“I don’t know what to do.” He paused. “I’m scared.”
“You’d be nuts not to be.”
Travis managed, for the first time, something approaching a grin. “I guess it’s too bad you’re not my father. I’d have come into a shitload of money.”
Miles smiled wryly. “Let’s go find Sandy.”
Travis was still holding the phone, but was hesitating.
“You need to trust me,” Miles said. “They failed the first time they came after you. There’s nothing to say it won’t happen again. You need to get ahead of this. You need to let me help you.”
Travis waited another moment, nodded, and started to compose a short, simple text:
A DEVELOPMENT. NEED TO SEE YOU.
He hit Send and waited.
“She usually gets back to me right away,” he said. He stared at the phone, waiting for the telltale dots that would tell him she was replying.
He waited. And waited.
“Maybe she’s in the bathroom or something,” Travis said, but there was a nervous edge to his voice.
“Forget texting,” Miles said. “Phone her.”
Travis tapped, then put the phone to his ear. “It’s ringing.”
He let it ring ten times. Then he checked to see whether she was now replying to his text. She was not.
Miles had a flashback to when Chloe had tried to get in touch with Todd. A chill ran the length of his spine.
“We need to find her right now,” he said.
Fifty-One
Somewhere...
Chloe could feel herself slowly coming out of a deep sleep.
She’d had a dream about some woman spraying her with something awful, how she had this burning sensation in her eyes and throat and on her skin. How she’d more or less gone blind, what with her eyes stinging so badly. She’d put her hands over her face, screaming with pain, and that was when she felt something jab into her arm.
No, not a dream, she thought as she slowly regained consciousness. It had happened. When she came out of the diner, after the limo pulled up alongside her.
Thinking it was Miles.
Not Miles.
She’d had only a second to get a look at the person in the back seat of the limo. A woman, some woman Chloe had never seen before in her life. Dark hair, kind of nice looking, late forties, she thought. Maybe older. Not that she’d had much time to take her in. A second, maybe? Two, tops? Chloe had barely enough time to ask who she was before she raised her hand. She’d been holding some tiny canister.
Pepper spray, Chloe figured.
Before she opened her eyes, she became aware that she was on a soft, pretty comfortable surface. She ran her fingers along what felt like a quilt, and her head was resting on a very cushy pillow.
And she could sense light coming through her eyelids. She had no idea how long she’d been out, whether it was night or day, but wherever she was, the lights were on.
Chloe fluttered her eyelids, getting adjusted to the brightness. She went to sit up, but found she lacked the strength. Whatever that bitch had jabbed into her arm was still working its magic. She’d been on her side, and slowly rolled until she was on her back. She had barely enough energy to move her head from side to side.
There were nightstands on either side of the bed, decorated with large lamps with oversized shades. There was a dresser, some landscape paintings on the wall like you’d see in a hotel.
There were two doors. One was on the wall beyond the foot of the bed, and there was a second one off to the left. Both closed.
Chloe heard some stirring, then the flushing of a toilet. It sounded as though it was coming from behind the door to the left.
She watched it.
The handle turned, and then the door opened wide. Chloe’s vision was slightly blurry, but there was someone standing there.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” the person said. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep forever.”
A woman’s voice. No, younger than that. A teenage girl’s voice.
The girl walked closer, grabbed a chair from a small, round dining table, dragged it over to the edge of the bed, and sat down.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
“Like shit,” Chloe said.
“Yeah. They drugged you.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Chloe said, her words slightly slurred. “When they find out what you’ve done, you’re in deep shit. This is kidnapping. You’ll go to jail for a long, long time. Fuck, my head’s killing me.”
“I can probably get you an aspirin,” the girl said. “And don’t blame me. I didn’t kidnap you. I don’t even know who you are.”
Chloe moved her tongue around, trying to get things working. “I’m Chloe.”
The girl extended a hand, and when Chloe didn’t have the strength to raise her own, the girl gave her arm a squeeze.
“Pleased to meet you, Chloe,” she said. “My name’s Nicky. Welcome to hell.”
Fifty-Two
Fort Wayne, IN
Travis backed his van onto the street and Miles got in on the passenger side, having to haul himself up to get in. Travis tromped his foot down on the accelerator before Miles was fully settled into his seat, or had even reached for the seat belt. He blew through a stop sign and swerved to avoid a squirrel that had dared to dart into the street.
“It’s not far,” Travis said, eyes straight ahead.
Miles decided against the seat belt and opted instead to brace himself against the dash. God forbid they should hit anything. A deploying airbag would snap his arms like twigs. The van made a right, then a left, then sped down a stretch lined with fast-food outlets, carpet discounters, and muffler repair shops. Travis made another right, heading away from the commercial district and into a residential area that was a mix of modest houses and low-rise apartment buildings.
He brought the van to an abrupt stop in front of an old, three-story house that might have looked majestic back when it was built sixty or seventy years before, but had not aged gracefully. The paint on the trim was peeling, the steps up to the porch sagged noticeably in the middle, many of the shingles were curled, and the front yard needed a good weeding.
“She’s got a room here,” Travis said, and was out of the van and running up to the porch before Miles even had his door all the way open.
Travis tried the front door and, finding it locked, started banging on it. A few seconds later, a sixtyish, balding man Miles presumed was the landlord appeared and opened the door. By now, Miles was on the sidewalk and close enough to hear the conversation.
“I’m looking for Sandy!” Travis said. “It’s an emergency!”
“What?” the landlord said.
“She lives here! Upstairs!”
Before the man could say another word, Travis squeezed past him and entered the building.
“Hey!” the landlord cried.
Miles reached the door and caught a glimpse of Travis heading up a flight of stairs, two steps at a time.
“You with him?” the man asked Miles.
He nodded. “It’s important we find her. Something may have happened.” Miles was solemn enough that the man appeared persuaded.
Upstairs, they could hear Travis banging on a door. “Sandy! Sandy! It’s me!”
By the time Miles and the landlord reached the second floor, Travis was standing at the door, his face breaking. “If she’s here, she’s not answering.”