Cruise: A Thriller Page 10

  The misplaced arrogance in his voice was the final push she needed to apply her emergency backup plan. She stepped forward and banged on the closed shutters three times. The loud sound echoed through the street.

  “I’m not leaving, Mr. Castellano,” she hissed with restrained anger into the intercom.

  “In fact, if you do not let me in, I will bang on these shutters so loudly that it will wake up the whole neighborhood. Someone will undoubtedly call the police, and I wonder what they will think about my story.”

  Castellano remained quiet.

  “This is your last chance,” Heleen continued in the same tone. “Let me in now or all hell is going to break loose.”

  Suddenly the door unlocked and opened slowly. Without giving it a second thought, Heleen stepped inside.

  The entrance was a narrow hallway with an old stairwell to the right that led upstairs with half a turn. The upholstered steps were worn out down to the last thread. Right in front of her a door was ajar. A bright light came from the back of the room. She walked to the door and knocked politely.

  “Come in,” she heard him say.

  Heleen opened the door. The bright light in the apartment forced her to blink several times. When her eyes adjusted and became accustomed to the new situation, she took in her surroundings. The room was spacious and its decoration was pleasant. A modern kitchen ran seamlessly into a lounge area with a leather couch. The flat screen on the wall was flanked by modern art. Strategically placed spotlights reflected an abundance of crystal items placed on the side tables as decoration. The hardwood floor was almost completely covered by three deep-pile carpets, which had just about all the colors of the rainbow intertwined in them. The whole thing was a combination between tasteful and hideous. Jorge Castellano leaned against a pillar that was part of the modern kitchen. It was decorated with a galvanized angel, whose bow almost reached the ceiling. The angel’s foot was just a few inches above the Spaniard’s head.

  “Good evening, again,” Heleen said. The confident smile that she tried to muster up failed miserably. Jorge Castellano took her in carefully, his look icy calm and calculating. He did not say a word. While his frightening eyes penetrated her, his nostrils flared. By the movement of his clenched jaw she could see that he was barely managing to suppress his rage.

  His gaze remained fixated on her as he stepped forward. Before Heleen realized what he was planning, Castellano grabbed her by the shoulder roughly. In an explosion of strength and power he dragged her behind him.

  “Heeey!!”

  He ignored her scream, which sounded far more fearful than angry. Like a programmed machine, he shoved her against a door and pulled her toward him. In a split second, their eyes met. His pupils looked frighteningly large.

  Castellano stretched out his arms and threw her on the floor. Heleen felt how she floated in midair for a moment. She could clearly see the dark silhouette of Castellano right in front of her, accented by a sea of light.

  The blow was especially hard. She fell on her right shoulder and hit the side of her head against the concrete. Black spots in all shapes and sizes appeared before her eyes. The wind was knocked out of her. This was it.

  I’m going to die.

  23

  She didn’t know what was real and what was not. She couldn’t see anything, only the same weird spots dancing around in her eyes. Where was she? She blinked, moved her arms and legs, and realized that she was still alive. But it was still dark.

  Because of her hard fall, she had lost consciousness. After the confusion passed, she suddenly remembered how she got here and who was responsible. With some deep concentration, she managed to identify the buzzing sound that penetrated the room: it was the voice of Jorge Castellano.

  Her fingertips touched the surface below her. She was lying on a hard floor, probably concrete. It was completely dark and a damp, musty smell moved up her nostrils. It must be a basement floor. Castellano had thrown her in there without a reason, and she could hear him talking to someone now.

  Panic enveloped her. The fear hampered her breathing and her body began to shake uncontrollably. She was not dead yet, but probably would be soon. Heleen stood up. Her bones and muscles protested violently. As far as she could determine, she only had only suffered some contusions and bruises from the fall. No fractures, at least, as far as she could tell or feel yet. She could still move all of her joints and that told her enough. Every part of her body ached, though; it felt like she’d been run over by a semitruck.

  She stretched out her arms and lifted her legs up. With the first tentative step she took, she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming out in pain. The second step produced shooting pains in her lower back, and after the third step, she stopped. The pain was unbearable; her muscles were on fire. She sobbed.

  The rising sound of Castellano’s voice gave her new energy. Her urge to survive was fueled by an intense anger. The bastard had attacked her, had tried to murder her—though the reason why was still a mystery. She was lucky it had not come that far yet, and that she had not broken any bones. She forced herself to walk slowly, step by step. She tried to feel her way around the space. While only air slipped through her ​​fingers as she reached out, she tried to assess her situation. It was a matter of life or death now. No time to complain—she had to do some quick thinking and figure this out.

  Castellano was screaming now. She stopped and focused on the muffled sound and tried to filter out the words and intonation.

  Castellano was speaking Spanish. She recognized the characteristic sounds. Moments of silence were interspersed with hysterical fits of rage. She continued to explore her prison. When her left hand glided along a cool and smooth object, she froze.

  There was no other voice.

  Castellano had to be on the phone.

  Her fingers explored the object. Cold, glass … a bottle! With her other hand, she discovered another one. Gently she pulled the two bottles from the rack.

