Read Online Abandoned: A Thriller by Cody McFadyen - Free Book Online
Authors: Cody McFadyen
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grass is damp and cool against the bottoms of his feet. He hardly notices. The bag holds all his attention.
It is shiny in the sun. A heavy-duty zipper runs the length of it. The straw (because he can confirm that now) is clear tubing, poking through a hole that was made in the bag.
Don’t open it!
The voice in his head is loud, a fearful shout. It’s probably good advice.
He gets down on both knees in the grass, oblivious to the dirt and water stains that are soaking into his khaki pants. He reaches for the zipper. His hand hesitates above it.
Last chance. You can still turn back.
He gulps down a breath, grips the zipper, and opens it halfway before he can think about it any further.
He sees her face and he staggers on his knees, almost swooning. “Dana!”
The words expel from him in a kind of low gasp, as if he’s been punched in the stomach.
She’s there. The straw is taped to her mouth, the tape covering her lips. There is something very, very wrong with her eyes. They’re clear but empty. Nothing intelligent stares back at him.
“God, oh God …” he whispers.
She was supposed to go on a spa trip yesterday. Two-day affair, a little getaway. She didn’t call last night, but he hadn’t been worried. He’d had too much on his mind.
“Sorry, honey, God, I’m sorry, let me get that straw out of your mouth.” He’s babbling and he knows it but is helpless to stop.
He removes the tape as gently as he can, and pulls the tubing from her mouth.
Her mouth falls open and stays there, slack. Drool runs from it as she stares, unblinking, at the sky. There is a smell coming from the bag. It takes him a minute to place it. He recoils when he does. Urine and feces.
“Dana?” he askes, not really hoping for an answer. Her throat works a little, and he thinks she might be responding. He leans forward, ignoring the stench from the bag. “Honey?”
She belches, once, long and loud. She smacks her lips and resumes her drooling.
He skitters backward on his hands and feet, trying to put distance between himself and the horror of it. He falls onto his back in the grass and finds himself staring up at the sky, which is blue, and the sun, which has broken from the clouds. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day in Southern California.
He flips onto his hands and knees and begins to vomit into the over-green grass.
CHAPTER SIX
Weekend or not, the FBI is a beehive. I ride up on the elevator to AD Jones’s office with three other people. They all stare openly at the dress. Nobody cracks a smile. I guess they realize it might not be all that funny. There are only so many reasons for an FBI agent to get ripped away from a wedding, after all.
I think about the woman as the numbers climb toward my destination. The look of terror in her eyes has stuck with me. It was such a desperate expression. I shake my head to clear it and focus on why AD Jones would have called me here with such urgency. He’s not the type to make up emergencies.
He’s been my shepherd, my teacher. He saw something in me from the start and fostered it. That’s his way. He’s one of those rare things in the FBI executive strata: someone more interested in results than in politics.
The
ding
tells me we’ve arrived. I take a deep breath and head out into the hallway. I make a right turn and see Shirley, his longtime receptionist. She’s about ten years older than I am and is a short, professional woman with twinkling green eyes that belie her stern outward demeanor.
“How was the wedding?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“It was great. Right up to the point when the car pulled up and dumped the screaming woman out onto the parking lot.”
She gives me an uncertain smile and a shrug, as if to say,
What can you do?
“So who’s in there, Shirley?”
The smile grows sour. “Director Rathbun.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really? Do you know why?”
“Not a clue. Good luck, though.”
I glance down at the dress again
It is shiny in the sun. A heavy-duty zipper runs the length of it. The straw (because he can confirm that now) is clear tubing, poking through a hole that was made in the bag.
Don’t open it!
The voice in his head is loud, a fearful shout. It’s probably good advice.
He gets down on both knees in the grass, oblivious to the dirt and water stains that are soaking into his khaki pants. He reaches for the zipper. His hand hesitates above it.
Last chance. You can still turn back.
He gulps down a breath, grips the zipper, and opens it halfway before he can think about it any further.
He sees her face and he staggers on his knees, almost swooning. “Dana!”
The words expel from him in a kind of low gasp, as if he’s been punched in the stomach.
She’s there. The straw is taped to her mouth, the tape covering her lips. There is something very, very wrong with her eyes. They’re clear but empty. Nothing intelligent stares back at him.
“God, oh God …” he whispers.
She was supposed to go on a spa trip yesterday. Two-day affair, a little getaway. She didn’t call last night, but he hadn’t been worried. He’d had too much on his mind.
“Sorry, honey, God, I’m sorry, let me get that straw out of your mouth.” He’s babbling and he knows it but is helpless to stop.
He removes the tape as gently as he can, and pulls the tubing from her mouth.
Her mouth falls open and stays there, slack. Drool runs from it as she stares, unblinking, at the sky. There is a smell coming from the bag. It takes him a minute to place it. He recoils when he does. Urine and feces.
“Dana?” he askes, not really hoping for an answer. Her throat works a little, and he thinks she might be responding. He leans forward, ignoring the stench from the bag. “Honey?”
She belches, once, long and loud. She smacks her lips and resumes her drooling.
He skitters backward on his hands and feet, trying to put distance between himself and the horror of it. He falls onto his back in the grass and finds himself staring up at the sky, which is blue, and the sun, which has broken from the clouds. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day in Southern California.
He flips onto his hands and knees and begins to vomit into the over-green grass.
CHAPTER SIX
Weekend or not, the FBI is a beehive. I ride up on the elevator to AD Jones’s office with three other people. They all stare openly at the dress. Nobody cracks a smile. I guess they realize it might not be all that funny. There are only so many reasons for an FBI agent to get ripped away from a wedding, after all.
I think about the woman as the numbers climb toward my destination. The look of terror in her eyes has stuck with me. It was such a desperate expression. I shake my head to clear it and focus on why AD Jones would have called me here with such urgency. He’s not the type to make up emergencies.
He’s been my shepherd, my teacher. He saw something in me from the start and fostered it. That’s his way. He’s one of those rare things in the FBI executive strata: someone more interested in results than in politics.
The
ding
tells me we’ve arrived. I take a deep breath and head out into the hallway. I make a right turn and see Shirley, his longtime receptionist. She’s about ten years older than I am and is a short, professional woman with twinkling green eyes that belie her stern outward demeanor.
“How was the wedding?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“It was great. Right up to the point when the car pulled up and dumped the screaming woman out onto the parking lot.”
She gives me an uncertain smile and a shrug, as if to say,
What can you do?
“So who’s in there, Shirley?”
The smile grows sour. “Director Rathbun.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really? Do you know why?”
“Not a clue. Good luck, though.”
I glance down at the dress again
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