Escape Out of Darkness (Maggie Bennett 1)

“Damn you,” she said, fighting back the sense of horror that his words had brought forth.

Mersot nodded his head in acknowledgment. “As for you, M. Pulaski, I’m simply going to lock you in the utility room. I don’t happen to know your particular weakness.”

“Sure you do, Mersot,” he drawled in reply. “It’s Maggie. You know I’ll do anything you tell me to rather than risk her being hurt.”

Mersot smiled faintly. “I must say I guessed as much. She won’t like being locked in the dark, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. I need you too frightened even to think, Mlle. Bennett. Come along, children. With luck this will all be over by nightfall.”

Since the ending to this particular venture would probably involve their deaths, Maggie didn’t find the notion terribly encouraging. She used every last ounce of her energy to keep her face bland and unconcerned. It would be bad enough, locked in the darkness without Mack to hold her. It would be even worse if he knew how terrified she was.

The chalet was even larger than it had appeared from the outside. Mack and Maggie moved down the hallways, through salons and offices and game rooms, always mindful of the gun behind them and the sweet, smiling old man holding it. They went down two flights of stairs and halted in front of a steel door with an electronic lock. Mersot punched a few buttons and the door opened with a quiet hiss. With a courtly politeness, Mersot gestured her inside.

She stalled for a moment. The room was pitch black; only the dim light from the hallway illuminated the first rows of wine racks. The floor was cement, and it smelled dry and cool and musty. She opened her mouth—to reason, to argue, to beg and plead—but her eyes met Pulaski’s, and she shut it again. He looked even more desperate than she felt. For her, she realized, and the knowledge started a small fire burning inside her, warming her chilled flesh, lighting her darkness.

She shrugged. “See you in a while, Mack,” she said airily, and stepped in the room.

“Very brave, mademoiselle,” Mersot approved. “Do not bother trying to pick the locks. They’re all electronically controlled, and you would end up with a very nasty shock indeed. Au revoir.” And the steel door swung shut silently behind her.

Only for a moment did the panic sweep over her. Only for a brief, terrified second did she lose control and feel herself begin to shatter. And then Mack’s look came back to her, the feel of his arms around her, and she knew that the darkness wouldn’t win this time. She would. She’d wait out her time in the pitch-black hole and figure out a way to stop Mersot. And if it involved killing him … She lost the last of her qualms with the quiet sound of the steel door closing in upon her.

She sank to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest. The coolness of the wine cellar wasn’t much worse than the Alpine heights in a strong wind, and the light sweater would be enough protection. She was almost tempted to try to break into one of Mersot’s bottles—he would have only premium vintages. She could also trash the place, smashing bottle after bottle of probably priceless wines. But Mersot would have no qualms at all about incapacitating her further, and despite his disclaimer, he was more than adept with that machine gun. No, she’d be a good, obedient girl, sit quietly on the stone floor, and figure how the hell they were going to get out of this mess in one piece.

It was amazing how time could lose its meaning in the darkness. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes, it could even have been days, she realized with sudden horror. The darkness was closing around her, smothering her, and she was losing her ability to keep it at bay. Summoning Mack’s image worked only for so long, and then it turned to mockery, and Deke Robinson’s hands were all over her, and he was laughing at her tears. And then Randall replaced him, cold and remote and hateful. And then Peter Wallace, as she’d last seen him, a bullet hole the size of a crater in his chest, his eyes open and reproachful, his mouth open but no words coming forth. Just blood.

“No,” she thought she screamed, but the sound came out in a tiny whisper that echoed eerily in the darkness. Think of something else, she ordered herself. Think how Mack is faring, locked away in some utility room. Some nice, light utility room. Was he thinking of her? Or was he trying to figure some way out of this mess, the way she should be? And once more the memory of Mack worked its calming magic, bringing her panic back under control.

She heard the tiny ping of the electric lock moments before the doorknob turned. She raised her head, prepared to use the last ounce of energy she possessed to direct a defiant glare at the man opening the door. It was wasted on Mack.

He just stood there, staring at her. “Are you still with us, Superwoman?” His voice was not much more than a raw whisper, but she could see the worry and tension vibrating through his body.

“Don’t call me Superwoman, Mack,” she replied automatically. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to pull herself to her feet, but he didn’t help, knowing that she didn’t want any. “What’s happening?”

“Mersot made the mistake of putting me in the room with the el

ectrical circuits. He didn’t realize that any rock ’n’ roll musician, even a lead singer, knows his way around power boards. I rewired the place.”

“What do you mean, you rewired the place?” She was dizzy, but not about to tell him that. She leaned against a wine rack, just for a moment.

“Rewired the alarm system. Anyone who touches the alarm switches or the turnoffs will get a hell of a jolt. Not enough to kill them …”

“Pansy,” Maggie murmured, and Mack grinned.

“What can I say? I lack the killer instinct.”

“Speaking of killer instinct, where’s Mersot?”

“Up with his gerbils.”

“His what?” she echoed.

“His gerbils. He has a passion for them. He had to show them off before he locked me in my little prison. He has this huge rodent farm with maybe a hundred gerbils crawling around.”

“Yuck.”

Mack shrugged. “I can think of worse hobbies. I think, Maggie, that we ought to get out of here.”

“I think you’re right. What time is it?”

“Sometime after four. We’ve been here a couple of hours—”