The Bad Sister. Kevin O'BrienЧитать онлайн книгу.
Rachel Bonner person had something to do with the valuable information Gil had alluded to the other day on the phone. Was all of this connected to his brother’s involvement in some shady deal to make a quick “shitload of money”?
Though it made his awful headache even worse, Nate writhed around on the floor, struggling to loosen the rope around his wrists. All the while, the muted conversation continued in the living room. He flinched every time he heard another punch thrown. He wondered why his brother was holding out. Or maybe Gil was stalling for time. If he had indeed phoned someone earlier, maybe they were on their way.
Nate thought he heard Rene’s muffled crying in the kitchen. He imagined her tied up in there—maybe on the floor or in a chair. Rene always came across as strong and composed—especially to the students in her yoga classes. But she actually scared easily and often had nightmares. Nate hated to think of her alone in the next room, frightened and helpless, all her nightmares coming true.
He could smell the shrimp they had planned to cook for dinner. It was spoiled now. But beneath the stink Nate picked up another odor: gas.
Nate realized they must have left the unlit oven on. How long had the gas been leaking from the oven?
“Okay, hot shot, have it your way!” Nate heard the guy say loudly. “Maybe you’ll start talking if I bring one of those bitches in here and start working her over.”
Her eyes full of panic, Cheryl started squirming on the bed. Nate kicked and thrashed on the floor, but the rope around his wrists hadn’t slackened at all. He heard footsteps in the kitchen and Rene’s stifled sobs.
Nate bellowed out: “Leave her alone!”
The footsteps stopped, and there was an awful silence. Nate held his breath.
After a moment, the floorboards creaked again and the footsteps got louder—closer. A shadow swept over the bedroom. Nate lifted his head and saw the man, in silhouette, standing in the doorway, holding a knife.
“You just gave me an idea,” the guy said, stepping into the room. He stood over Nate for a moment. Then with a grunt, he hauled back and kicked him in the stomach.
Stunned, Nate clenched into a ball, bringing his knees up to his chest. The blow knocked the breath out of him. An excruciating pain spread through his gut. He felt it in his shoulders, too. He’d almost torn his arms out of their sockets when he’d recoiled. His head spinning, he desperately gasped for air. He was barely aware of the man hovering over him, cutting the duct tape around his ankles. If he’d been thinking clearly, Nate might have kicked the guy in the face. Instead, he let the man pull him to his feet. Nate was still bent over from the pain in his gut.
“You could use some fresh air,” the guy said mockingly. “Come on with me.”
The man had the revolver in his hand now. He led Nate into the kitchen, where Rene was tied to one of the dinette chairs. A dishrag was stuffed in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Nate stopped. He tried to say something to her, but he could barely get a breath. The man pushed him toward the back door. Nate stumbled and almost tripped.
“Stinks in here,” the guy said, opening the back door. He shoved Nate outside and shut the door behind him.
The cold night air actually revived Nate a bit.
“What has Gil told you about Rachel Bonner?” the man asked.
Nate shook his head. “I—I don’t know who that is.”
“Fuck,” the guy muttered. He grabbed Nate’s arm and pulled him around the side of the house—to the front of the cabin. “You better pray your asshole brother tells us what he knows.”
He led Nate up the front porch steps to one of the big living room windows.
Nate shivered. He could see his breath. He gazed inside toward the desk, where, as a kid, he used to draw. He was horrified to see what they’d done to his brother.
Stripped down to his underwear, Gil was tied to the desk chair. He looked like a defeated boxer slouched in the corner of the ring. His handsome face was a swollen, bloody pulp. Cuts covered his body. On his right arm and shoulder were square patches where it looked as if they’d carefully cut off some layers of skin.
The woman was sitting on the edge of the desk, her back to them.
Tightening his grip on Nate’s arm, the man knocked on the window.
The woman quickly turned, the gun readied in her hand.
“Open the window,” the man called. “I want Gil to hear his brother beg for his life.”
The woman nodded—almost as if she approved of the idea. She moved to the window and opened it a crack.
The man jabbed the muzzle of the revolver against Nate’s temple and then took a step away.
Trembling violently, Nate realized the guy didn’t want to get splattered with blood. Nate remembered that image from the Vietnam War—of the prisoner being shot in the head. He was certain he was going to die. “Goddamn it, Gil!” he cried out. “Tell them what they want to know!”
“I’m really tired of this,” the woman announced. Returning to the desk, she started hunting through her purse. “We’re giving you ten seconds. If you don’t start answering our questions, my friend is going to shoot him. Do you understand, Gil? You have ten seconds to start talking or you’ll see your brother’s brains all over that window.”
One of Gil’s eyes was swollen shut, but he seemed to focus on Nate with his one good eye. He winced and slowly shook his head.
The woman pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her bag. “Ten . . . nine... eight . . .”
“Your brother’s a real asshole,” the guy muttered, the gun just inches from Nate’s skull. “It’s too bad for you . . .”
“Gil, for God’s sake!” Nate yelled. “Cooperate with them!”
Her butt against the edge of the desk, the woman kept counting as she tried to light her cigarette. But the lighter didn’t seem to be working. Nate could almost hear the failed clicks.
Then he remembered the gas.
“Four . . . three . . .”
“No, wait!” Nate screamed.
She clicked the lighter one more time.
It sparked a flame that erupted into a deafening blast. The windows shattered as flames and fiery debris spewed out of the cabin. Everything shook. The blaze shot up higher than the treetops. Logs, cinders, splintered wood, and glass flew through the air.
The explosion knocked Nate off his feet; it all happened in a flash, so fast he barely had time to realize that everyone inside the cabin was now dead.
Then, all at once, something hard and heavy fell on top of him.
Buried under the scorched, smoky wreckage, Nate knew that he was as good as dead, too.
CHAPTER TWO
Two years later: Thursday, September 3, 4:04 P.M.
Lake Forest, Illinois
Hannah O’Rourke had made it her mission to learn everything she could about Rachel Bonner.
Seated in the upper deck of the North Suburban Chicago commuter train, the willowy, dark-haired eighteen-year-old studied her phone screen—and Rachel’s photo. Hannah hadn’t met Rachel yet, and she felt a bit like an online stalker. But she had a good excuse. Rachel Bonner was going to be her college roommate.
Hannah was on her way to start freshman year at Our Lady of the Cove University in the small town of Delmar, two stops from now. Thanks to Google and Instagram, Hannah had already learned that Rachel Bonner was twenty, extremely pretty, and extremely rich. She was the only child of Richard and Candace Bonner of the Chicago Stock Exchange, Lake Shore Drive, and North Shore