulky shape of his tool belt. She hoped. With more confidence, she felt the hard flatness of his stomach, and inched upward warily.
In a conversational tone, Quinn said, “You’re repaying me for having stolen your necklace, aren’t you, Morgana?”
Startled, she allowed her hands to lie flat over the steady rise and fall of his chest. “What?” She’d forgotten the necklace until he mentioned it.
“This torture. Here I lie, helpless and at your mercy, while you amuse yourself with me. If it’s ravishment you have in mind, I shall bear it like a man, but please take care how you fondle my poor abused body. Those cretins were not kind.”
Morgan grasped the salient fact among absurdities, and leaned closer as she demanded, “What did they do to you?”
“I would rather not discuss it,” Quinn replied affably. “I would suggest, however, that you refrain from—Is that . . . ? Yes, I believe so. Even in the dark, quite obvious. Rather prominent, aren’t they?”
She straightened hastily. “Quinn, do you want to get out of here alive?” she asked irately.
“I—”
“Yes or no, dammit.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop making crude remarks.”
He cleared his throat. “Admiring remarks, Morgana. Always admiring.”
The wistfulness in his too-expressive voice made her want to giggle, but she overcame the ridiculous impulse. “Just shut up about my anatomy, or I’ll leave you here to rot. Which is just what you deserve.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, not bothering to point out that both of them could rot here in the locked room, tied or not.
Morgan let her fingers resume their progress but stopped when they encountered the warmth of his throat. She swallowed as she realized he wasn’t masked, but managed to say lightly, “My kingdom for a match.”
He sighed. “Sorry I can’t oblige. The ropes, Morgana, please. My fingers are going numb.”
She couldn’t resist the temptation to glide her fingertips over his face first, feeling smooth skin over his stubborn jaw and high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, unbelievably long lashes, a high forehead, and thick, soft hair. She tried to be quick, hoping he’d think she was merely feeling her way in sheer indifference, but then he cleared his throat again and spoke in a slightly husky but wry tone.
“If I solemnly promise never to steal anything from you ever again, will you stop doing that, Morgana? At least while I’m bound and helpless?”
She bit her lip to hold back a sudden giggle. “As if I’d believe your promise. Ah—here we are.”
His wrists were tied to the very sturdy posts of the cot, and Morgan’s amusement faded when she felt how the ropes were digging into his wrists. It was difficult to untie ropes she couldn’t see, but she worked at the knots fiercely, sacrificing her fingernails and even a bit of skin from her knuckles.
“What
are
you doing here?” he asked finally while she struggled with the ropes. “I didn’t see much of it, but I believe this neighborhood is a long way from yours.”
Morgan didn’t want to tell him the truth, but she couldn’t think of a convincing lie. All she could do was make it sound more casual than it had been. “I was driving by that museum—the one with all the sculpture and statuary—and saw three men throw you into a van.”
He didn’t ask how she had known it was him. They both knew the answer to that. Instead, he said, “So you followed them here?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, then made a little sound of triumph when the rope around his right wrist finally gave way.
In a judicious tone, Quinn said, “Morgana, that has to be the most reckless thing I have ever heard of in my life.”
“Coming from you,” she said, “that is praise of a high order. Can you move your—there, like that. Just another second now, and I think—got it!”
Quinn sat up on the cot, and though she couldn’t see him she knew he was rubbing his wrists. “Thank you, sweet.”
“Are your ankles—”
“I’ll get those,” he said.
She sat back on her heels, wishing there was just a bit more light so she could see his face. It would be too bad, she thought, if she went through all this and was denied a glimpse of his naked face. She felt she’d earned that much.
“Quinn . . . the man who threatened to kill you, the one with the vicious voice—that was Ed, wasn’t it? One of that gang of thieves who were robbing the museum the night we met?”
Untying his ankles, Quinn said, “You have a good ear.”
“Then you ran into them again? Don’t tell me you wound up burgling the same place a second time?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it? And unfortunate—this time, they caught me.”
A bit dryly, Morgan said, “If you guys keep bumping into each other like this, people will begin to talk.” She was about to ask him what had interested him in that particular museum when he distracted her.
He chuckled softly. “Morgana, I’ve missed you.”
With an effort, she ignored that. “You stole my one good piece of jewelry, you lousy thief. You and I have a score to settle. That is, if we ever get out of here.”
The cot creaked as he moved, and she felt the brush of his legs as he swung them to the floor. “I have no intention of waiting here for the charming Ed to return. If I did, I’ve a feeling my next bit of publicity would be an obituary.”
Morgan winced. “You could have gone all night without saying that. What’s the plan?”
“To get out,” Quinn replied succinctly.
“There’s a padlock on the door—and it’s the one door in this whole miserable building built to do its job. We’re on the eighth floor. How do you propose to get out?”
“There are windows, aren’t there?” He got to his feet a bit gingerly and caught his breath, muttering, “Dammit.”
