Chapter Twenty-Six
“Bertoli here. Patch him through.” While the dispatcher worked her magic, Vince told Mike the search helicopter pilot was checking in. Mike sat up straighter and listened as Vince hit the speaker phone option.
“What did you see?” Vince upped the volume to hear clearly despite the static.
“A flash, like sun reflecting off a mirror. Totally out of place. I hovered above a deserted farmhouse. It’s surrounded by farmland and prairie. The lakeshore borders the east.” He gave the coordinates and address. “It was the last one I checked. I saw a late model black SUV. Didn’t get close enough to see a license. Looked like whoever owns the vehicle was in the house. Couldn’t see anything moving on the ground and I got a great view up here.”
“Good work. How’s your fuel?” Vince nodded as he received a positive response. “Good. Stay in the area, but not right over the farmhouse. I’m calling SWAT.”
Vince slammed the phone down. “It’s times like these, Mike, when I wish I smoked.” Lack of sleep etched even deeper lines upon his swarthy face. “I want this over with Caitlin back safe.”
“Me, too. How soon can you get out there?”
“Damn. I don’t want this to end up a shoot-to-kill situation. That area coincides with one of Metz’s locations and could be the break I’ve been waiting for. We can’t screw it up.” While Vince spoke, he punched in numbers. Mike watched as the detective coordinated a meeting for all units in the police staging area.
“I’m going, too, and if you say no, I’ll just follow you.” Shoving the chair back against the wall, Mike stood up.
“You’ve earned it, but stay out of the way.”
“Guess that means you won’t issue me a weapon.”
A snort and raised eyebrow answered him. Slamming a drawer shut, Vince growled. “Let’s get the hell out of here and get this show on the road.”
****
She felt him move closer, halt, and inch closer. Still dazed she hadn’t budged while he fingered his “collection.” Her eyes assessed the distance between the sofa and the doorway. Too far. Especially with him between her and the door.
“Thinkin’ about gettin’ away, huh, bitch? I kin hear your brain cells workin’ away.”
He never took his flinty eyes from her. His steroid-bulked arms lunged at her shoulders.
“You kin struggle if you want. The others did. Made me feel like the terminator when I crushed ’em.”
“Hardly a competition with a man your size and strength.” That earned her a ham-like fist in her face. Her head snapped backward.
“Shut yer mouth, bitch!” He punched her again. This time a bull’s eye to her abdomen. Its force doubled her over and she toppled backward onto the seat cushions.
Cowering and lashing out earned her nothing, but maybe a few minutes more of pain. Those two responses were what he expected, wanted, could justify in his mind, and react against.
Do something different. Following her intuition, she lay limp against the sofa’s cushions. She’d give him nothing: no fear, no fight, no tears, no begging.
“Do somethin’, whore! Show me what you think.” He groped at his waist and released the sheathed hunting knife, pointing its edge just under her jaw.
The knife seemed larger, more menacing than before.
She yawned. “That doesn’t frighten me anymore.” She wasn’t lying. It didn’t. It terrified her. Struggling to breathe slow, calm and easy, she watched Ivan’s face contort at her response. But she never moved. Not even a twitch.
The knife edged away from her jaw, just a fraction.
“What does frighten you? The pictures I showed you? I have my camera, even charged the battery.”
Her eyes crossed as she watched the knife amble down her neck, just missing her jugular, ease across the edge of her collarbone, and dip toward the buttoned front of her torn, green blouse. A vise tightened her brain. Her lungs constricted, allowing only shallow breaths.
“Take it off,” Ivan’s voice flayed the remnants of her mind.
She gulped. Play the part. She had no other choice, but there was no way she would acquiesce to him, the only victory she could keep from him.
Her eyelids slipped closed. Her lashes flickered in pseudo-boredom. “I don’t feel like it. You want it off? You take it off.”
Ivan growled, a Grizzly stung by a misplaced bullet. His knife nicked her skin, just below the collarbones’ notch.
She mastered lassitude.
“Take it off, dammit! Move! Do something—or else.”
The menacing knife had a life force of its own. His body trembled inches above her.
“I couldn’t possibly. Much...too...tired.” One thousand, two thousand, keep breathing slow and rhythmical, she chanted mantra-like in her subconscious. He wouldn’t kill her yet. He wanted live action. Well, change of plans for old Ivan. Three thousand, four thousand, five thousand. Sheer will power kept her closed eyelids from trembling.
