John Steel Collection - Books 4-6

Chapter 14

Tara Burke awoke to the sound of a police siren wailing. She jumped up, confused at first at seeing her strange surroundings. Tara sat up, holding her beating chest through the T-shirt. As her breathing shallowed, her memory began to return. The frightened young woman reached for the bottled water and cracked the cap. Beads of sweat cascaded down her back, and her forehead looked as though she had just made good time running the hundred.

She heard a noise from the kitchen and knew that Kim was up and getting ready for work. Tara stood up and carried the water with her to the door.

She found Kim’s ginger cat prowling the worktop for leftovers. It was seven in the evening, and Tara knew that her friend was heading off for the night shift at the diner. Tara sat on one of the tall stools at the counter to the kitchenette—not quite a breakfast bar, but it made up for a dining table. She smiled at the post-it that was stuck to a large mug with a smiley on it. Fresh coffee in the machine, frozen lasagne in the freezer. don’t leave the apartment, don’t open the door to anyone.

Fresh coffee in the machine, frozen lasagne in the freezer. don’t leave the apartment, don’t open the door to anyone.Tara stood up and walked round to the large coffee machine. She switched it on and waited for the sound and the aroma. The ginger tomcat came up and purred loudly as Tara picked him up.

“Don’t worry, Mr Jinx, we’re not going anywhere,” she crooned. The cat let out a quick meow as if to answer. Tara smiled and placed him back down, then poured him some milk from the fridge into a small saucer. The coffee machine would take a while, so she decided to shower.

Tara stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and wrapped the large red towel around her slimly built body. In the bathroom, she pulled the shower curtain, so it covered the cast-iron bath, then reached in and turned on the water. The bathroom was a comfortable size for one person. It had plenty of wooden shelving that housed folded towels and cosmetics. The walls were beige with white tiles in a half-and-half match, the pattern repeated on the floor, which had matching coverings.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She had that girl-next-door prettiness about her. Her pale skin showed disturbing echoes of her past. Thick, angry scars covered her back, evidence of her mother’s abuse: a reminder of how worthless she was to her. But she had survived. She had outlived her drunken abuser.

Tara stepped under the hard torrent of water which came out of the large shower head like a bad storm shower. Tara leant against the cool tiles and just let the water run over her. She felt the hard-warm spray beat down on her skin, and it felt good. So good that she didn’t want to leave.

The attractive woman had dried herself off and put on her blue pyjamas. She figured she wasn’t going anywhere, so why change? She had poured herself a coffee and put the suggested meal into the microwave. Dinner in five minutes, he’d said, but she made it ten, just to be sure.

She picked up her phone and checked it for any new messages. She tossed it down onto the small coffee table which sat in front of the blue couch. She hadn’t heard from him for a long time, too long in fact.

Tara didn’t just think she was in trouble. She knew she was.

And they were coming.

* * *

Mr Williams sat in a large office that looked as if it had fallen out of the 1800s. Oak and brass covered the walls and furnishings. Even the computer’s monitor had been dressed up to fit in with the antiquated surroundings. The oak panelling with brass touches and the stand looked as if it had once belonged to ancient lamp.

A large fireplace with a dark marble surround was to the left of a large ebony desk. Carvings of snakes and beasts were cut into the desk’s heavy wooden panelling. The large windows to the right were in the original Elizabethan style.

On the wall opposite the desk was a large painting of a battle scene from the Vlad, the Impaler campaign of the 1400s. But the ink was false, and the image itself was in fact a high definition screensaver. The immense eighty-inch monitor blended into the room seamlessly. Suits of armour and swords guarded the corners and the walls.

Williams held a brandy bowl of cut crystal in one hand while he sat back in a thick padded, red leather chesterfield office chair. His feet rested upon the antique desk as he listened to a loud rendition of Vesti La Giubba—otherwise known as ‘The tears of a clown’. His eyes closed as he held the glass under his nose. He inhaled the scent of the eighty-year-old brandy whilst the music grew to a crescendo. The psychopathic torturer waved his free hand as if he were conducting the masterpiece. He was in heaven: a good brandy, loud opera and his plans were going well.

Vesti La GiubbaSuddenly his desk phone began to ring. He opened one eye and stared at the wood and brass 1904 replica. He didn’t want to answer it, for he knew it would be trouble. If someone was ringing him direct, it was a problem, and he didn’t like problems. He reached over whilst trying not to lose his comfortable position. He kept the brandy glass held by the hand with an outstretched arm, using the other to reach for the receiver.

“This better be good. I am in the mood for giving someone a spinal tap,” he growled as he used a remote to turn off the music, after finally putting his glass down. He listened to the voice at the other end. His eyes rolled with disappointment as the voice gave the report.

“So, did you find this Douglas fellow? OK, so – that’s a no then. I take it you found the woman?” As Williams listened a wide grin crossed his face, his pearly white teeth on display, looking like a shark spying his next meal.

“When you get hold of her bring her to me UNSPOILT, do you understand?” he instructed. The voice on the other end confirmed the order and quickly hung up. Williams stretched over and replaced the handset onto the brass cradle. He was suddenly in a good mood again. Sure, two pieces of good news would have been great, but he could settle for just one.

He sat back in the chair and picked up the glass. He raised it to the large fake picture to salute it. He took a mouthful of the brandy to celebrate. Then he sat for a moment whilst a wicked thought crossed his mind. Williams reached for the small intercom next to the phone and pressed the button.

“Crystal,” he said whilst swilling the brown liquid around in his glass. He stopped and looked at the intercom, on which he was trying to reach his secretary.

There was no response.

“Oh, Crystal,” he said a bit louder this time.

But there was no answer.

“CRYSTAL!” he yelled down the intercom, almost losing his footing and the brandy from the glass.

“Yes … Yes, sir,” a squeaky mouse-like voice came at last. Williams rolled his eyes again, knowing full well what was probably happening in the room next door.

“Be a dear and arrange for the operating room to be set up, will you?” he said, then took another hit from the glass.

“Yes, Mr Williams,” she answered, her voice sounding breathless.

“Thank you, Crystal. Oh, and tell the young man with you that if he makes you late answering my call again, I will make lampshades from his skin, and he will watch me do it.”

Williams smiled at the thought of the young guard suddenly soiling himself at the thought. The torturer reached over and turned the music back on, then returned the glass to its former position under his nose.