  At least now she had something to defend herself with.

  24

  Heleen managed to relax her muscles occasionally. Remaining so tense would not help her ability to respond quickly. If Castellano opened the basement door, she couldn’t hesitate for a second and had to strike immediately. The phone call had stopped five minutes ago, so the chance that he would come down to the basement to look for her increased by the second. To the best of her abilities, she had explored the basement. Eventually she had a good feel for the underground space. This somewhat improved her position compared to him.

  She estimated the basement to be about five meters wide and ten meters long. The space ran below the whole apartment and had to be the same size. In addition to the wine rack, she had stumbled upon an old bike and a wooden cabinet filled with piles of magazines and more useless stuff. After exploring the whole space, she knew the bottles were her best and only weapon.

  Her survival instinct was strong. Whatever had happened in the past, how she got here or how she got mixed up in it all, or what would happen in the future did not matter anymore. She was convinced that Castellano would murder her in the foreseeable future and every fiber in her body protested.

  The element of surprise was her only option. With any luck, she would get an opportunity. She was ready and willing to fight for her freedom. If she had to, she would go to any extreme.

  As far as she could tell, the door opened to the right. She had felt the hinges. Where she was now seemed like the best place to be. If and when Castellano would open the door, the artificial light from the living room would cast the light in a line that ran from the doorway to the back wall. So only the spot where she had landed during her fall would be lit up.

  Castellano might think she was still unconscious. It would surprise him not to see her there on the floor. That’s when she had to make use of the element of surprise.

  Still, she couldn’t assume that it would happen this way. She had not been able to find a light switch anywhere, so that meant that
it was located outside of the basement. It was possible that Castellano would switch on the light first before actually entering the basement. But she assumed that he would not want to take the risk of waking her up the moment he turned the lights on. For a moment she had even considered climbing up the three steps and boldly opening the door. If the door was not locked, it could be that she would suddenly be face-to-face with the Spaniard and would also have the advantage of a surprise.

  Then she suddenly heard footsteps. She braced herself. A creaking sound indicated that the door handle was being pressed down slowly. A narrow beam of light illuminated the left side of the basement. The door swung open farther. It was only a matter of a few centimeters before the bright artificial light would hit her feet.

  Heleen did exactly what she had planned. She raised her left hand and stepped to the left. The next moment the whole room lit up and she was face-to-face with Jorge Castellano. She put all her strength into the throw. The bottle flew through the air and struck the Spaniard right on his chest. Screaming in pain, he staggered back. Heleen did not hesitate another second. She climbed up the stairs at full speed and ran toward her attacker, who was now leaning against a leather sofa like a punch-drunk boxer. Before Castellano got the chance to recover, she hit him with the second bottle in her right hand and shattered it on his head. Castellano fell over without making a sound.

  With the broken bottle top still in her trembling hand, Heleen surveyed the situation. She took a deep breath through her mouth because her lungs were screaming for oxygen. Other than the furniture, the living room was empty. So Castellano did not have an accomplice there. He was unconscious—she watched his chest rise and fall slowly. The significant amount of red wine and the blood from the cut on his head made ​​the picture far more horrible than it was in reality. At least, that’s what Heleen told herself. Jorge Castellano had hurt her and probably planned to do something far worse to her, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

  When she stepped away from the limp body, her eyes were drawn to Castellano’s right hand. She could see a needle.

  Heleen swallowed a few times. She got beyond her fear, knelt beside the unconscious Spaniard, and lifted up his hand. She saw a syringe. The reservoir was filled with a light-brown liquid. She dropped his hand and stepped back, frightened.

  He wanted to inject her with that stuff, she realized. He wanted to poison, drug, or kill her … Wait, drugs. He was going to give her an overdose. That was premeditated murder. During the telephone call they must have decided that she had to disappear. Forever.

  Jesus! Heleen put both her hands over her eyes.

  What did I get myself into? What the hell is going on here?

  She felt like she was falling apart, staggered over to a chair, and sank into the cushions. Her hands were still shaking and her breathing was raspy and made a gurgling sound. A sickening feeling shot up from her stomach. Without really realizing it, she leaned over and threw up.

  It took her a moment before she recovered and gained control of herself again. She held her head up and breathed quietly through her nose. Then she inhaled gently through her mouth. Slowly but surely she started to come to her senses. The room stopped spinning.

  When the unconscious Castellano came to, she had to be as far away from here as possible. Calling an ambulance or asking for help from neighbors seemed like a bad idea. She was convinced that she would get herself into even more trouble. Maybe the Spaniard would turn the story around on her and make her out to be a burglar or some crazed stalker. No, she could not take that risk.

  Heleen got up, still a little dizzy. She had to find that phone. From a power strip next to a side table a cord ran across the room and into the kitchen. The phone was on a ceramic counter. She walked over and saw that there was a mirror next to the phone. Once in the kitchen, she saw the white powder that was distributed into three straight lines. Next to it was a tightly wrapped twenty-euro bill.

