The Kidnap Victim

by Michael P. King

  They pulled up to a rusted sheet-metal building adjacent to the tracks. Carlos honked the horn. A garage door went up. They drove in and stopped near an old school teacher’s desk. Two men in janitor’s uniforms lowered the door behind them. Knife Tattoo pulled her out of the car.

  A small, thin Latino man wearing a black suit with an open-collared black shirt stood up from the teacher’s chair. “This her? Robertson’s girl?”

  “Yeah, Spanish,” Knife Tattoo said. “It’s her. She was about to skip when we caught her. We got her bags in the car.”

  “Carlos,” Spanish said, “go through those bags.” He turned to Molly. “Have a seat, my dear.”

  Knife Tattoo pushed her down into a folding chair facing the desk. Spanish clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you know who I am?”

  Molly shook her head.

  “I’m Spanish Mike. I’m a business partner of Neal’s. When your—what are we calling him? Your brother? When he ended up dead, Neal called me. Asked me to clean up his mess. That’s what I’m doing. Cleaning up the mess. Are you part of the mess?”

  “No,” Molly said. “No, I’m not. I ran because I was afraid.”

  Spanish nodded sympathetically. “Of course you were afraid. Who wouldn’t be? Who were you afraid of? Neal? The dead guy? The police?”

  “I was just scared. The fight. The gunshots. I panicked.”

  “Sure. You were scared. But why were you leaving town?”

  “I didn’t want to be involved. I like Neal. I didn’t want to have to testify.”

  “So you were trying to be helpful? You were afraid he would be arrested?”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

  “Somehow,” he said, “I don’t believe you.”

  Molly looked from Spanish Mike to Knife Tattoo and back again. She looked down at her hands. She hadn’t realized she was trembling. She wanted so badly to wake up, to go get a drink of water, to go back to bed, but she knew this wasn’t a dream.

  “Let’s start with the guy. Who is he?”

  Molly opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Look. You’re connected with Neal. You’re one of his people. If you haven’t done anything too bad—if you’ve just made a stupid mistake—you don’t have to die. You just get your wrist slapped, go on probation.”

  “That guy was my ex.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “He came into town, started threatening me. I didn’t want to say anything to Neal because I thought he might fire me to avoid the drama.”

  “Why did he say he was your brother?”

  “Did he? Everything is a blur. I don’t know exactly what happened.”

  “How much money were you hoping to get from Neal?”

  “What? Money?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Spanish Mike lit a cigarette. “Who’s your partner?”

  “I don’t have a partner. I didn’t have anything going with Chad.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  She shook her head.

  “I know your ex wasn’t your partner. But who is? You just didn’t wash up at Neal’s office.”

  “I don’t have a partner.”

  “You ever been in a bad relationship? You ever love a man who beat you? A man who burned you with cigarettes?”

  Knife Tattoo stepped behind her and pressed down on her shoulders. Spanish Mike continued. “Hurts like hell the first time.”

  He took a hit off the cigarette and lowered the lit end to her face just below her left eye. She pulled her head back as far as she could. He chuckled. “You’re going to tell me before we’re done.”

  “John,” she blurted out. “John Ferguson.”

  “That sounds like the truth.” Spanish Mike dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “You feel better already, don’t you? Getting that secret off your chest. Want something to drink?” He turned to Knife Tattoo. “Go get her a Coca-Cola.”

  Later, when it was just dark enough for the streetlights to come on, John came out of his apartment with his car keys in his hand. He was all packed. The apartment was completely clean. There was nothing in there to tie him to this place. One stop at the Mail N More to pick up his escape packet, and he would be on his way. It would be as if he’d never been there. When he reached his Cadillac, two Latino men in dark suits got out of the black Avalon parked across from him. “Ferguson.”

  John turned.

  “Keep your hands in the open,” the taller one said. The shorter one held an automatic pistol down at his side.

  John watched them, sizing them up, waiting to see if the taller one would get in the way of the shorter one’s line of fire, giving him the opportunity to draw his Glock, but he didn’t.

  The taller one smiled. “You know a girl named Molly Wright?”

  John shook his head. “No. What’s this about? Who are you guys?”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re going to answer some questions. If you got the right answers, you’ll be on your way.”

  “Sorry, but I’m getting in my car.”

  The shorter one pushed the barrel of his pistol into John’s side. “You want to get shot?”

  The taller one took John’s Glock out of his side holster. John held his hands up in surrender. They put John in the front seat passenger’s side of the Avalon. The taller man drove and the shorter man sat behind John with the pistol pointed at John’s neck.

  “Where are we going?” John asked.

  “Shut up,” the taller man said.

  They drove across town to a group of ramshackle warehouses and pulled up to an old sheet-metal building. It looked like the kind of place where questions got asked and answered. Molly must have been too slow leaving town. The garage door rose, and they rolled inside.

  “Get out,” the taller man said.

