The Quickie - James Patterson [60]
Ordonez laughed at my shocked expression.
“The night Scott ended up dead, I was supposed to meet him. Only he postponed. Told me he had a booty call from this hot little Homicide detective. Up in Yonkers. You know who that hottie was?”
I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. I couldn’t believe what an idiot I was.
“Yeah, Scott was one slick cat,” Ordonez said. “Only, I guess he ran out of lives that night with you. You ever ask yourself what angle he was playing on you? Besides getting in your pants, of course. Because he never did nothing without some twisted reason, believe me. My boy Scotty, he was Freddy Krueger with a badge, more twisted than a pretzel.”
We drove in silence after that little bit of wonderfulness.
“You still want me to tell you where we’re headed?” Ordonez said after a minute.
I nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
“We’re going to fly due east of Providence for an hour or so. You know where that will put us?”
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
Ordonez winked at me in the mirror.
“The Atlantic Ocean,” he said. “About a hundred and fifty miles from land. Then — pay attention now, this is good — I’m going to slice open the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet.”
My breath started to come in sobbing bursts.
“Don’t worry, lady. Nothing life-threatening,” Ordonez said. “But then I’m going to slow air speed, lower altitude, and plonk you out the door of the Piper into the deep blue sea. You getting the picture now? You feeling me?”
I suddenly couldn’t get enough oxygen. If my hands hadn’t been cuffed, I would have covered my ears.
“From that point, you have exactly two choices,” he continued as I experienced my first-ever asthma attack. “Drown yourself, or try to survive. You seem like the spunky type. I’m guessing you’ll think you’re going to get lucky — a passing boat or plane will spot you, pick you up. Only that’s not going to happen.”
Ordonez took a sip of his drink and adjusted his rearview mirror. He cold-eyed me. Then he winked at me again, horribly.
“While you tread water, your blood will seep. Then the sharks will come, Lauren,” he said. “Not one, not two. I’m talking hundreds of sharks. Every hammerhead, blue, sandtiger, maybe even a great white or two, will be all over you like a bum on a bologna sandwich. And then, Lauren — I’m not kidding here, I want you to be fully informed — you’re going to experience the worst death imaginable. Alone, in the middle of the ocean, you’re going to be eaten alive. In case you’ve been wondering, I loved my brother, well, like a brother.”
Ordonez suddenly turned up the radio, I guess to show his total disdain for me.
What I heard couldn’t be, I thought. But it was.
Frank Sinatra.
Oblivious to the irony, Ordonez checked his Rolex and took another sip from his mug.
“ ‘Just the way you look . . . ,’ ” he sang along with ol’ Blue Eyes, with a jaunty snap of his fingers, “ ‘tonight.’ ”
Chapter 86
FOR THE NEXT TEN MINUTES or so, a kind of terror seizure overtook me. I lay facedown on the floor of the van, as still as a corpse in the back of a hearse. Mark Ordonez drove smoothly, keeping it at a steady fifty-five in order not to attract any attention.
From the occasional rumble of passing trucks, I assumed we were on I-84 heading east toward Rhode Island. How much more time until we arrived at the airport? Another hour?
Slowly, I began to come out of my fit. Just in time to realize who, in all of this, I’d hurt most of all. I turned on my side and brought my knees up until my thighs were almost touching my stomach.
Whoever you are, I told the baby in my womb as I shook with sorrow, I’m so sorry. So sorry, so sorry for you, my little one.
There was a hard shake as the van suddenly jogged sharply to the right.
“Hey!” Ordonez shouted, staring into his driver’s side mirror as we swerved back again.
“This guy’s gotta be drunk. Pick a lane,