Christmas Stalking
Auteur
Jo Leigh
Lezers
15,1K
Hoofdstukken
15
Chapter One
Pain woke him. A sharp poke in the ribs. Max Travis groaned as he struggled to open his eyes. Cold, biting cold, made his movements as stiff as the slab of rock beneath him.
“You can’t sleep here.” A cop, bundled in a heavy winter coat, stood scowling above him.
Max blinked, dizziness making it hard to focus, disorientation making it impossible to think. “Where am I?”
“On my beat, so get your ass up and out of here. I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”
Max put his elbow on the cold stone and pushed himself into a sitting position. Everything ached, and when he rubbed his eyes he found ice crystals on his lashes. He cursed as he fought to get his bearings, to figure out what the hell was going on.
The cop gave him one more jab in the side with his nightstick. “The soup kitchen is on Fourth. Don’t let me find you out here again.”
Max didn’t bother with a response. He had other things to worry about. Like the fact that he could barely move his fingers. That he had no idea where he was, or how he’d gotten here. The last thing he could remember was the bar last night. He’d had a drink with a couple of guys from the paper. Which would have explained things, except, he’d been drinking soda. He hadn’t touched booze for over six months.
He shifted on what he saw was marble. Marble? He turned, the motion making him groan, and not a little nauseous. Behind him, Abraham Lincoln sat impervious to the weather. The Lincoln Memorial? What the…?
He stood up too quickly and had to grab the corner of the bench. All he could manage were a few deep breaths, the cold hurting his lungs. What the hell had happened to him? His head pounded with pain so intense he couldn’t think at all. It helped to focus on his scratchy throat. What he wouldn’t do for a bottle or ten of aspirin.
When he opened his eyes, the cop had gone and the tourists, drawn to the Lincoln statue, gave him a wide berth. If he looked like he felt, he didn’t blame them.
He didn’t think he was going to vomit, but he moved slowly nonetheless, turning toward the street. His car was nowhere in sight, which wasn’t surprising. What did surprise him was that his wallet was still in his pocket, along with his credit cards, driver’s license and thirteen dollars. So were his keys.
It was Monday. At least he hoped it was. He was supposed to meet his friend and colleague Peter Shelby at the café, then go in to work to face J.G. He cursed, scaring an Asian woman walking her baby. It occurred to him that he still had his watch. Four past seven. Monday. So it was only the one night he couldn’t account for.
Again, he thought about the bar. He’d ordered a soda, even though Jeremy had called him a little girl. It hadn’t bothered him. Not ordering his favorite scotch had, but that was between him and his maker. Whom he’d clearly almost met overnight.
Max headed toward Twenty-third street. He could catch a cab there and go back to the bar, see if his car was still parked around the corner. Then he’d call Pete, cancel the breakfast chat. He had two hours to get his act together before seeing his boss, and he’d need an hour of that for a shower.
As he walked, his head cleared. It didn’t feel a whole lot better, but his thoughts clarified a little. Enough to figure out that he’d been slipped a Mickey. Something damn strong to have wiped everything after it right off the slate.
Why? Who?
The only thing he could think of was Geotech. The woman. The redhead. She’d come on to him, using a fine set of double D’s and the most incredible red lips, and he’d been putty in her hands. Ready to swim great oceans, or at the very least buy her dinner.
And then, nothing. No memories until the cop had jabbed him. A royal headache, the taste of many pairs of army boots in his mouth, and a terrible feeling that his investigation into Senator William Parker and Geotech had gone from the suspect to the criminal. He wasn’t just close to the truth, he was right on ground zero.
HIS CAR was still in front of the Guardian bar, the engine so cold it took five minutes to warm it up enough to turn on the heater. His gloves sat on the dashboard. He usually kept them in his coat pocket but last night he hadn’t bothered. His plan had been to hoist a few, get an order of the famous chili fries, then get his ass home.
He headed there now, creeping through the slow D.C. morning traffic. He’d left his cell phone at the house along with his laptop. Even if whoever had drugged him had gotten into his apartment and stolen his computer, they wouldn’t find much. He was too careful for that. Everything was encrypted, and the pertinent data was kept on separate disks, hidden behind the wall in his bathroom.
He thought again about the redhead. He’d left her for a few minutes to hit the head, that’s when she must have doctored his drink. Probably one of the date-rape drugs, although he felt pretty sure her intent hadn’t been to have her way with him. So what was her goal? Why knock him out and leave him on a public bench? Why not kill him, if they wanted the story stopped? Why not beat the crap out of him in the way of thugs everywhere, warning him to back the hell off?
He found a decent parking spot a block away from his apartment. He locked the car, shivering in the still freezing air. It took him awhile to actually get to his building, the five-story box that was the essence of tenement living. He didn’t give a damn. No one bothered him here, he was close to work, close to the center of life in D.C.
