The Evil That Men Do by Steve Rollins Page A

with death.
    She remembered how she had got there, now that the fog of the drugs she had been given had worn off somewhat. She remembered getting out of her car outside Madeline Frome’s house, remembered hearing another car engine, but not looking round at it. She remembered the firm, sweaty, smooth backed hand clamping over her mouth, holding a sodden rag under her nostrils, trying to scream, but only inhaling more of the vapors. She remembered the blackness.
    The water bottle touched her lips again, but this time the man did not guide her head with a hand. She shifted her weight backwards, causing her chair to tilt on the back legs. Her jailor followed her head with the water and Ricki felt wetness on her throat, between her breasts, and then she rocked forwards with all her might, pushing off hard with her tiptoes as she flung her momentum, aiming to head butt her enemy. She failed, and with a sickening lurch in her stomach, she overbalanced and fell hard to the ground, smashing her knees and jaw on the ground. Ricki felt a tooth chip in her mouth and the fragment fell from her lips. Disaster.
    The man laughed, and kicked her hard in her stomach. The force of the blow made Ricki vomit; a cup full of bile was added to the spots of blood on the floor. There was perhaps one saving grace of her failed attack. The force of her fall had dislodged the length of fabric that had been serving as her blindfold, over her left eye. The man was on her right side, and could not be seen, nor could he evidently see her left eye, which was rapidly feeding her brain with information. She was in some kind of wooden shack, she could see gardening equipment perhaps, something like a set of gardening shears, a pair of heavy workman’s boots. The man lifted her up by her shoulders, the chair creaking under the strain. The chair landed heavily on all four legs again.
    “Don’t try that again, or I may be forced to hasten your demise,” the man said.
    Ricki turned her head to look at him with her one unbound eye. She met his gaze, unflinching. His face remained impassive.
    “It’s you!” Ricki whispered.

 
    Chapter Eleven
    Riley
     
    “I’m telling you Roberta, we have to! We can’t just leave Ricki and hope the cops do something about it!”
    Roberta didn’t reply, as Riley knew she wouldn’t, not before caffeine flowed heavily in her bloodstream. The argument had swung back and forth between the two Vaughan sisters long into the night, pausing only when through sheer fatigue Roberta had called a halt to the proceedings. Her exertions of the previous day both physical and mental had forced her at around three in the morning to grab a few hours of sleep on the cracked leather sofa in the office. Riley stayed awake for an hour longer, before she too dozed off in Ricki’s chair. Their debate had taken in great swathes of guilt.
    Before Roberta could finish her first coffee and half-heartedly begin washing her face in the kitchenette sink, Riley took the attack up again. She understood that Roberta wanted to play it safe, to trust in the goodness of Terry to see it through. Riley was sure she was blinded by that faith, by her love for her partner, that to sit and do nothing was not how the Vaughan sisters had been raised. That was it! Her wandering mind had touched on how to win Roberta over.
    “Ok, I get it, Bobby. I know, Terry is on the case and I’m sure that he’ll do his best. But what if he fails?” Riley put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Roberta shook it off angrily.
    “He won’t fail. He’ll find Ricki, and this kidnapper, and everything will be alright. You’ll see.” Roberta’s eyes were still swollen from last night’s tears, and threatened to overflow again.
    “Fine, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t sit by while one of us was in danger, and neither will I.”
    “That’s a low blow, Riley.”
    “Is it? We’re all we’ve got left, do you think they would want us to sit on our hands and pray? Two hands