Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

“Veronica…”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You think it would be wrong, with your daughter…”

“I…”

“I know about sadness. I do. My life has been one sadness after another. But if you wait for all of them to be over before you allow yourself any pleasure, you’ll never have any.”

Part of me would have been happy to forget my problems. To put them aside, however briefly, for some human contact, sex without strings. But nothing about this felt right.

When I didn’t say anything, she understood we were done. She went to the bedside table and wrote a number on a pad bearing the hotel logo. She tore off the sheet and handed it to me.

“If you want to talk, or need anything, you call me. Anytime.”

“Thank you,” I said, and held the door for her as she slipped into the hall.

I leaned my back against the door for a second, let out a breath, then killed the lights and returned to the window.

There was something about Ian I couldn’t get out of my head. Something was off about the guy.

I wanted to know more about him. And for now, that meant watching the flower shop from my perch up in this hotel room.

But Ian had just left in the van. He could be gone for hours. What was I going to do? Just sit here all night and stare out the window?

I grabbed the remote, turned the TV to CNN for background noise. I heard Anderson Cooper’s voice, but didn’t listen to anything he had to say.

There was one cushy chair in the room-the one I’d used to hang my clothes on-and I dragged it over by the window so I could sit comfortably while I conducted my amateur surveillance. I leaned my head up against the glass, frosted it with my breath. I turned the TV so the screen didn’t reflect in the window.

This was dumb. What the hell was I doing, staring out the window, waiting for some flower delivery guy to return to his apartment? Maybe I was doing it because I couldn’t think of anything.

I got up, grabbed a pillow, sending Milt on a tumble, and put it between my head and the glass. As awkward as I must have looked, I was actually pretty comfortable.

So comfortable that I drifted off to sleep.

I woke myself up with my own snoring, the TV still blaring. I lifted my head away from the window and the pillow fell to the floor.

I was groggy and disoriented. For several seconds I didn’t know where I was. But quickly things started to make sense. The clock radio by the bed read 12:04.

I’m at the Just Inn Time. I’m staying here because my house has been trashed.

It was all coming back to me.

And I was watching the florist shop.

I blinked a couple of times and looked out the window. There were fewer cars on the road now. Only a couple of pickups were at the porn shop, which was still open.

The Toyota van was back. How long it had been there, I had no idea. But clearly Ian was back home and tucked in his-

Hang on.

Someone was coming around the back of the van and up the passenger side. The van must have just returned, and Ian had just gotten out the driver’s door.

He opened the passenger door, but no one stepped out. He leaned in, like he was undoing the seat belt for someone. But he stayed in that position for several seconds, like he was trying to get hold of something.

Then Ian eased slowly back out of the van, very carefully. He was carrying something large and cumbersome. It looked as though he had something slung over his shoulder, like a sack.

He backed up far enough to clear the door, slammed it shut. A streetlight was casting a soft glow in his direction. There was just enough light to see that Ian was carrying someone over his shoulder. Someone smaller than himself.

Someone with long, possibly blonde hair.

A girl.

And she wasn’t moving a muscle.

I STARTED RUNNING FOR THE DOOR IN MY BARE FEET, stopped, grabbed my shoes, figuring I could slip them on and lace them up in the elevator.

“Phone,” I said, jerking myself to a stop a second time in as many seconds. I bolted over to the bedside table, reached for the phone, and ended up knocking it down between the bed and the table.

There wasn’t time to look for it.

I threw open the door and ran down the hall and hit the down button between the two elevators. I glanced up, saw they were both down in the lobby. Quickly, I slipped my shoes over sockless feet, hopping on one foot, then the other, then, almost as quickly, did up the laces.

Neither of the elevators had budged from the lobby.

I realized I’d hit the button-the kind that doesn’t actually depress but senses your finger there-so quickly, it hadn’t registered.

“Fuck it,” I said and ran to the end of the hall for the stairs. I took them two steps at a time, leaping down them like I was in some new sort of Olympic event. I came through the fire door on the first floor so hard it flew back and hit the wall. I sprinted down the hall and shouted to Carter as I passed him at the front desk: “Call the police!”

The motion-sensitive doors leading out of the hotel weren’t fast enough for me and I almost crashed through them. I hit the brakes just in time, then slipped through the opening the moment it was wide enough.

I realized then I didn’t have my keys, but even if I had I don’t know that I would have taken the time to get into my car and start it up. I was running flat out now and I didn’t want anything slowing me down.

I crossed Route 1 on an angle, only having to slow to let a taxi get by. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour. The small plaza with XXX Delights, Shaw Flowers, and a couple of other businesses was about a hundred yards ahead. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and even as I ran I tried to remember the last time I’d run like this. I prayed I didn’t have a heart attack before I reached Ian’s apartment.

It’s Syd, I told myself. It’s her. He’s got her. He’s had her all along.

But what the hell was he doing with her in the van? Moving her from one location to another? Actually, maybe that made some sense. He could hardly keep someone hidden in an apartment right behind the shop. Mrs. Shaw would hear something, notice something, wouldn’t she?

I’d reached the van and ran right past it.

It was dark around the back of the shop, but there was a single door with a light over it and a small curtained window to the side. There were lights on in the apartment.

I didn’t bother to knock.

I tried the door, but it was locked. I put my shoulder into it, tried to force it open, but it held.

From inside, a man, his voice filled with panic, shouted, “Who is it?”

“Open up!” I shouted. “Open the door!”

Again, he shouted, “Who is it!”

“Open the goddamn door!”

“I’m not opening the door till you tell me who it is!”

I reared back, lifted my leg, and hit the door with the heel of my shoe with all I had. The door gave way a couple of inches, held now only by a chain.

In the crack, I could see Ian standing in what appeared to be a small kitchen, dressed only in red boxers, his skin pale and freckly.

He was screaming.

I gave the door another kick and the chain ripped off. I came through the door and shouted at Ian, “Where is she?”

“Get out of here!” he shouted. “Get the fuck out of here!”

The kitchen area was part of a larger room that included a couch and a TV with a DVD player and a game console. It wasn’t much of a place, but for a young guy living alone, it was amazingly neat and tidy. No dirty dishes in the sink, no empty beer cans or pizza containers. A small collection of video game magazines was stacked perfectly on the coffee table.

“Where is she?” I asked.