Morgan heard the note of pain in his voice and quickly got up herself. She reached out carefully, relieved when she touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
He let out a low laugh. “That, sweet, is a loaded question. Let’s just say I’m functional, and leave it at that.”
She let go of his arm, sensing rather than hearing it when he moved past her toward the faint chinks of light representing the windows. “The windows must be barred,” she offered.
Quinn didn’t answer for a moment, but then she heard a low, groaning creak and a satisfied sound from him. “Ah—just as I hoped. This room is designed more to keep things out than in. The metal grating over the windows swings in.”
Morgan tried to remember what she’d seen of the building. Precious little, because of the fog. “But most of the windows are boarded up on the outside.”
“Yeah.” There was a loud thud, then another, and Quinn’s powerful kick sent one of the boards flying.
The amount of light that came streaming into the room would have been pitiful under other circumstances, but to Morgan it was a veritable ray of sunshine. She blinked, moving toward it, and didn’t realize until he kicked another board loose that she could see him now.
He was fair, which surprised her a bit, his hair thick and a pale color that was either gold or silver. He was also a little younger than she would have guessed, possibly in his early thirties. And his face, his naked face, was visible to her for the first time. Even in the pallid, wispy light it was a good face. A strong face, with plenty of character. It was the face she had touched. Lean and unusually handsome, with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and those vivid green eyes set under flying brows.
It was a face Morgan knew she would never forget, no matter what happened.
It was also somewhat the worse for wear, boasting what was going to be a beautiful shiner around his right eye and another bruise high on his left cheekbone. Since she knew he’d been unconscious during part of tonight, she thought he probably had quite a headache from having been knocked out. It said something about his nature, she thought, that he could maintain his sense of humor under such conditions.
Unconscious of her scrutiny, Quinn leaned through the opening he’d made and said, “We’re in luck. There’s a kind of catwalk out here. If it wraps the building, we should find a fire escape or at least an open window to get us into an unlocked room.”
The description filled Morgan with foreboding. When he drew back enough for her to see past him, her fears were realized. A “kind” of catwalk indeed; it looked more like one of those rickety things window washers used, except that it was affixed to the side of the building as if intended to be permanent.
Then again, it could just as easily have been intended to be somebody’s insane idea of artwork.
“I think not,” she said politely. “If you want to try it, go ahead. And, if you make it, call the police and ask them to come get me, would you?”
Quinn shook his head slightly and looked at her with a serious expression. “Morgana, we have no way of knowing how much time we have here. Despite what he said, Ed could have tossed a lighted match downstairs, or left one of his bullies to do it later. The place could be wired for the sole purpose of getting rid of some nasty little problem—like a witness. We can’t waste any time. We have to go. Now.”
She wasn’t happy, but her common sense told her Quinn was right. The sooner they got out of here the better off they were bound to be. Squashing her fears and keeping her eyes fixed on his face, she said, “All right, but if you get me killed I’ll haunt you forever.”
He smiled, and if his voice held charm it was nothing compared to that crooked, beguiling smile. “Good girl. Just follow behind me—not too close, we need to distribute the weight as much as possible—and keep your back against the building.”
Morgan waited while he climbed through the window and eased his weight onto the catwalk. Then, looking at him and not at anything else, she followed.
For about twenty feet, all went well. Afterward, Morgan was never able to decide if what happened was due to the age of the building, earthquake damage, or some sick joke perpetrated by Ed or someone like him.
All she knew was that their catwalk just sort of disintegrated in midair with an unthreatening little
whoosh
sound.
If she hadn’t been obeying Quinn’s instructions to walk close to the building, Morgan never would have been able to catch herself. As it was, she was barely able to balance herself well enough to keep from toppling off the treacherously narrow ledge that was all that was left of their catwalk.
As for Quinn, he’d been moving a little farther out, and the sudden drop of the catwalk almost got him. If he hadn’t had exceptionally powerful hands with which to grip the ledge, he never would have been able to save himself.
He caught his balance with the agility of a cat and used the muscles of his arms and shoulders to pull himself up. He felt his way by touch alone, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Morgan. She was pressed back against the wall, her slender body rigid and her head tilted slightly so that she was looking up rather than down.
“All right?” he called softly.
“Oh, I’m fine.” Her voice was unnaturally calm.
Quinn frowned slightly but, satisfied that she was in no immediate danger—the section of ledge on which she was standing looked fairly solid, at least for the moment—he turned his attention to their predicament. The catwalk had taken bits of the building with it when it collapsed, depriving them of most of the pitiful ledge on which they were standing.
The ledge had given way cleanly on the other side of Morgan, which made it impossible for them to retreat to their prison even if they wanted to; on this side of her, and between their positions, at least two gaping cracks were mute evidence of instability. Climbing up to the roof would be useless; he knew from the style of what he had seen of the building that the roof would be steeply pitched and covered with slippery, fog-wet tiles. And though he possessed the skill and ability to rappel down, there was nothing to which a rope could be securely fastened—even if he had one.