  In the light, John could see a knife tattoo on the man’s neck. The two men pushed John toward a folding chair in front of an old school teacher’s desk. Molly was nowhere in sight. A small, thin Latino man wearing a black suit sat drinking a Coca-Cola with his feet up on the desk. “Do you know who I am?”

  John nodded. Spanish Mike. This was as bad as it got. Pleading ignorance was only going to lead to a beating. How could he massage the facts? What had Molly told them?

  “Have we ever met?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you know me?”

  “By reputation. Yes, sir.”

  “Sit down.”

  John sat on the folding chair.

  “Do you know Molly Wright?”

  John nodded. “Sir, if I had known that Robertson belonged to you I wouldn’t have gone after him. That would have been an amazingly stupid thing to do.”

  “You got that right.”

  “And I had nothing to do with the boyfriend or whoever the hell he was. That was a bonehead play.”

  “Yes it was. Left quite a mess to clean up.” Spanish Mike stood up. “So why were you going after Robertson?”

  “Honestly? He’s a putz. He was meant to be conned. Come on, the guy might be a decent lawyer, but I’m not telling you anything when I say he thinks way too highly of himself.”

  Spanish Mike nodded slightly. Knife Tattoo punched John in the side of the head. John careened sideways, and the other man kicked John’s chair out from under him. He fell hard on his side. Knife Tattoo kicked him in the stomach.

  “I want to believe you,” Spanish Mike said. “How much money did you think you would get?”

  John clutched his stomach and tried to take in enough air to speak. “How can I make this right? How can I pay you for your inconvenience?”

  Knife Tattoo kicked him in the kidney.

  “Twenty grand,” John said. “Heard he was good for twenty grand.”

  “That’s enough,” Spanish Mike said. “Put him with the girl.”

  In Cricket Bay, Stein sat in his c
ar in the dark, watching Denison’s house. Over the last three days he’d learned nothing from following them or researching them online. They all seemed to be following the kind of routine that normal, innocent people followed. They didn’t even go out clubbing at night. A bank of clouds drifted across the moon. How much longer could things go on like this? The summer season was winding down fast. All the rich vacationers were leaving town. When would his window of opportunity close? He got out his phone and called Grissom. “Hey.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You got the guys?”

  “I’ve got them lined up.”

  “What did you tell them we were doing?”

  “Trying to get some money back.”

  “And these guys will do it for the five grand?”

  “I think so. Have you figured out her scam?”

  “Not yet. I’m worried we’re going to miss our chance if we don’t get moving.”

  “We can’t highjack their scam if we don’t know what it is.”

  “So far she looks completely clean.”

  “But her boyfriend has the money.”

  “Absolutely. I checked him out online.”

  “It’s probably going to be his money anyway, isn’t it?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “If she’s scamming the boyfriend, and we’re going to rob her, we’re taking the boyfriend’s money.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “So why not do a home invasion? Boom, we got the money. You don’t have to figure anything out.”

  “I don’t know, Rudy, that seems…I’m not ready for that.”

  “Okay, Fred, it’s your plan. Get in touch when you’ve decided what you’re going to do.”

  Stein watched the shadows through the windows of Denison’s house. What was he doing here? Getting his money back—even his money back with extra to pay Rudy and some guys, seemed a lot different than robbing Denison. He didn’t know the guy. And Denison hadn’t done anything to him. As far as he could tell, Denison was just the chump du jour, just like he’d been. But Rudy was right, his plan had been to take Sally’s money as soon as she stole it, not give it back to Denison or whoever the chump turned out to be. So how was robbing Denison any different? Denison would still just be paying for being stupid enough to get involved with Sally.

  Stein started his car. They weren’t going anywhere tonight. He might as well go back to the motel. Time was running out. Home invasion? He was going to have to make a decision.

  John, Molly, and Chad were crammed together in the trunk of the Avalon as it bounced along what was probably a dirt road. John’s and Molly’s wrists were cuffed behind their backs with disposable plastic handcuffs. Chad stank of day-old diaper and dry blood. Molly was whimpering. Her tears were soaking into the shoulder of John’s shirt. She whispered, “Sorry I gave you up. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. But when he held the lit cigarette up to my cheek…”

  “Not dead yet. You tell them anything about the job?”

  “They didn’t even ask. They think it was just a shakedown gone wrong.”

  “So this is just the cleanup from the shooting. I didn’t realize Robertson was that important to them.”

  The car hit a pothole. Chad’s head bumped against the side of Molly’s face, and she began to sob. It seemed as if they were traveling uphill. John tried to focus his mind. Molly was weaker than used dishwater. She’d be no help at all. He already knew that the cuffs were too tight to slip out of. When should he start running? As soon as he stepped out of the trunk? No, both of them would have their guns drawn then. He’d have to judge moment by moment. One thing was certain. They didn’t want to carry him to the hole. If these guys were any good at this, the grave would be off the road down some well-used animal trail, which would give him more opportunity to make a break for it. The car slowed to a stop. The doors opened and shut. John heard talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The trunk popped open. In the moonlight he could see tall pine trees on both sides of the narrow road.