The elevator ride with all the lurching and grumbling was a quiet nightmare, and then it was all he could do not to bump the walls in his hallway as he made it to his door. It took him a minute to fish his keys out of his pocket. As he pushed the key into the lock, the door swung open. “Damn.”
He suddenly felt both better and worse. His stomach rose into his throat, but his mind was horribly clear. If he had an ounce of smarts he would get the hell out, call the police. For all he knew someone was inside, ready to finish what the drugs had started. But he’d never been smart. He listened, heard nothing, then took a step inside. That’s when he saw the body. Despite the big winter coat, he recognized the dead man instantly. He’d known him all his life.
“Werner?” he whispered, knowing there would be no answer. The old man lay on his back, his coat soaked with blood, an unnatural pallor to his face. Trying to avoid the wide pool of coagulating blood, Max knelt near the body and put his hand to the cold neck, but could feel no pulse.
Max stood slowly. The plan wasn’t all that sophisticated. Wipe his memory with drugs, give him no alibi. Or maybe they wanted him to come home and pass out with Werner Edwards dead in his living room. A variation on a theme—instead of simply beating him up to warn him off, kill the man with the real skinny and pin it on Max. If that was what they had in mind….
His next thought was answered by the sound of approaching sirens. Someone was watching his place, all right. Waiting for him to get home. He only had a few minutes.
With a clarity that was pure fear, he went to the bedroom and grabbed his laptop, the power cord, his cell phone. In the bathroom, he moved aside the false brick and took out his baggie full of disks. Then he stuffed some clean socks, his toothbrush, and a few other personal items into his duffle bag.
He moved hurriedly back to the living room and stood by the front door, trying to narrow his thinking to the basics. Was there anything else he might need soon? He’d have to head straight for the bank and get as much cash as possible. Beyond that…
Beyond that would have to wait. The sirens were too damn close.
“Goodbye, Werner.” Max looked sadly at his elder friend. “Damn, I’m sorry.” He closed the door and ran past the elevator to the stairway.
AT FOUR in the afternoon, in mid-December, the Senate Office Building was already lit up. The view from the fourth floor offices of the Honorable Senator William Parker granted Jade Parker a terrific view of the gridlocked traffic in the streets below. She watched impassively as behind her, her father attempted to exercise his considerable persuasive skills on her, with marginal success.
“Please, Jade. If you don’t do this for me, who will?”
Jade turned from the baleful view of dirty snow and snarled traffic and looked the senator straight in the eye. “Why not Gertie, Dad? All the other senators have their secretaries do their Christmas shopping. I’m your executive assistant, for God’s sake.”
Her father sighed as he closed the distance between them, raised his hands to put them on her shoulders but thought better of it. “C’mon, honey. Do you really think I should leave it to Gertie to decide what the ambassador from Germany would like? Remember what she bought the president for his birthday?”
Jade winced as she thought about the president’s expression when he’d opened up the gorgeously wrapped present. Being the consummate politician, he’d smiled, said he really liked the sweater, but even she, who hardly ever saw the man except on television, could tell he’d been appalled. With reason. But still…. “Do you suppose the ambassador celebrates Christmas at home? You’re just asking me because you don’t want to think about it.” She folded her arms across her breasts and turned back to the window.
She could see his frown in the reflection as he moved closer. So big and solid, his white hair a little messy, his silk tie slightly crooked, he looked as tired as she’d ever seen him. She almost stepped away when he wrapped his arms around her. “What is it, Jade? This isn’t like you.”
She stiffened, then relaxed into the comfort of his arms, letting her head lay back against his shoulder. “I don’t know, Dad. Finals, maybe. I keep thinking about Mom. I don’t know.”
He squeezed her lightly. “I miss her, too. That first Christmas after she died…”
Jade turned, gently moving out of his embrace. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s okay. It’s okay.” He patted her awkwardly. “Even after three years, it still seems like yesterday.”
They stood that way for a moment, each wrapped in their own memories. Jade stepped away, walked over to his desk and stared at his in-basket without focusing. “No, I’m sorry I said anything. That’s not the problem. None of that stuff is. I know you don’t want to hear it, but dammit, I’m still being followed. I’m sure of it.”
The senator walked over to her, his face, so familiar to millions of Americans, a study in concern. “The detective said—”
“The detective,” she said, angry all over again. “I know he’s supposed to be some kind of supersleuth, but he couldn’t have been sleuthing very diligently. The man had the audacity to suggest it was all in my head. I know it isn’t.”
“I believe you. I’ll get on the phone, talk to the head of the secret service. We’ll have someone new on the case first thing in the morning. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She picked up a snow globe of the U.S. Capitol, shaking it to mimic the weather outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it is nothing.”
