New York to Dallas - J. D. Robb [58]
“There’s water in coffee.”
“Yeah, but it’s, like, boiled, right? That kills the microbes that trigger all this cooperation and chattiness. It has to. It’s getting dark. I know we’re making progress, but it’s getting dark. He’s had her for more than twenty hours now.”
She took a long breath. “Getting dark,” she murmured. “He likes to hunt at night.”
10
Dark. He liked to keep them in the dark so they couldn’t know if it was day or night. So they couldn’t see each other, have even that horrible, small comfort.
Unless he blasted the lights, hours and hours and hours of bright lights. Then they could see too well. All those eyes, as empty and hopeless as the pit of her own stomach. The shackles and chains, like something out of an old vid—but real, so real, the weight and the bite of them on the wrists, the ankles.
But it was worse when he took them off. Worse when he took you out of the room, and into his.
She’d fight when he came again. Bree said they had to fight, no matter what. Bree was right, she knew Bree was right, but it was so hard. He hurt her so much.
But she’d try, she’d try to fight, try to hurt him if he came for her again.
In the dark she reached out, wanting her sister’s hand, the contact of skin.
And remembered.
It was dark, but she was alone. And she wasn’t a child this time. But he’d come back for her, as he had in every nightmare that plagued her.
He’d come back.
Melinda shifted, felt that weight, that bite on her ankles and wrists. In her head she screamed like a wounded animal, but she didn’t let the sound come out.
Stay calm, stay calm. Screaming won’t help. She had to think, to plan, to find a way out.
Bree would be looking for her, along with the entire force of the Dallas police.
But she didn’t know if she was in Dallas. She could be anywhere.
The hysteria wanted to froth up in her throat, vomit out in a scream.
Think.
Sarajo.
On the ’link, desperate, urgent, asking for help. What had she said? Important to remember every detail, to get through the fog of whatever they’d given her and remember.
She’d claimed she’d seen the man who’d raped her. Needed help. So scared. Couldn’t go to the police, couldn’t go through it again.
Had to help, of course, even though she’d put in a long day and had hoped for an early night. Left the note for Bree, locked up. Always careful to lock up, to keep the doors on her car locked. Careful. Always careful.
And yet.
So sure, Melinda remembered now, that she’d be able to talk Sarajo Whitehead through the fear, convince her to go to the police with details. So confident she could help, she could handle.
Of course, she’d said again. Of course when Sarajo had dashed to the car when Melinda had pulled into the lot of the twenty-four-hour eatery. Of course we can go somewhere else, somewhere not so crowded and noisy.
Sympathy, empathy, eye contact, a touch of the hand. Reassurance. She’d let Sarajo into the car, sat for a moment, talking quietly, hoping to settle the nerves—what she took as nerves, she thought now.
The woman didn’t look well, no, didn’t look well at all, so she hadn’t hesitated to pull over when Sarajo claimed to be sick.
Reaching out again, to help. She hadn’t seen the syringe, but she’d felt the pressure on the side of her neck. Another bite.
Then, for just a moment as the gray rose, as it edged into black, she saw Sarajo smile.
Stupid bitch, she said. Stupid, know-it-all bitch.
And he was there, just there.
Going, going, fading, fading. Can’t scream, can’t fight. Just his voice, the sharp, ugly joy in it as they dragged her into the backseat.
Hi, Melinda! Just like old times.
Then nothing, just nothing, until the dark.
When he came, the lights came with him, stinging her eyes. Groggy, so groggy, and sick. But it was Bree on the ’link. Her face, her voice. She tried so hard to stay calm, to think clearly through the thick dregs of the drug.
Sarajo, she thought again. His partner. He always worked with a woman. Oh, she’d read and studied everything on Isaac McQueen. Made herself read it, watch it, know it.