Page 60 of On the Chase
“What kind of danger?” Her anxiety spiked as she thought of him being out all night, searching cars for the drug shipment. Was he okay? Had something already happened? Theo and Otto were there, though. She reassured herself that they would’ve called for help if anything had happened to Hugh…unless something had happened to them, too. Fear squeezed her stomach. “What’s wrong?”
The lieutenant’s face softened slightly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll track him down and drag him in by the scruff of his neck. He’ll be fine.”
With that perfectly useless platitude, he left, closing the door behind him with a sharp bang. Letting out a frustrated sound, Grace plopped back down in her chair and stared at her phone, wondering if she should call Theo and have him warn Hugh that…what? He already knew that his lieutenant was looking for him, and Hugh was well aware that he was in danger, thanks to the hit Truman had out on him.
If Blessard knew of something else, however, if there was a new danger that Hugh needed to watch out for, then it was worth a call to warn him. Decided, she found Theo’s number on her sadly short list of contacts. Before she could dial, the door swung open again, less violently that time. Although Grace startled again, she managed to stay in her chair.
A short, stocky, disheveled man stood in the doorway, holding a paper cup of coffee balanced on a short stack of files and notepads. His receding hairline and ill-fitting suit fit every television cliché, down to the visitor pass clipped to his jacket that had FBI printed in large letters. “Miss Robinson?”
“Yes?” She lowered her cell phone to her lap.
“Special Agent Josh Barrett from the FBI.” He placed the pile of papers on the table and held out the coffee cup.
“Thank you.” Grace accepted it eagerly, immediately taking a sip. It was some of the worst coffee she’d ever tasted, but she forced herself to take another drink. After her short, broken sleep the previous night, she needed caffeine desperately. “I thought I’d be talking to Agent Shankle.”
“He’ll be here shortly,” Barrett said, taking a seat across the table from her. “Lieutenant Blessard requested a word with him first.”
“Ah.” His answer reminded Grace that she needed to call Theo, but she couldn’t do that with the FBI agent in the room. She avoided glancing at the phone in her lap, taking a sip of coffee instead.
Barrett pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“I don’t mind.” Exhaustion flooded Grace at the thought of having to tell the story of that terrible night, and she mentally shook herself. If she lived through it, she could talk about it. This would be the easy part. “I assumed it would be. Aren’t the police videotaping this room?” She glanced around, looking for a camera, but there were just bare walls.
Barrett chuckled. “Not in Mayberry—I mean, Monroe. This is just an office turned into an interview room. For these tiny towns, surveillance cameras aren’t in the budget.”
There was a smugness to his tone that made her frown, offended on behalf of Hugh and the other Monroe cops. The town might be small, but they worked hard. She could tell they really cared about their jobs. She started to defend them, but a wave of dizziness flooded her, and she lost her train of thought. Grace blinked hard, trying to bring the room back into focus.
“Miss Robinson, are you feeling okay?” Barrett’s words had a strange echo to them, and she stared at his blurry form. What was wrong with her? She’d thought it was just lack of sleep, but this was different. Fog rolled over her brain, and she fought to keep her eyes open. “Miss Robinson? Or do you prefer Kaylee?”
Her alarm was muted, her panic smothered under a thick blanket.Drugged. The realization came slowly, even as the room darkened and tilted sideways.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Kaylee.” The agent’s voice was distorted, the words stretched and blurred. “You can call me Truman.”
* * *
Grace woke up unable to move. Panic flushed through her, and her eyes popped open as she immediately started to struggle. Her muscles strained, but her arms and legs were restrained. She tried to yell, but something in and over her mouth stopped the sound. As the haze of unconsciousness started to clear, Grace realized that she’d been gagged and hog-tied, with her wrists and ankles bound together.
She blinked, trying to figure out where she was. The memory of the FBI agent—no,Truman—coming into the interview room, giving her coffee… Grace groaned, and the sound was absorbed by the gag. He’d drugged her. He’d drugged her and somehow moved her to wherever she was. Fear accelerated her heartbeat as reality returned. Where was she?
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. Twisting her head back and forth, she realized that she was lying on her back in a small, rectangular space.Like a coffin.Her panic started to return, and she firmly shut it down. Light was coming from between the slats of a metal air vent next to her head. If the enclosure she was trapped in had been a coffin, there wouldn’t have been any light, and there definitely wouldn’t have been any air.
Even so, the horror of her situation was starting to sink in, and her breath came hard and fast.Stop!she commanded mentally, reining in her building terror. Giving in to fear would not solve her problem. She wasn’t sure whatwouldsolve it, but she knew for certain that getting hysterical wouldn’t help.
Turning onto her side, she twisted her hands so she could feel her bonds. Her fingers slid across a slick, familiar surface—duct tape. Her wrists worked, her fingers straining to find an edge, to pull and work at the tape, but the angle was wrong. Giving up on freeing her wrists, she reached for her feet. A rope of duct tape connected them to her hands, and she arched her back and pulled her bound ankles closer to her.
The front of her thighs screamed a protest at her awkward position as Grace picked and tugged at the tape. There was athunk, and the light from the vent brightened, making her go still. Releasing her ankles, she craned her neck to peek through the slats.
She was in the back of a van, one that had been converted into…something. She could see a large, low sink and a table with a rubber, textured surface. The table looked familiar, and she remembered that Nan had a similar one at the kennel that she put the dogs on for grooming. Confusion added to Grace’s fear. What was this place?
One of the back doors was open, and Special Agent Barrett—no,Truman—climbed inside. Grace froze, not moving, not breathing. What was he going to do? Kill her? Torture her? This was the guy who put a hit out on Hugh, acop, just to make it easier to run drugs. That kind of monster could be capable of anything.
He looked at the vent, and a cold smile crept over his face. “You awake in there, Kaylee?”
In a couple of strides, he was right next to her. With a click, the top of the enclosure—not a coffin, not a coffin—opened, and Truman stood over her, grinning. Trying to hide her shaking, she forced back her fear and packed all her rage and disgust into her glare.
“Comfortable?” he mocked. “I made it myself. From the outside, it looks like a water storage tank and heater, but it’s actually a very convenient hiding place.” His expression was expectant, as if he was waiting for her to rave over his cleverness. When she just continued to glower, Truman gave a tiny shrug. “I usually use it for…other things, but Jovanovic asked so nicely that I couldn’t refuse. When I told him a woman wanted to talk to the FBI about Martin Jovanovic, he guessed it was you right away. I must say, the photo he sent does not do you justice.” His reptilian eyes ran over her, and she fought the urge to cringe away from him. “He was quite desperate to know where you were hiding, but I’m keeping that to myself. I don’t want Jovanovic to send one of his goons to pick you up just so he won’t have to pay me. He’s cut me out of deals before. Fool me once, and all that.”
As much as she wanted to keep her tough expression, Martin’s name sent a surge of fear through her. Truman might not torture her, but he was delivering her to Jovanovic, andhewouldn’t have any qualms about causing Grace pain. She had firsthand evidence of that. The men’s bloody, battered faces filled her mind, and she forced them back. She couldn’t panic, not now. She tried to move, to pull free from her restraints, but all she managed was to bump her knees against the side of her enclosure.
