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“No, ma’am,” he said. “I never gave your number to anybody. I don’t even know your number.”
“That’s a lie, or else how would this person know that you’re here?” She shook the thing accusingly.
He got suddenly, sickeningly lightheaded. Oh, yeah. That’s who might know. The mystery hell-fiend, all-seeing, all-knowing. The one with Lily in his jaws.
He shoved the coroner’s report into his pocket. “I’ll talk to him.”
“So what am I, now, your secretary?” she shrilled.
He bounded up the stairs, plucked the phone from her hand. She continued to screech and scold, but he dialed her down, to the far-off gabbling of barn fowl. “This is Bruno Ranieri. Who am I speaking with?”
“Hello, Bruno.”
He waited for more. Man’s voice. Standard American accent, no regional flavors. Bruno’s hands clenched. “Who the fuck is this?”
The volume of Grandma Pina’s agitated noise rose sharply in response to his word choice. He ignored her.
“You shouldn’t be as worried about who I am as what I could do,” the voice went on, soft and taunting.
Fear yawned afresh. That voice. Maybe he did recognize it. But he couldn’t put his finger on where from. “Is that so? What could you do?”
“Do you have a smartphone?”
He reached into his pocket, closed his shaking fingers around his smartphone. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Give me the number. A picture is worth a thousand words.”
Bruno recited it, his voice robotic. The call on Grandma Pina’s phone went dead. He handed the phone back to her and waited, his heart thudding heavily.
A video call came in. The image appeared on the display screen. His heart jumped up into his throat and tried to choke him.
Lily was staring at the camera. Her face was strained. Glaring light washed her out to snowy paleness, her hair was a rat’s nest halo, her eyes shadowed and haunted, but it was her. The bitch from the cabin was behind her, holding a knife to her throat. But she was still alive.
“Lily?” His voice cracked dangerously.
Her expression did not change, but her lips moved as she responded to him. “Hi, Bruno.”
Her voice sounded wooden. Drugged, maybe. “Are you OK?”
Her throat bobbed. “I’m fine.”
“So far, that is,” amended the voice.
“What do you want from me?” Bruno burst out.
The guy chuckled again. “Ah, yes. I thought so. You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? Zoe, put the knife up to her eye—”
“No! Please, no,” he burst out. “Please, just don’t. Just tell me what you want. You don’t have to do this. Don’t hurt her.”
“Very well.” The video image flickered, vanished. “Listen carefully. Without saying a word, walk out the back door. Go between the garage and the garbage cans into the alley, where you will turn right and walk to the corner. A bronze BMW will pull over. Get into the back seat.”
“But you—”
“Do not speak again, or I will have her cut,” the voice warned. “Keep the line open. Do not try to give your grandmother any message to take to the men waiting outside. It’s hard to tell which McClouds they are, since they look so much alike, but I happen to know from other sources that they are Kevin and Sean.”
Pressure built inside him. He didn’t dare speak.
“You’re panting like a dog. Let’s hope you’re an obedient dog. Don’t be clever. If I see your grandmother approach the men, Zoe begins to cut. Understand? I give you leave to respond.”
