A Fatal Obsession Page 8

  Zoe wondered if it was just the two of them in the car. Her and Bradshaw. Wondered if there might not be some third person in the car, riding shotgun. She didn’t know if rapists operated in pairs, but she supposed they might. Maybe if she started banging around again somebody would tell her to shut up, and maybe this time it’d be a different voice.

  She started her back-of-the-throat bellowing again. Pushing out the sound as loudly as she could.

  “Shut the hell up. You sound like a fucking pig in a slaughterhouse.” Same guy, and he sounded like he was enraged. Too bad. She bellowed again.

  “If you don’t shut the hell up I’m going to stop this car and put you out of your fucking misery.”

  This time she obeyed orders and went silent. Lay still. After a couple of minutes he spoke again. This time in a normal voice.

  “Just lie there and be nice and quiet,” he said. “We’ll be home soon. And I’ll let you out and you can have a little stretch.”

  And after her little stretch, then what?

  Chapter 11

  It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning. For over four hours, Maggie and McCabe had been sitting next to each other on the hospital chairs, occasionally napping, but mostly just sitting and silently waiting. Every once in a while, McCabe would get up and peer over the bedrail at his mother’s face. Sometimes lowering the rail, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

  He was there now looking down at Rose’s pale bruised face, her bones so thin and delicate he couldn’t imagine how she’d survived the fall without shattering every one. He sensed more than heard Maggie coming up from behind to join him.

  “You’ve never told me much about your mother,” she said, “except that she emigrated from Ireland and that she spoiled you silly.”

  McCabe smiled. “She liked spoiling me because I was the youngest. The kid they never intended to have. What do you want to know?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know. Just some family history.”

  McCabe thought about it. “Okay, I guess. Her maiden name was O’Toole. Rose Marie O’Toole. Born and raised in the village of Ballynacally in County Clare.”

  Rose’s eyes flickered open. “Ballynacally?” she said in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper. “I was born in Ballynacally.”

  “Yes, you were, Mam.”

  “What was it like in Ballynacally?” Maggie asked her. “Do you remember?”

  “Ballynacally,” Rose whispered once again, and then closed her eyes and was quiet.

  “It wasn’t much of a village,” said McCabe. “I visited once. The place was just a speck on the road with two hundred and some people at last count.” McCabe’s eyes remained fixed on his mother as he spoke, wondering how much of what he was saying she could understand. And sorry that Rose wasn’t able to tell Maggie the story herself. “There was one main street, a few shops, one church and five pubs. Rose’s father ran one of the pubs. The poorest of the lot, to hear Mam tell it. It wasn’t much of a pub and he wasn’t much of a father. Starting at age fourteen he forced her to work behind the bar. For free of course. No wages. And illegally since she was underage. But nobody in the village was about to report him and he didn’t want to pay for any hired help. Her mother, my granny who I never met, objected to him using his daughter that way and they constantly argued about it. He always won the arguments. Usually with the aid of his fists.”

  “He beat her up?”

  “To hear Rose tell it, yes. She said it happened a lot. Sometimes for no reason except that he was drunk. Smacked Rose around a time or two as well when she tried to interfere.”

  “Why didn’t her mother get a divorce?”

  “In Ireland back in the forties? Wasn’t an option. Divorce wasn’t allowed in Ireland until they finally changed the law in 1996. Like it or not, abusive or not, marriage was forever.”

  “Jesus? Really?”

  “Really. Rose’s mother finally decided the only way she could protect her daughter from her husband, the only way she could enable her to do more with her life than work as an unpaid barmaid, was to send her out of the country. Without telling her husband, my grandmother arranged for Rose to come to America to live with her uncle—her mother’s brother—and his family. It was the only place she could think of where the old man couldn’t find her and drag her back.”

  “She did this without telling your grandfather?”

  “Yes. She only told him after Rose was safely ensconced in New York. Rose never saw either of her parents again. But in one of her letters her mother described how her old man knocked the shit out of her mother for doing what she did in sending Rose away. Only in the letter her mother called it shite.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Back in the forties. 1949 to be exact. Rose was seventeen at the time. Her uncle in New York sent them the money for passage and she came over on a small steamer, moved in with the uncle and his wife and their three kids, who were all younger than Rose. They lived here in the Bronx not far from where I grew up. Rose managed to get a job as a teller at a small savings bank in the neighborhood. She saved pretty much all her salary with the idea of bringing her mother over and the two of them living together. Never happened. Her mother died first.”

  “And she met your father?”

  “Yes.” As he recounted the tale, McCabe could swear he once again could see a slight smile form on his mother’s lips. He hoped so. He hoped she was enjoying a happy memory. “They met at a dance at a local church hall. She was a real beauty, just like her granddaughter Zoe. They look very much alike. My father took one look at her and asked her to dance and didn’t want to let her go. He danced pretty much every dance with her, and when she said she had an eleven p.m. curfew, he insisted on walking her home. She told him that they were only a few blocks from where she lived and she could manage very well on her own, thank you very much. Dad being Dad wouldn’t take no for an answer. Told her it wasn’t safe for a beautiful young woman to walk the streets alone at night and that because he was a cop it was his responsibility to escort her home. She told me he kissed her for the first time on the front step of her uncle’s house before she could even unlock the door. I once asked her if she kissed him back. She didn’t answer. Just smiled a smile that made me suspect the answer was yes.”