  “Get up out of there.”

  John sat up. Somebody grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him out of the trunk. As soon as his feet hit the ground, this guy shoved him around to the side of the car and pushed the barrel of a pistol into his ribs. In the Avalon’s headlights he saw another car, a sedan, and a grave dug in front of it right in the middle of the road.

  Another guy pulled Molly from the trunk. She lost her footing and fell in a heap. “Get up,” the man said.

  He half dragged Molly over next to John. She saw the grave, gasped, and fell to her knees. John was trying to get his bearings. There were four guys, all armed—the two that brought them and the two that dug the hole. They were in the woods on a ridge, probably in Coon River State Park. The ground fell sharply away maybe ten feet to his right. When the wind shifted, he could faintly hear moving water. The two guys who had brought them there lugged Chad out of the trunk and carried him up the hill past the other car, whining about his smell and his weight as they shuffled along. When they got to the hole, they gave him a strong swing and tossed him in.

  “Come on, sister.” The guy who had Molly’s arm pulled her to her feet.

  “No,” she said. “No. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yeah? Don’t make this hurt any more than it has to.”

  Molly dug her heels into the dirt and dropped to the ground. The guy dragged her toward the hole. The two guys who were standing there started laughing.

  “Give me a hand, assholes.”

  “Shoot her already. Dragging her alive or dragging her dead—it’s the same thing.”

  One of the guys by the grave picked up a shovel, walked over to Molly, and whacked her across the shoulders. “Get up.”

  “How is that helping? Grab her other arm.”

  Molly’s skirt was twisted around her legs, and the buttons on her blouse had popped off. The guy next to John shifted around to watch the show, the barrel of his pistol slipping away from John’s ribs. “Hey, Carlos. You guys fuck her?”

  The man with the shovel said, “Why? You want to have a go?”

  “We should at least have a look. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Molly screamed as she scrambled up off the ground. She head-butted the first guy just before Carlos grabbed her arm. John kicked his guy in the knee and ran for the drop off. He heard two shots, but that just made him run faster. He dove off the side of the hill, crashing through the brush, his arms tied behind his back, branches jabbing through his clothes and tall grass stinging his face. A rotten section of tree trunk at the edge of the water knocked the wind out of him. He saw stars.

  He sucked in air and tried to be still. He could hear the men moving above him, near the road, cursing and blaming one another as they started down the hill. Flashlight beams. He couldn’t stay here. He crawled over the tree trunk and fell into the running water. When he found his footing, the water came up to his shoulders. To his right was a hollow in the bank that had been carved out by the current. He walked three steps and leaned into the heavy roots of an old tree under the bank. He was cold and hungry and angry. He had a sharp pain in his side. His wrists hurt where the plastic cuffs cut into them. He strained to hear the guys climbing down the hill, but all he could hear was running water. He dug his feet into the creek bed and waited. Finally he heard the crunching of weeds and then nearby voices.

  “He must have gone in the water.”

  “We can’t know for sure.”

  “He didn’t run out of here. Frankie and Lu are blocking the path and we’ve been all through these weeds.”

  “How deep is it?”

  John saw the flashlight beam move over the water near the place he went in. He stood completely still.

  “Deep enough. Asshole must have drowned.”

  “Then he’ll wash up downstream.”

  “Time’s wasting. Let’s bury the two we got and get out of here.”

  The voices grew
faint. He was going to have to wait them out. All four of them at it, they’d have the hole filled inside thirty minutes. They wouldn’t come back down here. Guys like those lacked patience, and the night was his friend. His stomach rolled over. He felt powerfully thirsty. It was a shame about Molly. She was a stupid kid—she thought she could stiff him and get away on her own—but she didn’t deserve to die like that. Fucking Robertson. He was a dead man.

  A few hours later John came out of the creek at a shallow place where a sandbar ran down from a pasture protected by a barbed-wire fence. The moon was high. He could see a section of road on the other side of the pasture. As he walked through a broken place in the fence, he noticed a strand of barbed wire that was at the right height and ran his handcuffs back and forth over it until the cuffs snapped. He looked at his wrists. Not too much damage overall, but the left wrist was dripping blood. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirttail and wrapped the wrist. He pulled up his shirt. There was a gash running along his ribs. He looked at the sky and then at the road beyond the pasture. Which way should he go?

  He was walking along the shoulder of the road when he saw headlights. Time to take a chance. He stuck out his thumb. As the headlights neared, they slowed. They belonged to an old Dodge truck driven by an even older man in overalls and a Pioneer Seed cap. He rolled down his window.

  “My God, you’re a mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You been in an accident? Your car in the ditch around here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir?”

  “It’s a long story. Can you give me a ride into town?”