  Obviously drugs, probably cocaine. She stayed focused on what it really mattered. When she was sure which button it was, she pressed it with her finger. A Spanish number appeared on the display screen.

  Part 4

  25

  Heleen took a swig from the can of Red Bull that she had bought at the gas station. The drink had to keep the sleep away and provide her with some new energy. According to her calculations, she had four hours to go before she could stop the car somewhere after she crossed the Spanish border. Then she could finally close her eyes and get the rest her body so desperately needed.

  She had felt unsafe and restless in France and wanted to leave the country as soon as possible. In Spain, she would take a break and think about how to proceed.

  She experienced the nightmare in Castellano’s apartment in her mind over and over again, like an open wound that just wouldn’t stop bleeding. The horrifying images seemed burned into her consciousness. There was only one thing driving her now: fear.

  In her rearview mirror she noticed fast-approaching headlights. At this time of night, it was quiet on the usually busy French highways, and she could keep a close eye on traffic. The headlights from another car could be someone after her or maybe even the police, who were probably also looking for her by now. Suddenly, she saw a car appear behind her. The sports car whizzed past her at high speed. Relieved, she checked her rearview mirror. The asphalt behind her remained empty.

  Her small victory back at Castellano’s apartment, which she had hoped would give her some extra courage so she could run, sadly could also not prevent her from staying nervous constantly. Out of a deep sense of frustration, she hit the steering wheel. She shook her head in despair. What is this crap? she thought. Why do I feel like a hunted animal? Who is really the criminal here? Is it me, or Castellano, that creep who tried to inject me with that nasty stuff? You tell me?

  The glow of another approaching car became brighter in her rearview mirror. She squeezed her eyelids together. The headlights rushed toward her. When the car drove past her, she saw the face of the passenger in a flash. It was a young man with a dark complexion. He wore a baseball cap.

  Behind her, flashing blue lights appeared. Oh, God, here we go! The police car was fast approaching. Her first reaction was to press down harder on the accelerator. She wanted to flee rather than wait passively. She remembered where that had gotten her in Nice. If she had remained passive where would she be now—probably dead? But fleeing from the police made no sense. She would probably end up being killed in a car crash or still end up getting caught.

  She continued at the same speed and waited for the cops to pass her and tell her to pull over.

  The police car flew past her and remained in the left lane. As she watched the flashing blue lights dissolve into the dark of the night her heart was pounding in her throat. Her mouth was dry, and her throat felt like sandpaper. She took a quick sip of the energy drink.

  Moments later, she passed the speed demon as he was being arrested by the police. Against the ghostly backdrop of the flashing blue police lights, she saw the two young men standing with their legs apart against the front of the sports car. While officers searched them, they kept their hands firmly on the hood.

  Heleen continued on. Although it was clear to her now that the police were not a factor to worry about anymore, she still felt nervous and uneasy.

  Somewhere on the horizon, danger lurked. Who was pulling the strings, she did not know. To try and figure that out now made ​​no sense. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally. She turned on the radio. It was three o’clock in the morning. She would listen to some familiar rock songs and unfamiliar French love songs all the way to the border. She needed to clear her head. In Spain, she would first need to find a place to sleep. Get some rest, get up in the afternoon, eat a decent meal, then try to evaluate the situation. She would take on the next confrontation in Blanes tomorrow. She started singing along with Oasis loudly.

  26

  Blanes slowly came to life in the evening. C
ouples walking arm in arm and groups of young people strolling along the promenade. People engrossed in each other, smiling exuberantly or staring at the Mediterranean in admiration, all of them enjoying that holiday feeling, taking a break at one of the wide variety of eateries and contemplating the oversized menus. Sometimes the waiter standing outside managed to convince someone to come and eat. However, most of the tourists shrugged their shoulders at him; sometimes they would just nod sheepishly and walk off.

  Heleen followed the ritual with detached interest. From the ice cream parlor’s terrace she had an unobstructed view of the Boulevard of Blanes. But the carefree atmosphere could not lift her somber mood. What had seemed like a piece of cake before had proven to be much more difficult and dangerous in reality.

  The ice cream parlor, Torino, was the third place she’d visited in half an hour. She hadn’t gained much more information at the other two establishments either. Neither the Italian owner, the Spanish staff, nor the local customers knew where Calle Albareda was. Worse, none of them had ever even heard of it.

  Heleen paid the bill. She left the picturesque view for what it was and ran to her car, which was parked two blocks away. During the short walk she crossed a few options off her list and thought about her next step. Calle Albareda was not a well-known street and was obviously not located in the tourist area, but she was sure it existed. The street was officially listed in Blanes.

  When the Spanish phone number had appeared on Jorge Castellano’s phone, she immediately knew who could help her find out who that phone number belonged to. She remembered the joke her colleague Esther made about her brother’s ability to find Brad Pitt’s and George Clooney’s secret phone numbers, which suddenly gave her access to a world she would normally only see on TV or in the movies.

  After she had left Castellano’s apartment and felt safe again, she called Esther. She deliberately kept the conversation short and businesslike. Right now she could not afford to give detailed answers to any of the questions that would undoubtedly come.