“He already has. Five times.” He turned the phone to where she could see the call log. Caller Unknown had in fact called several times. “He’ll call.” He slid the phone into his breast pocket, where he had secured the slip of paper with the phone number on it.
“That moron with the skull on his shirt can verify that everything I told you was the truth, that he was only trying to pick me up and that I didn’t know he was sneaking me his number. You can call him using Mickey’s phone.”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Because by now the police will have questioned everybody who was in the bar at the time of the killing, including him. Especially him, since the two of you were so chummy. His phone was probably confiscated during questioning. So if I call the number he wrote down for you, and it does turn out to be his, a cop will be on the other end.”
“But with a disposable number—”
“The police have their ways and means. I’m not taking any chances.” He frowned ruefully. “Sorry. You probably had your heart set on me making a mistake. I don’t make mistakes.”
His sympathetic, patronizing tone infuriated her. “You’ll make one.”
He looked even more regretful over her self-delusion.
“You have to sleep at some point.”
“That’s true.” He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the door of the enclosure, which he’d left standing open after driving the car through. “You need to see this.”
The door was wide, like a barn door. A broken padlock dangled from a loose hook, which accounted for the loud clanging; he’d taken a tire iron to it. The oversized hinges were corroded with rust.
He pulled her through the opening to the outside. “Take a good look at the middle of nowhere.”
Her heart sank, because the landscape beyond the derelict structure couldn’t be more accurately described—and it looked exactly the same as the swampy landscape they’d left hours before. He must have been driving in circles all night, not only since he’d blindfolded her, but from the time he’d stuffed her into the car and left the beer joint on the banks of the bayou.
The narrow gravel road on which they’d arrived bridged a ditch at least twenty yards across. It was filled with water so opaque and ominously still that its depth was impossible to gauge. On the far side of the ditch, the road disappeared into a grove of cypresses and hardwoods that blotted out the daylight, creating a deep twilight beneath branches draped with forlorn-looking clusters of Spanish moss.
“And behind us…”
He pulled her along to the corner of the building, which she saw backed up to a body of water similar in viscosity to that in the ditch. It wound through stands of trees and around spits of land, creating a seemingly endless labyrinth of channels extending all the way to the horizon in every direction.
“You see what you’re up against if you try to escape? That water is a virtual science project. I don’t recommend taking a dip.”
When he hitched his chin in the direction of the swamp, her eyes were drawn to the C-shaped scar, which was even more evident now that his scruff was hours older. Associating that scar with his arrogance, his dominance, she channeled her anger toward it. Then she looked him in the eye and said with defiance, “I’ll think of something.”
He merely shrugged, turned his back on her, and headed for the door. “I’m hungry.”
His dismissal of any threat she might pose made her feel hopeless as nothing else had. She was no longer bound hand and foot, but he wasn’t concerned that she would attempt an escape. The likelihood of her succeeding was nil, and if she died while attempting it, he would collect his fee from Panella, and probably be glad that he hadn’t had to expend another bullet.
When he reached the doorway he stopped and, looking back at her, tipped his head toward the opening. She remained where she was. He stood there waiting. No impatient tapping of his toe. No gestures of exasperation. Just waiting. A man supremely confident of her obliging him.
His attitude rankled, but staging a rebellion now would get her nowhere. It would only cost her energy she needed to conserve. However, she’d be damned before he saw her cowed. Acting as though it was her idea, she walked toward the door, then past him and through it. He pushed it closed behind them.
“Can’t you leave it open and let in some fresh air?”
“No.”
“It’s stifling in here. And it stinks.”
“Then hold your nose. The door stays shut.” He moved to the trunk of the car and took out a handled grocery sack, then brought it over to her and held it open for her inspection. “Mickey did the shopping, so I can’t vouch for the choices. Take your pick.” He jiggled the sack.
Inside it were a variety of single-serve canned goods. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
He bent his head low so he could inventory the selection. “Sardines. Beanie wienies. Chili mac. Ravioli. Tomato soup.”
“I’m not hungry.”