A Necessary Evil(43)

He turned around and opened the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Frankie called out after him, “Screw you, Kurt.”

Kurt turned around and looked Frankie right in the eye without blinking. “Yeah. Screw you too. And don’t ever let me hear you mention Addie’s name again. You’ve lost the right.”



As Kurt thought back on what it felt like to walk away from someone he had considered a brother for nearly nineteen years, he found himself blinking back tears for the first time in a long time. It had hurt like hell to walk away, knowing he’d lost his best friend. And it hurt like hell today knowing he’d soon have to arrest him. There was no way around it. He’d turned a blind eye nearly forty years ago, but now he was police. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t shove his head in the sand like an ostrich and pretend he didn’t know what Frankie was planning to do to Collin McAllister.

Kurt rolled over onto his side. He was physically beat, but his mind was racing a million miles a minute. Even though he and Frankie had barely spoken since that day in his room all those years ago, he still had a soft spot for his former best friend. There was no way he could let him get away with murder. Not again. It was time for Frankie to face the music. Kurt just had to figure out where he’d taken Collin before it was too late. But he was no use to anyone if he didn’t get some shuteye first.

He opened the drawer to his nightstand, pulled out the orange prescription bottle, opened the lid, and shook an Ambien out onto his palm. After dry-swallowing the pill, he lay back on his pillow and tried to force his mind to slow down.

It didn’t take long for the sleeping pill to take effect. Within fifteen minutes, Kurt’s eyelids were heavy, and his thoughts were beginning to blur together. Just a few hours of sleep. Then I’ll find Frankie. This time, I’ll do something about it. This time, Frankie is going to face the music.





Chapter 22




Collin



His wrists were raw and sore from the rope that held him to the metal framed chair, and his shoulder was throbbing something fierce. Franklin Cartwright’s goons had not let him lie down through the night, so he’d been forced to sleep sitting upright. When he opened his eyes and tried to lift his heavy head, his neck was stiff, and a sharp pain shot up his spine to the base of his skull. The light coming in through the windows high above him was bright and blinding, and he had to squint his eyes. So, it was morning. Collin wondered how much sleep he’d gotten. Probably not much. It was hard to sleep sitting straight up in a chair.

He scanned his surroundings now that the light from the window illuminated the warehouse. At least, he assumed it was a warehouse. The ceilings were high, probably twenty or more feet, and the walls looked like they were made of steel rebar and rusty metal sheeting. Brown water dripped from holes in the ceiling and collected in puddles on the concrete floor. In the far right-hand corner sat several brown barrels with the universal symbol for toxic chemicals on the fronts. The only windows—he counted four—were near the ceiling, and there was no way he could reach them, even if he managed to free himself from his restraints. His stomach sank with this realization.

The rope that bound him to the chair was thick, and thousands of sharp, tiny hairs were poking into his skin. His feet were spread apart, and each was tied to a chair leg with the same strong rope. He could barely even wiggle his toes. The red bandana was shoved into his mouth, and it was soaking wet. His jaw was sore from having been gagged for many hours. There was no way for him to escape. His only hope—and he laughed to himself when he realized this—was if that detective Franklin had been talking to on the phone found him before the crazy old man finished whatever he had planned.

Either way, he was screwed. He had failed at his mission, and everything he’d accomplished over the past two years had been in vain. Not only would Franklin never pay for killing Collin’s father, but he was going to kill him too, probably exactly the same way he’d killed Julian. For the first time in his life, Collin found himself hoping the police would find him. It was his only hope for survival.

A door on the opposite side of the room opened, and a loud creaking noise echoed throughout the mostly empty warehouse, and in strode the man himself. He was wearing a dark gray pinstriped suit with a light blue button-up shirt underneath and shiny black leather shoes. His silver hair was neatly combed, and he looked much more put-together than he had the night before. He was whistling as he bridged the gap between the entrance and Collin. He stopped in front of him, jerked the bandana out of Collin’s mouth, and smiled.

“Good morning, Collin.”

Collin glared at him silently.

“Oh, don’t look so mad. Sorry about the sleeping arrangements. I didn’t know the boys were going to make you sleep sitting up, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, I guess. Did you at least sleep well?”

Again, Collin stared back at him without saying a word.

“That’s unfortunate. Now, I figure there’s no reason to delay. Especially with my old buddy Kurt breathing down my neck. So, we’d better get this show on the road. I’ve brought some friends to help us out.” Franklin turned and motioned toward the two goons, who were standing by the open door. “Rupert. Stanley. Please show everyone in. And bring in the tables and chairs.”

The two thugs nodded and disappeared. A few seconds later, several people streamed into the warehouse one at a time. Leading the line of strangers was a weird looking girl Collin figured was in her early twenties. But she was not the kind of girl who would ever pique his interest. She was too thin, with eccentric, mismatched clothes, black clod-hopper boots, spiky blue hair, and piercings all over her oval-shaped face.