Dirty down low, p.2
Dirty Down Low,
p.2
“Throw it out the window.”
My gaze collided with his; before I could argue, he growled, “Do it.”
“Whatever you say, handsome.” The window lowered far enough for me to shove the blouse out, then I raised my bottom from the seat and dragged the skirt over my butt and down my thighs. The lacy red thong left little to the imagination but that was the least of my worries at the moment. Carefully stretching the skirt over the boots was my focus. If he demanded I take off the boots, I was screwed.
The black mini went out the window.
In my earpiece I could hear Dawson arguing with Nance. Good thing the volume was modulated to ensure sound went into my ear only.
“The boots, too.”
Oh, hell.
“Dude,” I argued. “These boots cost me a whole night’s work.” Actually I had borrowed them, but Shorty had cost a shitload. “Maybe you should just pull over and let me out. This is getting a little freaky for me.”
He reached into his jacket pocket. I resisted the urge to go for Shorty. I had to ride this out…nail this bastard to the—
The pistol was in my face before I finished the thought.
Awesome.
“Take off the boots.”
My hands went up in mock panic. “Please don’t shoot me.” I had no idea if this guy could hit the broad side of a barn at point-blank range but I also had no desire to find out. More debating over the com link. Dawson was pissed and ranting at Nance to end this now.
“Take off the boots, you stupid bitch,” the driver roared.
Hands shaking for his benefit, I started with the left. How the hell would I get the right one off without him spotting Shorty? The left boot went out the window. I held the part of the right boot where the weapon snugged against my leg with one hand, hoping to keep it from plopping out, as I dragged the boot off with the other hand.
Didn’t work.
Shorty hit the carpet.
“What the hell is that?”
The car swerved dangerously. My heart skipped a beat or two. Reluctantly, I reached down and picked up the gun, holding it by the butt with my thumb and forefinger so as not to set off the wrong chain reaction. He snatched it out of my hand and tossed it to the floor on his side of the car. More swerving ensued. Damn, I should have buckled up.
The muzzle of his pistol stabbed into my temple. “Why do you have a gun?”
I turned my face to him, ignoring the jab of the business end of his pistol. “For protection from freaks like you.”
“Toss the sunglasses.” His voice was ice-cold and rock hard. He was through playing now.
I did as I was told. The fake Versaces went out the window.
I was screwed.
The tracking device was history.
Shit.
“Take off the rest.”
No way in hell. I was through playing, too. I crossed my arms over my middle. “Pay me first.” I moved my head resolutely from side to side. “I ain’t showing you the goods until I see the money.”
He grabbed my purse and tossed it out the window then pushed me forward and ran the hand with the gun over my back in a half-assed attempt to feel for any surprises. Did he suspect that I was working with the cops? The other victims’ clothes had been missing, that was true. Was this the way he made that happen? Did he retrace his route and pick up the clothes? Or was he just lucky since not a single article had been found?
His encumbered hand groped around my shoulders and chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” Despite my question, I moved my arms and let him have free reign. The more cooperative I appeared the less suspicious he would grow.
I hoped.
Dawson shouting in my earpiece snagged my attention. Where the hell is he taking you? There was a distinct crackle that rendered inaudible whatever he said next.
Fear slammed into my brain.
The tracking device was history.
I glanced at the dash, the increasing speed registered. The communications link would fail if there was too much distance between them and me. Without the tracking device there was no way to locate the Lexus once a visual was lost.
Think, Jackie. Where the hell were we? I blinked. Scanned the landscape flying past in a dark blur. An eerie silence in my ear forced the evacuation of the oxygen in my lungs.
Could they still hear me?
My panicked gaze latched onto a familiar landmark as the bastard slowed for another turn. I knew exactly where he was taking me. The cemetery…but was it too late to pass the word to my backup?
“Can you turn up the air?” I fanned myself. “I’m suffocating in here.” Dawson and I had almost suffocated in this very cemetery not so long ago.
Ass wipe didn’t react to my request.
“Please, mister. Can we let the top down again? I’m feeling a little claustrophobic?” Spending those few minutes trapped in a cheap coffin made for one with Dawson had given new meaning to claustrophobia.
What else? Something Dawson would understand for sure…
An epiphany made me smile. “I have a Hispanic friend. His name is Rocky. We could call him up and arrange a threesome.” The rock and a dead Hispanic man had launched the investigation that resulted in our little buried-alive experience. I felt fairly confident Dawson hadn’t forgotten. I hoped like hell he hadn’t.
“Shut your filthy trap.”
“What’s wrong?” I snapped, bored with his control trip. “Your mommy do bad things to you when you were a kid? You have to play big bad boy to work up an erection?”
The back of his hand connected with my face. I rode out the burn of pain.
The com link was dead. Otherwise I would have heard Dawson arguing with Nance again.
There was a strong possibility that I would be gone as well in about fifteen minutes. Images from the crime scene photos I’d studied flashed in front of my eyes like a bad horror movie.
He roared into the old cemetery and parked beneath one of the ancient trees.
I stared up at the tree, my throat going dry. Each victim had been propped against the base of a large tree. Raped then staked.
Sucked to be me right now.
He popped the trunk and got out of the car, his aim never deviating from me. He’d gotten good at this. “Get out.”
Didn’t take a genius to figure out that he had his bag of tricks in the trunk. The very evidence we needed.
I reached for the door handle and opened the damned door. Somehow between him knocking the crap out of me and now, my outrage had gotten its second wind. I emerged from his fancy car and shoved the door shut. The way I saw it, I had two options here. I could go with the flow and hope backup got here in time or I could run like hell the first chance I got.
Couldn’t run just yet. I wanted to get this guy.