  “How very forward of her.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, they were married six months later. My oldest brother, Tommy Jr., was born nine months after that. Almost to the day. Then came Bobby. Then Fran. Then, after a break of four years, I arrived.”

  “The accidental baby.”

  McCabe smiled. “Yup. That’s me.”

  Rose’s eyes fluttered and she seemed to smile again. Maggie looked down. “Do you think she knows what we’re talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. I hope so. We love you, Mam.”

  “Tom? Is that you?” Her eyes fluttered open.

  “No, Mam, it’s Michael.”

  “Oh, Michael. You look so handsome.”

  “And you look beautiful.”

  She smiled at the compliment and closed her eyes again. She seemed at peace.

  Chapter 12

  After what seemed like hours, Zoe’s every muscle ached and the skin on her face and arms stung from constantly rubbing against the rough underside of the rug that held her. She’d already peed herself once and the wetness was uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep from doing it again. More important than the discomfort of wet underpants was her need to know where her captor was taking her and how long it would take them to get there. There was no way she could even begin to plan her escape or any kind of counterattack without having some sense of that. If he removed the handcuffs, maybe that’d give her a chance to gouge his eyes. Or if he removed the tape around her ankles, she could try kneeing him in the balls and running for it. She was fast. She’d run track at Dalton. Sprints and hurdles. She fantasized about grabbing a rock or piece of wood she could use to whack his
head. The fucker was so big she wasn’t sure she could even reach his head with anything short of a baseball bat. And she didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to allow her anywhere near a baseball bat. Still, the idea of beating this oversized bastard to a bloody pulp was appealing.

  She wondered if they might not be headed for Westport, Connecticut. That’s where they’d found the body of the dancer. But somehow she didn’t think so. That was just off Interstate 95 and there weren’t enough traffic sounds to be on a road like that. No. It was so quiet Zoe felt reasonably sure they were way out in the country somewhere. Wherever it was, she hoped it was somewhere populated enough for someone to hear her when she finally had a chance to scream for help.

  She tried to remember what she’d read in the papers about the last victim. Sarah Jacobs. A classically trained ballerina. Member of the New York City Ballet. Daughter of a well-known theatrical producer. Was it more than coincidence that both Zoe and Sarah Jacobs performed for audiences in New York, albeit in far different ways? Maybe. Maybe Tyler Bradshaw had been telling the truth when he said he was an entertainment lawyer. She felt an involuntary shudder. Did letting her know that sort of thing mean there was no way he’d ever let her get out of this alive? And letting her know what he looked like? Yes to both questions. Which meant she had to either escape or die. No other choices.

  She wondered how long she had before he would kill her. Would there be weeks of torture and violation before that happened? Or did the bastard get his jollies not from sex and not from sadism but from the simple—or maybe not so simple—act of murder? She wondered how Sarah Jacobs had reacted when he took her. Did she just give in and let herself be murdered? Or had she tried to fight? Or maybe she’d tried to string him along in hopes that he’d let her go? So many questions. And, at the moment, no answers at all.

  She felt the car pull over. Slow to a stop. She heard a door open with the engine still running. Then after she counted the seconds—one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, all the way up to twenty-one-one-thousand—she heard Bradshaw climbing back into the car and the door banging shut again. Had they arrived somewhere? Bradshaw started driving again, so maybe not. They were climbing what felt to Zoe like a fairly steep hill on a bumpy roadway. Maybe a dirt road, given the number of bumps and potholes. As they rose, the hill became steep enough for Zoe to feel the tug of gravity pulling the rug toward the rear of the car. Then after a minute or two, the hill leveled out and Zoe heard the quiet crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Then they stopped. Bradshaw turned the engine off. Got out. Slammed the door. Zoe heard the tailgate being lifted.

  “Okay, we’re here. Hope you like your new home.”

  Zoe could feel hands dragging the rug toward the back and then out through the open tailgate. He picked up the rug and put it down on what she figured had to be the ground.

  Chapter 13

  Zoe felt herself being rolled over and over. And then she felt the end of the rug being pulled out from under her. Felt herself slip out onto the rough surface of a gravel driveway. She opened her eyes and was blinded by a sudden flash of sunlight. She shut them again. Last night’s chilly wet weather had turned into bright sunshine. At least the sun was shining here. Wherever here was. She scrunched up her face and reopened her eyes, slowly this time, allowing them to adjust to the light.

  Someone, probably Bradshaw, was standing over her looking down. With the sun behind him, all she could see was the black silhouette of a man who looked enormous.