The senator wasn’t amused. “I don’t believe that any more than you do. I’ll take care of it. I promise.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “I’ve got a couple of hours of work left here, then that dinner with Jeffries. Why don’t you take off now. Go home. Maybe what you need is a quiet evening by the fire. Get a good night’s sleep.”
Jade kissed him on the cheek. “It’s a deal. But tell you what. I’ll stop at the Arlington Fashion Center Mall and get a head start on the shopping. From that list you slipped into my purse, it’s going to take me ’til next Christmas to get it all done.”
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, when we have someone we can trust watching your back.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“The presents aren’t that important.”
She smiled, even though the thought of battling the crowds made her want to buy herself a quick trip to Jamaica. “Right. Maybe next year we’ll find a professional shopper, huh?”
“It’s a deal.”
She got her purse from beside the wing chair, then pulled her coat from the rack. With a wave, she left the office and headed out to the mall, feeling better already that by tomorrow she’d have someone competent on her case.
JADE’S USUAL aggressiveness proved to be of marginal use in the crowded confines of the mall. In her heavy coat, clutching her purse tightly to her chest so pickpockets wouldn’t get into it, she pushed her way through the throngs of Christmas shoppers.
She briefly considered stopping in at The Coffee Beanery for a latte, but one look at the people packed in like sardines and she changed her mind.
Besides, that feeling was back. The one that made the small hairs at the back of her neck stand up. Several times she’d stopped, letting the crowds wash around her, and tried to catch a familiar reflection in the shop window. Or at least the same face twice. It never happened. Maybe she was nuts.
She shrugged it off and focused on some serious shopping. Just like last year, it was easier to buy for those people who were on the periphery of her father’s life, like the ambassador from Germany. The closer the circle got, the more personal the gift had to be, which was no piece of cake considering the disparity of the people involved.
She ended up finding her salvation at Hammacher Schlemmer, picking up a dozen tiny CD stereo systems, highly stylized, that could fit on any bookshelf. She also bought several back massagers, three facial saunas, and a couple of radio-controlled cars for her father’s more emotionally stunted friends. The real bonus about the store was that they would deliver the entire purchase to the Senate office, where she could deal with the wrapping, cards and mailing at her leisure.
She had to schlep all the other packages though, and as they piled up, she grew less careful about checking reflections. By the time she got into Saks, she was more concerned with juggling bags and credit cards and not being poked, prodded or stepped on by the other harried shoppers.
As she signed for a jeweled cigar cutter, she glanced at her watch. She’d been in the mall for nearly two hours. Enough. She’d had it for tonight. In fact, she’d had it with malls. She’d do the rest of her shopping online.
There’d been a time when Christmas shopping had been fun, but that was when her mother had come with her. Jade headed toward the mall exit, thinking about that last Christmas—
A thought stopped her so sharply, the man behind her stepped on her heel. She heard his low curse, but she didn’t care. The feeling she’d been having this week. Could it possibly be memories of her mother?
Too pragmatic to believe in ghosts or spirits, Jade did believe that the mind was a powerful, mysterious thing. That the subconscious could play mighty tricks on the conscious. It was all too possible that she missed her mother so much that she’d conjured up the feeling of being watched. Although she’d ascribed fear to the experience, now that she understood it, that could change. She could gain comfort, instead.
She reshuffled the bags in her arms and continued toward the parking lot, wrestling with this new idea. Wondering if she should look up Doctor Frankle. She’d been a good therapist, not too heavy-handed, definitely not Freudian. Jade had seen her for eight months, after a terrible breakup and while deciding about getting her Ph.D. At the end of their time together, Jade had felt better, stronger. It wouldn’t hurt to go for that feeling again.
As she exited the wide glass doors, she noticed two different Santas, complete with bells and donation buckets in front of them. Since she gave at the office and had no desire to disrupt the carefully constructed conglomerate of packages in her arms, she headed up the middle, eyes straight ahead.
She passed the gauntlet unscathed and made it to the massive parking lot without dislodging so much as a ribbon. Unfortunately, she’d parked in what felt like another county, and her right arm was already feeling numb.
The only good thing about parking so far in the hinterlands was the relative quiet. She’d never cared for crowds, and with all that was on her mind, they’d been particularly annoying in the mall. All she had to think about now was negotiating the traffic home. Then it would be a roaring fire, sinfully buttered popcorn and movies, movies, movies.
Too bad her father had that dinner. It would have been nice to have a quiet evening with him, although he never did make it through the movies. He always talked about watching, but nothing held his attention. Not for two hours, that was for sure. Halfway through, he’d make up some excuse, like getting a drink, checking something from the office or even going to the bathroom. He always promised to come right back, but he never did. She’d stopped trying to change his ways.
He’d been like that forever, his fertile mind filled with his duties, his constituents, his campaigns. She couldn’t blame him. He was definitely playing in the big leagues, and she realized it was a lot to ask him to relax, but she couldn’t help her worry.