Mike, find me soon. I’m bargaining for time. Mike?
“Bet ya never pull this crap on that Rafferty asshole.”
Her plan was working. He didn’t know how to respond to her actions. Good, keep him off guard any way she could.
“Okay, ice lady. Let’s see how long the ice stays.”
The cold point of the knife edged closer. She bit into her tongue not to scream. In seconds, the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse were gone. Her lace and satin teddy fell apart next, sliced neatly down the middle. His knife continued down to the waistband of her skirt.
She never budged. Or opened her eyes.
She sensed the gathering tension in Ivan and heard his quick intake of breath. She peeked through one eye. Like a guillotine’s blade, the knife hung suspended above her belly. She endured the heat of his hand and smelled the sulphur odor he wore like cologne. She forced her nose not to wrinkle and prayed her skin would not goose bump. Those childhood years of masking her feelings helped.
“Do somethin’, bitch! Say somethin’. Show me yer scared! Hell, you made a stone? Redheads ’re super hot.”
She opened one eye. Spittle flecked his moustache. His eyes glazed over with his lust. “Not me.” Her senses of touch and sound on high alert, she closed her eye.
The work roughened fingers of one hand shoved away the silky remains of her blouse and teddy, exposing her designer bra. That menacing knife filleted the delicate garment as if it were skinning a dead rabbit. It most likely had. Many times.
“I’ll get you hot.”
With effort, she opened her eyes and yawned. “I can’t move when I get this cold.” She never glanced at her bare skin, her breast exposed to his eye. Instead, she repeated her counting mantra, aware again of her heart clutching, and a tightening sensation inside her skull.
Steady, keep the count.
Ivan cuffed her, again, so hard her molars ground into her cheeks. She tasted her coppery blood. He waited for her to cringe, to cry out. She did nothing.
“Whore, why ain’t you scared?” His knife hung suspended above her waistband.
Trying to escape, remaining calm—neither was going to be easy. But what did she have to lose? He would kill her. She accepted that now. He’d rape her first. Her best revenge? Not allow him to enjoy it. No way would she aid his finding pleasure. Even if that meant seeming not to care how he humiliated her. He wouldn’t win if she contained her fear. He’d have no satisfaction, even if he did add her to his collection.
Could she keep him off balance? Did she have strength left to continue?
In defiance, Caitlin pulled her blouse remnants over her exposed breast. Two fingers held the silk loosely. She never looked at the knife.
She dredged up her professional tone and asked. “Did you feed the others? Or were they too scared to ask for food and water?” One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. She stared full into Ivan’s eyes, never blinking or losing contact. Her actions confused him. Good.
“Why you talkin’ about food, water? You outta be screamin’, scared. The others were. I’m goin’ to kill you, you know.”
“I know.” Keep counting. Look into his eyes. “But I won’t be frightened to add to your pleasure. And I won’t beg because you want that. Neither will keep me alive so I’m not wasting my energy.”
He punched her again, harder this time, hitting her at the side of her nose and below her cheekbone. She heard a crack. Mucous streamed from her nostrils and tears gathered in her eyes. She didn’t move or think about what might be broken. What difference did it make? She’d look far worse when he finished and she’d be in pieces to boot, judging from those pictures she saw.
Ivan grumbled. Snorted. Belched loudly. And lowered that damn knife.
Its point pierced her abdomen, an inch or so above her belly button. Her skirt waistband gave way. Like the Red Sea for Moses, the material opened and divided into two halves. Exposed to him now, her only defense a half slip, black shiny silk.
His eyes lit up. “You expectin’ me? Black’s my favorite.” His grimy finger traced the concave area of her tummy, her hips. He traced a path down the outer side of one of her legs, crossed at the knees where delicate lace trimmed her slip’s bottom edge. After fondling it, he ambled up the outer side of her other leg.
She counted but never moved.
He stopped. Dropped the knife point just above her pubic area. He twirled the knife suggestively, waiting for her to squirm and cry out.
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand.
“I dress to please myself.”
He licked his thin lips. “Bitch.”
His shirt was missing a button. She no longer noticed his noxious smell. “Are you finished?” Had she gone too far with that last comment? His eyes flickered. Was he losing his sense of time passing? Could she stall him more? Was that helicopter searching for her?
All she heard now was breathing: hers controlled; his ragged.