  “Well, Ms. Zoe McCabe, or may I just call you Zoe? Welcome to the Hotel California.” His voice had a mocking tone to it. “So glad you accepted my invitation.”

  The Hotel California? The old Eagles song?

  Bradshaw reached down, slipped his hands under her armpits and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled a bit but managed to stay upright, hands still cuffed behind her, mouth and feet still taped. At least she was able to get her first good look at him. No question. It was the same guy who’d walked her home last night. She wondered if Tyler Bradshaw was his real name.

  Probably not. Why let his victim know his real name? On the other hand, what difference did it make if he was going to kill her anyway? There was no one she could tell.

  Bradshaw, or whatever his real name might be, reached behind her head, grabbed the end of the tape and ripped it off. It stung badly enough she figured it must have taken some skin and hair along with it. Still, she didn’t cry out. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’d hurt her.

  “Open wide,” he said. “I’m going to pull the gag out. And don’t try to bite or I promise you will regret it.”

  Perhaps it was the challenge inherent in Bradshaw’s warning that prompted her next move. Or just as likely a desire to fight back, even if the attack turned out to be suicidal. But seconds later, when he pushed his oversized thumb and forefinger into her mouth to grab the end of the handkerchief, she clamped her teeth down as hard as she could on the thumb and held on, hoping she could somehow gnaw through skin and bone and bite the damned thing off. Sadly, digital amputation turned out to be harder than she’d imagined and, he struck back instantly. An open-handed blow with his left hand against the side of her face loosened her grip and allowed him to pull his thumb free. Still, the bastard’s howls of pain and rage provided Zoe with a split second of intense pleasure. One that lasted only until he struck her again, this time hitting her across the face with the wounded right hand so hard it felt like she’d been whacked with a two-by-four. She staggered sideways and then fell hard onto the rough gravel driveway. She managed to push the handkerchief from her mouth.

  “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?” Bradshaw followed the slap with a kick to Zoe’s gut that knocked the wind out of her. She curled up in a fetal position, struggling for air, waiting for the next blow to come.

  When it didn’t, she opened her eyes and saw Bradshaw, holding his injured thumb, his face twisted with rage, kneeling by her head. He lowered his face till it was only inches from her own.

  “Are you telling me you want to die now?” Bradshaw spat the words out through gritted teeth. “Is that what you’re telling me? Because I can promise you’ll get your wish if you ever try anything like that again. Do you understand?”

  His face was so close she could feel the spray of his spit. Smell the staleness of his breath. She thought about spitting back and then biting his aquiline nose, which he’d thrust only inches from her mouth. Wondered if it would be easier to bite off a nose than a thumb. That’d fix the bastard. They’d call him No-Nose Bradshaw. But it’d fix her too. Try anything like that and he’d kill her for sure. Suppressing the strong desire to fight back, Zoe simply nodded. It took all of her acting skills to model her face into the expression of abject surrender she’d so recently used on stage.

  Leaving her on the gravel, Bradshaw rose and walked back to the car. A big, black Toyota 4Runner. He got in, shut the door and started the engine. Was he leaving? Could he have just been delivering her like a package for somebody else to abuse and kill? Somebody who lived in the big house she could see. But instead of heading back down the driveway, he drove the SUV into a gray, shingled, barnlike structure maybe fifty yards into the woods. She supposed it served as his garage.

  Alone for a minute, Zoe lay still. She opened and closed her mouth. Moved her jaw from left to right. Everything seemed to be working okay. Though her face still stung, it didn’t feel like any bones had been broken. Still, she was sure it would bruise. Maybe having a black and blue face would discourage him from assault. She doubted it.

  He emerged from the barn, closed the door, locked it and then walked back and stood over her. He was carrying a black duffel bag she recognized as her own in his injured hand. The one with flowers on it that she’d had since she was fourteen. In his other hand he carried three large grocery bags filled with stuff. Leaving her where she was, he walked them into the house. A couple of minutes later he emerged through the now open door.


  “All right, you hurt me,” he said in a much calmer voice. Judging by the bandage he’d wrapped around his thumb, she guessed her teeth had indeed drawn blood. It seemed like a small victory. But, at this point, any victory was welcome. “And I suppose attacking me like that made you feel good. Okay. Fine. Score one for you. But hear me well. If you ever, ever try anything like that again I’m not going to let you off easy with a slap or a kick. I’m going to kill you in the most painful way I can think of. And believe me when I tell you I can be very imaginative when it comes to painful ways of killing people.”

  Suddenly Zoe felt herself peeing again. She closed her eyes and let it come. Bradshaw kept talking. He spoke softly. His manner was friendly. The threat to kill her was delivered in a quietly rational way. “So unless you want to find out what that way is, I suggest we just say that we’re even and we start over. Work for you?”

  She nodded because she couldn’t seem to manage words. She supposed there was no reason a kidnapper or even a serial killer shouldn’t speak softly or sound either rational or friendly. Perhaps even charming. She remembered reading about Ted Bundy, one of the most famous serial killers ever. Apparently young women found Bundy both handsome and charming.