He rounded the hood, a steady bead on me, and manacled my arm. When he’d dragged me to the trunk of the fancy car, he ordered, “Pick up the bag.”
A black gym bag sat in the trunk. There was other stuff. A bottle of bleach spray cleaner, towels—the kind that didn’t leave behind fibers—garbage bags. Evidence. Exactly what was needed to prove he was the killer. Anticipation blasted away any lingering fear. This low-down piece of shit was going down. I just hoped he didn’t take me with him.
He poked me with the gun and I picked up the bag. I looked directly into his eyes and prompted mine to go big and round. “I don’t want to die, mister.” Might as well play the game. Keep him off guard.
He hauled me to the tree and shoved me against it.
“Drop the bag and get on your knees.”
Whoa, wait. Not that I wanted to go that route, but wasn’t the sex supposed to come first? Serial killers did change their M.O.’s from time to time….
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You can’t get it up?” I licked my lips. “I can help.”
“Get on your fucking knees!”
This was the moment.
The barrel of the pistol was leveled on my torso.
“Please, mister,” I pleaded, summoning tears.
He opened his mouth to snarl something else. I slugged him with the bag and darted around the tree, then ran like hell.
It was dark. Woods flanked this old cemetery. I stayed close to the tree line, zigzagging around trees and headstones. The blast of his weapon echoed in the air, a bullet thwacked into a headstone to my right. Close. Too close.
I dived for the ground. Grunted with the impact, then I scrambled into the woods.
He fired another shot.
My hands fumbling in my haste, I ripped open the bag and searched for a weapon. My fingers closed around the wooden stake. I pulled it from the bag, stared at the sharpened end. A smile spread across my lips. This was the coup de grâce. This asshole was going down.
I pushed to my feet, held the stake in my hands, dagger style. For a second I closed my eyes and cleared my head. Then I braced.
He was coming.
The distinct crunch of dry grass whispered across my senses.
I held my position another moment, listened intently to his approach, then swung around, the stake aimed for any part of him I could hit.
Shoulder.
He howled in pain.
The weapon discharged in the air.
Headlights bobbed in the darkness. Engines roared. Backup?
He hurled me to the ground. Knocked the wind out of me.
I started to get up but his weapon was aimed directly at my head. The moonlight cut right through the trees and backlit his menacing profile. Not exactly the last image I’d hoped to see.
A blast shattered the silence.
For a second I couldn’t move.
The bastard dropped his weapon and fell on top of me.
I screamed. Scrambled out from under him.
“You okay?”
Dawson.
He dragged me up, held me at arm’s length and looked me over. “You okay?” he demanded a second time.
Before I could answer half a dozen vehicles zoomed onto the scene.
And just like that cops were everywhere.
* * *
Later, an hour maybe more. The paramedics had given me a clean bill of health and an ice pack for my puffy cheek. One of the cops had found me a jacket since no one wanted to see my ass.
My legs were still a little rubbery but at least I was alive. The bag and the car held all the elements used in the previous crimes, except the stake. That element was still lodged in the asshole’s shoulder only inches above his heart. He wasn’t dead. Dawson was a crack shot. He’d made sure he got the guy good but not good and dead. The bastard had at least five murders to answer for. A search warrant had already been executed to search his home and place of business.
Nance stomped around raising hell. He wanted Dawson arrested. The cop had a swollen eye and a crooked nose where Dawson had overtaken him to get control of the car when Nance wouldn’t listen. My partner had understood the clues I’d given. I glanced across the old pauper’s cemetery. One tended to remember an event like being buried alive.
Looking no worse for the wear, Dawson swaggered over to where I waited near one of HPD’s cruisers.
As exhausted and emotionally spent as I was, every part of me perked up to watch his approach and in anticipation of the sound of his voice. I could feel the “Hallelujah Chorus” coming on.
“Since I’m not under arrest, Nance said I could take you home.”
I went all hot and gooey inside. Idiot. “Good. I’m beat.”
Dawson stared at me with those dreamy eyes, regret weighing heavy in them. “Don’t ever do anything like this again, Jackie,” he warned.
For about five seconds I considered throwing myself into his arms and just letting him have his way with me. I was that overwhelmed and worn down. I could have died tonight and I recognized that scary fact.
Thank God, good sense kicked in. “Maybe you’ve forgotten.” I went toe-to-toe with him. Held my breath so I didn’t have to deal with the usual foolish reactions to his scent. “My name is the one over the door at the office. That makes me the boss. Now—” I squared my shoulders “—take me home, Dawson. I’m done here.”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I gave him my back and walked away. Sadly I had no idea which car we’d been authorized to use but I refused to let that stop my dramatic exit.
“Maybe Nance has a good point,” Dawson called after me.
I should have kept walking but my curiosity got the better of me. I turned around and glared at him. “What?”
“You’re pretty hot as a blonde.”
I gave him the finger and walked away. Sadly I realized there was just one problem with that, I so, so, so wanted to do exactly what that crude hand gesture alluded to.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Not as long as I was the boss.
And he was too good to fire.
* * * * *
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
DEBRA WEBB, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Since then she has penned nearly one hundred novels. Visit her at www.debrawebb.com.
Be prepared to be thrilled as you’ve never been before…
Discover more thriller stories that will tantalize and terrify. Offering up heart-pumping tales of suspense in all its guises are twenty-nine of the most critically acclaimed and award-winning names in the business.
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Lock the doors, draw the shades, pull up the covers and be prepared for these stories to keep you up all night.
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ISBN-13: 9781488095146
DIRTY DOWN LOW
Copyright © 2012 by Debra Webb
First published as part of an anthology of works entitled Love Is Murder in 2012.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Debra Webb, Dirty Down Low
