Chapter Forty-Seven
The Ledges
Carter had turned out all the lights hours ago. He’d turned off every phone in the house as well as his cell.
He couldn’t talk to anyone.
Suzi had threatened to go to his parents if this went any further.
And it would go further.
Much further.
Nash had called. From one of those disposable phones.
Carter had done exactly as Braddock ordered.
He’d told Nash he was ready to give him the money as long as he got the video.
Nash hadn’t seemed as overjoyed as Carter had hoped.
In fact, he’d made some ridiculous statement about being able to smell Carter’s fear.
Then he’d said he would call back and promptly hung up.
Carter was a dead man.
Nash was suspicious.
No matter that Braddock had posted surveillance on Carter’s house. Nash was too good. Too sneaky. Too crazy.
He would find a way in if he wanted in.
Nash would kill him. The police wouldn’t be able to stop him any more than they had all the other times.
Carter pressed his hands on either side of his throbbing skull.
He was so screwed.
There had to be a way to get out of this. All that money and he was afraid to leave his house. Afraid for anyone to know he was here.
What the hell was he going to do?
His father had called twice before Carter had turned off the phones. He hadn’t left a message, which was not a good thing. His father always left messages.
If that bitch attorney had told him a single word about what had happened . . .
He’d do what?
He was screwed.
So, so screwed.
He needed a drink. The police had confiscated all of his Vicodin.
A drink would help dull the anxiety.
He made his way to the great room. His mother had been so proud when he’d bought this house.
His first mansion.
Now he was a damned prisoner inside it.
He didn’t bother with a glass. Opened the bottle of Scotch and downed a long gulp. Then another. And another.
He coughed. Heaved.
Had to keep it down. He needed some relief.
A few more swallows and the burn faded into that relaxed sensation he’d longed for. He moved to the leather sofa his decorator had so painstakingly selected and plopped down. Maybe if he drank the whole bottle he would pass out and wake up tomorrow to find that this had all just been a bad dream.
“Yeah, right.” He swallowed another mouthful.
A creak jerked his attention toward the entry hall.
He’d locked the doors. He was sure of it. Had he set the alarm?
Shit! No, he hadn’t. Shit!
Calm down and go set it now. His imagination was running away with him.
He pushed up from the sofa, swayed a moment before he captured his equilibrium. Damn, that Scotch had done the trick. He walked unsteadily into the entry hall. The cool marble floor beneath his feet made him laugh.
How could he have heard the floor creak when the entry hall was marble? Yeah, yeah, he was scared shitless and hearing things.
He reached the keypad. The buttons gleamed in the darkness. What the hell was his code? Maybe he should have done this before he drank the Scotch.
Who cared about the alarm? He should just open his front door and wave to the officers in the squad car parked in his driveway. They were supposed to be his security system.
He heard that sound again. Not a creak this time . . . a soft whisper of leather against stone.
He turned around too fast, swayed, dropped the bottle of Scotch. It crashed against the marble.
“Tsk, tsk, Doctor. Such a waste of good Scotch.”
Carter peered through the darkness. Tried to make out the face of the form. There was someone there. This was not his imagination. He analyzed the voice, but it was too soft, too low.
“What do you want? How did you get in here?”
“Carter, Carter,” the voice whispered. “You’ve been a very bad boy.”
Fury whipped through him, making him sway again. “Did my father send you?” That would be just like the old man. Send someone to shake him up, teach him a lesson. “The police are right outside.”
“No, I’m afraid your father didn’t send me. And your policemen are too busy discussing how it sucks to work so hard for so little while jerkoffs like you are born into money.”
“Who the hell are you? And why are you here?” His tongue was thick now. He had a hard time getting the words out. Wait . . . he knew. “Nash? Did that bastard send you?” Carter should push those two buttons. The two that summoned emergency services. He tried to focus on the keypad. Couldn’t.
His visitor said something he didn’t understand. Carter didn’t care. He tried to see the keypad again. His vision blurred. He couldn’t see which buttons to push.
“Come, Carter,” the voice said.
He shuddered. It was right behind him now. He needed to run. Before he could make his legs react, something hit him in the back. Something small. He yelped.
“You’re going to do us all a very big favor, Carter.”
He tried to reach behind him, tried to pull it off.
A jolt went through him. His muscles convulsed. His face was suddenly lying against the cool marble.
What the hell?
He told himself to move. Couldn’t.
Something moved beside him.
He tried to turn his head . . . couldn’t.
“You’re going to die, Doctor. Any last requests?”