Faster than a cobra, the knife flashed upward, settling near her heart, just below the nipple of her left breast. “Whores wear black!”
He was confused. Knowing that strengthened her. The man was coming apart. And so would she, if she didn’t gain more time. “Only in warped minds, Ivan.” She twisted to change positions.
Ivan yelped at her movement. His knife flashed downward, slicing open her half slip, exposing thighs garbed in her tattered pantyhose.
Caitlin kept counting and thought of Mike and home.
****
Mike looked around him. The lake’s edge served as the eastern backdrop. SWAT teams covered the perimeter of prairie land to the immediate west. A small stream, which had etched a gully into the landscape to the north of the farmhouse, now concealed a SWAT team. A helicopter hovered above the trees further to the south. Its distance and the rising wind whipping off the lake diminished its rotor’s noise.
The Coast Guard launch patrolled just off the lake shore. If Ivan was in there, he wouldn’t get away. If he intended to kill Caitlin, he’d get that job done before anyone could rescue her.
That fact burned in Mike’s gut because he was useless right now.
To coordinate all these units, Vince carried a two-way radio as he stood before another group of men. The SWAT teams carried high-powered rifles with scopes, tear gas, and assorted other instruments used in the war against crime. The south exposure woods had another SWAT team hidden among the trees.
All these well-trained officers were just as useless. Did their guts churn too?
Upon arriving at the location, Vince’s men spied the black SUV partially hidden in the woods. Mike swore he could smell Ivan. Bertoli spit on the ground at that, but agreed that this did look like a good hiding place. The evidence team dusted the Jeep for prints, lifted one, scanned it into a laptop, and checked it against copies of Schwartz’s. They matched. Next the footprints, but only one set existed.
Mike frowned at the news. “What if she’s not here? What if he’s not here? Aren’t we wasting more time?”
“These prints are deeper, heavier than the others. He was probably carrying her. I don’t think he’s likely to take off on foot with her. You can see, there aren’t any other tire tracks.”
“Yeah, right. That makes sense.” Mike looked around and felt the stillness. He knew Caitlin was near and in trouble. That sense wrenched his heart. He stared intently at the deserted house. How could he get in there and not cause her harm? Mike saw an officer approach Vince and overheard their quiet but intense conversation.
“The footprints over there are more recent. See, one set goes in, deeper indentations in the soil. Only one set has gone out to the vehicle. Those indentations aren’t as deep.” The evidence tech spoke in hushed tones. The quiet belied the presence of so many men. Well-trained, knowledgeable men. “I think she’s still in there.”
“Me, too,” Vince answered.
“See?” The officer pointed to another set of tracks. “Those tracks return to the house.”
“Caitlin’ll be all right,” Mike mumbled to himself while he watched the scenes from the sidelines. “You think he’s still in there? Not gone out a window or something?” Mike’s question interrupted Vince and the evidence technician.
“Yes, we think he’s there. And probably with Caitlin.” Vince conferred with the officers from the drug unit and vice squad. From all their pointing and head shaking, Mike decided a plan was now in place.
Vince broke away from the group and walked over to Mike, leaning against the waiting squad car. “We’re going in, Mike. You stay put. Out of the line of fire. No matter what happens. Our focus is Caitlin and her safety. We don’t have time to worry about you. Rachel would never forgive me if we got Caitlin out okay, but brought you home in a body bag. Or vice-versa.” Vince took Mike by the arm and pulled him toward the backseat of the squad car. An officer had opened the door.
“You’ll have a good view from here.” He handed Mike binoculars and closed the squad’s door. “I’m serious, Mike. Don’t screw this up. I’d never think to second guess what you do at your job. Don’t do it to me.”
Vince turned and headed toward the gathering group of armed, Kevlar-vested men hidden carefully among the underbrush.
Mike watched from the car. He’d wait. With two bad knees and no training, he’d make an ass of himself and not help Cait at all. He loved her enough to let someone else rescue her. Get her out alive. He’d be her hero, waiting on the sidelines. Unbidden, a line of poetry came to him. He remembered Cait reciting it a long time ago. “They also serve who only stand and wait” or some wording like that. It worked for now.
She’d understand.
Eerie stillness hung over them; even the song birds had stopped warbling. A dark cloud scudded across the faded sun.
Vince grabbed a bullhorn and tramped toward the forlorn house.
A piercing scream broke the silence.