Ever since her mother died, he’d been running himself ragged. He worked impossible hours and ate horribly. The only reason he wasn’t big as a horse was that he walked every day, mostly on the Hill. But still, his color wasn’t good, and his hair, always his pride and joy, was thinning and dull. She’d begged him to get a full physical, but he kept putting it off.
That’s what he could get her for Christmas. The thought of losing him, too, was entirely too much to bear, and she would manipulate his emotions mercilessly until he gave in.
She saw her car, finally, just a few aisles away. Rounding a pylon, she practically ran into a third Santa Claus. She gasped, almost losing her armload from the surprise. She stepped to her right just as he stepped to his left. Her smile died on her lips, however, when she looked more carefully at his face.
He stared at her with intense, bloodshot eyes, and his expression was anything but jovial. Her heart kicked into double-time as she realized he wasn’t just another store Santa.
“Ms. Parker,” he said.
That did it. How did he know her name? She looked to her right, her left, but there was no one nearby. Someone had to be around, for God’s sake.
“Please, don’t be scared, I just want to talk to you.”
She checked to her left once more, tried to feint to her right. But his hand caught her arm, and his grip held her firm. She opened her mouth to scream, but the move came too late. His hand, thick, clammy, covered her mouth, the hand on her arm pulling her farther into the recesses of the garage.
She struggled against him, but he kept maneuvering her past cars, toward her SUV. God, he knew her car! She hadn’t been crazy, or nostalgic for her mother. This maniac had been following her, stalking her, and now…
She remembered in a vivid flash the most serious admonition given to every woman: don’t let the abductor get you into the car. The chances of surviving were minimal once he got you away from people, from crowds.
She kicked his leg, and his grunt let her know she’d made an impact, but it wasn’t enough. His grip didn’t loosen. In fact, his hand tightened brutally.
They got to the SUV and she heard something behind her, a car door closing. She tried to twist around, but he pushed up against her back, his warm breath and scratchy white beard tickling her neck.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you as long as you stay quiet. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. I have a gun, and I have nothing to lose by shooting you.”
A gun. Oh, God. She was going to die. She thought of the mace in her purse, and it might have been on the moon for all the help it did her. She should have just dropped her packages and run at the first hint of trouble, but she’d clung to the stupid gifts as if they mattered.
As promised, his hand moved from her mouth, and just as she was about to scream, regardless of his threat, she felt something hard and round poke into her side. It was a weapon. Nothing else could feel like that. If she screamed, she died. If she held on, there was always a chance she could escape.
“Good girl,” he said, his lips so close to her ear it made her wince. “I’m going to take your purse now. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Fine. Take it. Take the money. There are credit cards. You can take it all.”
He didn’t respond. Just lifted the purse from her grasp. The gun still poked her side. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she knew that he wouldn’t have to look hard for her keys. She kept them in the outside pocket so she herself wouldn’t have to dig for them. Stupid. Another bonehead move. She lived in D.C., for God’s sake, one of the most dangerous cities in America, and she walked around like she was invincible. Even after she’d sensed someone was stalking her.
He unlocked the car electronically, then pulled her back so he could open the back door. “Put the packages in the back seat.”
She did as he said.
He opened the front door. “Get in.”
She did, searching frantically for something to use as a weapon.
He’d already figured this part out, because the second she was behind the wheel, he captured her hands, held her wrists with one hand while he tied them together with a thick blue scarf. Then he tied that to the wheel.
A moment later, he ran around the car. She pulled at her restraint, tried to move so that at the very least she could honk the horn, but then he was beside her. Him and the gun.
“I won’t hurt you. Just listen to me. I’m going to untie you. You’re going to drive away from here. Don’t panic, and don’t try anything stupid, and we’ll both get out of this alive.” He stuck her key in the ignition and undid the bindings. “Start it up. Now.”
With trembling fingers, she turned the key. From her peripheral vision, she saw him toss the Santa hat and the ridiculous beard into the back seat. His hair was dark, his skin, pale. She was afraid to look at him directly, afraid that if he realized she could identify him, he’d have no reason to let her go.
“That way,” he said, pointing with his free hand toward the east exit.
She checked her mirror, then, without even thinking about it, she turned his way, and something registered. She’d seen him before. Recently.
“Drive.”
She focused on her speed, direction and the gun he held so steadily he couldn’t possibly miss. But the face haunted her. Where had she— “You’re that reporter. You killed that old man.”
He grunted. “Yeah. I’m that reporter.”
Max Travis. His name made everything else fall into place. All the reports on the news, in the paper. He was a lunatic, and he’d already murdered once. Twice wouldn’t make him blink an eye.
“You can’t get away with this,” she said, hoping her voice sounded a lot stronger than she felt.
“I already have.”
