Strangers: A Novel(98)

“And you just kidnapped her from outside the hotel, so now you’re going to tell me—”

I don’t even see the hand coming. I only become aware of it when it grasps my throat and mercilessly squeezes the air out of me.

“What’s that you’re saying? Kidnapped? Where? By who?”

I wheeze, make a grab for Gavin’s hand, try to pull it away. No luck. At the point where I fear I’m about to lose consciousness, his grip finally loosens. I cough. I’m starting to suspect things aren’t the way I thought. They’re much worse.

“I … I don’t know. There was a dark-colored car outside the hotel. Someone dragged her into it. Then the car disappeared.”

Gavin stares past me. For four, five seconds. Then he nods. “Wait here. We’ll set off in two minutes.”





45

The dark fabric of the back seat, my face pressed against it. Pulse racing in my temples, my neck, everywhere. Strange hands like iron clamps. One of them is closed around my wrists, the other holds the back of my neck tightly. I’m paralyzed with horror on the inside, but my body resists, making me kick against the back of the driver’s seat, brace myself against the grip of the man who’s holding me, fighting with more strength than I thought myself capable of.

“That’s enough, little girl, or I’ll have to hurt you.” The voice is unfamiliar. Despite the almost friendly tone, I have no doubt that the man won’t hesitate in following through with what he said.

So I keep still. My head is still pressed against the back seat, my face turned to the dark-tinted side window of the car. I only briefly saw the face of the man who pulled me into the car and didn’t recognize him. I can barely think at all, I just know that it’s over for me.

They didn’t cover my eyes.

They’re not going to let me live.

And then there’s that smell, a smell that makes me feel sick, that spells evil.

Once again, my body reacts without me telling it to. It begins to tremble uncontrollably, intensely, as though someone were shaking me.

The man loosens his grip a little. “She’s about to collapse on me here,” he says to one of his accomplices in the front seats.

“Make sure you don’t squeeze her neck too hard, we need her without brain damage,” one of them answers. I know the voice, I’ve heard it once before, and combined with the smell, the picture falls into place with a fear-inspiring jolt—

Joanna. The most important thing here is you and your safety. Do you want my help?

The psychologist. The one Erik argued with and threw out of the house. Bartsch.

The man next to me lets go, slowly, as though he’s waiting to see if I’ll start to resist again. But I remain motionless. My breathing is so quick, it’s as though I’ve just been running, as though I’m still running, and inside I am.

Gabor’s people have found us. Found me. And it was our own mistake—they must have followed Ela, from our house right to the hotel. The hotel I strolled out of just half an hour later without taking any precautions. After all, it was only a hundred feet to the taxi rank.

I feel like hitting myself in the head for my own stupidity. We were so careful the whole time, only to make this terrible mistake.

“Joanna, is everything all right?” Now Bartsch once again sounds as polite and concerned as he did a week ago, in our living room.

I don’t answer him, but instead just concentrate on the world outside the car. We’re slowing down. The car stops at a red light.

Don’t think. Just do it. I thrust myself away from the seat, grab the door handle—not locked, you stupid assholes, it opens easily, wide enough to slip out.

One of my legs and half of my upper body are already out when the man grabs me by the arm and pulls me back inside. I hear myself scream; it feels as though he’s ripped my shoulder out of its socket. The next moment, he throws himself on top of me and slams the door shut with a bang.

“You do that one more time, you stupid bitch, and you’ll see what I’m made of.” He hits me in the face, hard, first with his palm, then again with the back of his hand. I can taste blood.

“Lambert! Stop that at once!” Bartsch has turned around in his seat. “It was your mistake, why did you even let go of her in the first place?”

“Because I didn’t expect Wickers, that idiot, to forget to lock the doors!” bellows Lambert. He’s still lying on top of me with all his weight, pressing the air out of me. “But don’t worry,” he says, quieter now, “it won’t happen again.”

He pulls my hands behind my back and slings something narrow and hard around my wrists, then pulls it tight, so hard that it hurts. “It’s your own fault,” he says.

I touch my tongue against the spot where my lip has burst open. Yes, it’s my own fault, but it was worth it. Perhaps someone noticed my attempt to flee and made a note of the license plate. And maybe they’ll inform the police.

A phone rings up front. After two rings, Bartsch picks it up. “Yes? Yes, we have her. It all went smoothly, better than we’d hoped.” He stops, shakes his head. “What? No. That wasn’t what we agreed, that…”

The person he’s talking to must have interrupted him. Bartsch tries several more times to say something, but without success. “You really should have made that clearer,” he says eventually, sounding defensive. “No, I … That wasn’t … I wouldn’t presume to do something so arbitrary.”