Vicious

“Wait!” she screamed.

He slammed it down on her skull.

Moira flopped across the backseat, unconscious.

On the floor in front of her was the rope he’d used to save her. He would use it again to tie her up.

But first, he pulled up the bottom of her T-shirt until it was bunched up over her breasts. He stared at her bra. It was pink.

“Pretty,” he murmured.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He didn’t want to leave Jordan alone with Allen Meeker, not even for a few minutes. So Leo made a pact with his friend while they were in the kitchen. He would go upstairs, pack Moira’s bag, and take it out to the car if—and only if—Jordan removed the gag from Allen’s mouth.

“You don’t trust me?” Jordan argued, frowning.

Leo slowly shook his head. “Not around him.”

“Fair enough,” Jordan muttered, patting him on the shoulder. Then they headed down the basement stairs.

Leo hated every minute of this. For the first time in their friendship, they both had good reasons not to trust one another. He just couldn’t understand why Jordan wouldn’t go to the state police with this. The only thing Leo could think of to do was keep this man alive while he tried to talk some sense into Jordan.

He stopped at the bottom of the cellar steps while Jordan went over to Meeker—just where he’d left him, strapped across the worktable with his arms stretched out in front of him. Their captive kept looking past Jordan— at him. Leo could see it in his eyes; the guy was counting on him for his survival.

Jordan pried the wet handkerchief out of his mouth. Meeker started coughing. “I—I heard Susan’s voice,” he said, once he caught his breath. “Is she okay?”

“As long as you’re tied up here, I think she’ll be okay,” Jordan answered coolly.

“But don’t you see now? I wasn’t lying.” Meeker glanced at Leo and then at Jordan. “I can’t believe this. She was here, looking for me. Isn’t that proof enough I’m on the level?”

“No.” Jordan folded his arms. “Your fiancee said you’ve never been carjacked.”

“It happened six years ago, before I even met her,” Allen said. “I didn’t see any reason to tell her about it. Y’know, she’ll be calling the police soon.”

“Six years ago?” Jordan repeated. “That’s when you were living in the Washington, D.C., area wasn’t it?”

Meeker frowned at him, then tried to tug at the rope around his bound wrists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled. “I’ve never lived in D.C.”

“After the Seattle murders, Mama’s Boy moved his business to the Beltway in 2003,” Jordan said. “You abducted Natalie Boyer-Stiles one night in April while she and her little boy were walking to her car in the parking lot of Tysons Corner in Fairfax, Virginia. Her corpse was found in a ditch off Highway 236 in Annandale. You left an old toy fire engine in her shopping bag. And in June, you broke into the apartment of a single mother named Samantha Gilbert in Alexandria—”

“Not me,” Meeker said, shaking his head. “I haven’t been to D.C. since I was in college twenty years ago.”

“A lot of people thought those two murders along the Beltway were the work of a copycat, but I always figured different. In a weird way, it made sense that you’d moved on to the other Washington.” Jordan turned and gazed at Leo. “Don’t you have some packing to do?”

Sighing, Leo gave him a guarded look and then retreated up the cellar stairs. In the kitchen, he could still hear their muted conversation. It was creepy the way Jordan talked to the guy—in a steady kind of monotone, until he got angry. Then he’d start screaming like a crazy man. Jordan didn’t even sound like himself.

Leo stopped and glanced out the window in the kitchen door. No sign of Moira yet. He made sure the door was locked. Jordan didn’t want her coming inside the house at all.

As Leo headed up to the second floor, the murmuring in the basement became more distant. He checked his wristwatch: 3:25. He’d left Moira in the woods over two hours ago. He knew she was ticked off at him. Still, she should have been back by now.

In Moira’s bedroom, he peered out the picture window. He didn’t see anyone out there. He stared down at Jordan’s car. He could just barely make out the gift-wrapped package and bakery box in the backseat. He felt this horrible pang in his gut, a mixture of sadness and dread.

If only there were a working phone around here, he’d call the state police right now. He’d gladly endure Jordan’s wrath in exchange for nipping this thing in the bud. His friend would thank him for it—maybe not for a while, but eventually.

It was only ten minutes by car to that store with the pay phone. But Leo hated the idea of leaving Jordan totally alone with that man even for a few minutes. His friend had a gun with him—and he was like a loose cannon right now. He could so easily go nuts and shoot the guy—and then maybe himself.

One thing at a time, Leo thought. He’d get Moira’s stuff packed and bring her bag out to the car. Moira couldn’t get involved in this mess. She had to be kept away—and in the dark. It was one of the few things Jordan had insisted upon that made sense.

Leo set her overnight bag on the bed, then tossed in her robe and slippers. He found a fancy black dress under plastic on a laundry hanger in the closet. She’d planned to wear the dress to the restaurant tonight for his birthday dinner. He threw the clothes on her bed. Then he hurried down the hall to the bathroom. He stopped for a moment to listen to the murmuring in the basement. Jordan was doing most of the talking. The words were indistinguishable, but Leo recognized the weird monotone his friend had taken on with the man.

In the bathroom, he found Moira’s paisley cosmetic bag on the shelf and snatched it up. Back in the bedroom, he tossed the paisley clutch in her overnight bag. Then he checked the top drawer of the dresser. The prescription bottle full of pills rattled as he tugged the drawer open farther.

Leo picked up the bottle and glanced at the label: MOIRA DANCEY—TAKE 1 CAPSULE BY MOUTH 30 MINUTES BEFORE BEDTIME AS NEEDED FOR SLEEP. DO NOT EXCEED DOSAGE.

Moira had told him a while back that she was taking something for insomnia. She was worried about getting too dependent on the pills.

Leo was still looking at the prescription label when he heard a scream from down in the basement. He threw the bottle back in the drawer and shut it. Then he raced downstairs. He could hear the yelling much more clearly now. It was Meeker—in an angry tirade: “Goddamn you! Are you crazy? HELP! JESUS, HELP ME!”

Leo ran through the kitchen and hurried down the wooden steps to the cellar. He balked when he saw Jordan hovering over his prisoner. Meeker was shirtless. He squirmed and shook against the worktable. It made a scraping sound against the cement floor. He cursed angrily while Jordan used garden shears to cut off his pants—in sections.

“Shut up and keep still!” Jordan growled. “Want me to cut you? I’m working on your inseam next….” He maneuvered the shears up the side of Meeker’s leg, toward the waist.

“My God, Jordan, what are you doing?” Leo shouted over the two of them.

Jordan tugged at the cut he’d made, completely tearing the trouser leg to one side—exposing Meeker’s white briefs and his pale, hairy leg. “There wasn’t a label along the back waistband,” he said, eying something inside the pants lining on the back pocket. “Huh, Polo, Ralph Lauren. He could have gotten these khakis at any department store….”

Leo still didn’t understand what his friend was doing. “Jordan—”

“He’s crazy, goddamn it!” Allen Meeker bellowed, writhing on the table and tugging at the rope around his taped-up wrists.

“Jordan, what the hell are you doing?”

Jordan grabbed Meeker’s shirt from one side of the worktable and tossed it at him. “Take a look at that.”