Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “The ball is in our court, Helena,” said Sir Haughty. He gave us something. Now it’s our turn. What do we have to give him?”

  “May I say something?” asked Roxy, who until now had simply stood around in five-inch heels looking pretty, and observing. She moved closer to me, stepping carefully around a puddle in the parking lot.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She held out five fingers and started counting off items one at a time. “He had 17 originally, correct?” The Inspector and I both nodded. She went to the next finger. “He gave up 4 children, leaving 13.” Another finger. “He forces another hostage, making 14.” And a fourth finger. “He refuses to release one hostage and offers two, leaving him with 12.” Again, we both nodded, and I’m ashamed to admit it, but we weren’t getting it. “You don’t see the pattern here?” She was astounded at our density, but, in our defense, we both had a lot on our minds. “He doesn’t want 13,” she pointed out. “He had 13 for a while, probably because his withdrawal symptoms made him slip up. But he’s more lucid now. He’s a Triskaidekaphobe.”

  “Good theory, Roxy. We need to test it.” And figure out a way to use it, if it were true.

  While everyone brainstormed on a way to test Roxy’s theory, Badger came back carrying his smartphone. “Bad news, Helena.”

  “Must be Tuesday,” I said under my breath. “What is it?”

  “Rennet Butler is on the loose. And has been for some time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember the big tropical storm about a year ago, the one that took out most of the eastern seaboard?” Badger asked.

  “Tropical Storm Scarlett, you mean.” I said. Storms were destroying the east coast pretty much every year now. Last year it was Scarlett. That’s not where they were in the alphabet, but when the weather service discovered it was going to hit Georgia first they couldn’t resist and skipped about fifteen letters. After which they got about 60,000 letters telling them what a good idea it was.

  “It flooded the prison where Butler was being held. The prison had to be evacuated, and Butler escaped in the confusion.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about that. Was there a cover up?”

  “Yep,” he said, his lips popping on the ‘p.’ “Prison officials are now being investigated regarding their failure to inform the local population about the escapees. A female bank robber and a guy doing a dime for manslaughter also escaped, but were apprehended a couple of months later. They had to quash the news on their success, too. But Butler hasn’t been seen since. They didn’t even alert the FBI. It’s been huge news in Georgia for a few weeks, but has only recently been picked up by national news outlets.”

  I rubbed my temple, pushing the Butler news to the back of my mind so I could focus on Ferruz. Taking out my cell phone, I pretended to be making calls. He wouldn’t be able to tell from inside the store that I never turned it on. “I’ve got it,” said Roxy. “Tell him the cheese will be here in 13 hours.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s way too long. And 13 minutes is too short. And 13 kilos is too little. We need something that makes sense.”

  “It’s 13 miles away?” Even Roxy dismissed that right after she said it. It wouldn’t be long before our word was proved false and we would lose all credibility with Ferruz. It had to be something real.

  Sir Haughty said, “There are 13 window panels across the front of the store.” All of us looked up simultaneously, counting windows. Okay, that was good. It might even force him out of the store. Or it could push him further in. But, I reasoned, he’d still want us to see him. He wants people to see his hostages and see his guns. It would certainly throw a monkey wrench into his plan, make him uncomfortable, but would it anger him? It was risky. Hurting hostages wouldn’t change the number of windows. It was unlikely he’d take that step. And we had to do something.

  I had the Inspector dial the number again and waited for Mr. Ferruz to pick up, wondering how I was going to slip a window count into the conversation. “Thank you again for releasing two hostages,” I said. “That was very generous of you. You probably saw me make another call. My superiors are working on your problem. We are looking into any evidence that this store manager has the cheese you were promised. When we find the evidence, we can get a warrant from the police to get it for you.” It was mostly a lie, of course. At least the ‘for you’ part was. “It might take a couple more hours, but not very long.”

  “Do you want me to get a warrant to get us into the store?” Roxy asked. “I mean, I know what you said was just to buy time, but why not cover your bases?”

  She had a point. And if Ferruz saw me dispatch her I could honestly tell him she was working on it. “Good idea, Roxy. But do you think you can sell the idea that there’s reasonable cause? Judges don’t just give out warrants because we say please.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, go. Badger, can you get the Inspector to release one of his officers to go with her? It might be faster and will give the request more authority.”

  Badger nodded, and in short order an officer was separated from the patrol and was escorting Roxy to his car. His tiny French Microcar. Roxy got in, hugged her knees, and waved. The driver turned on his siren to clear a way through the milling crowd, then silenced it once he was out into traffic.

  Meanwhile, back at the grocery, the manager, still in a nervous panic, shouted something. I turned to Badger. He explained, “The manager says he got a shipment of cheddar, but he’s planning a special sale. It’s imported from Australia and he swears it’s not Uber. It’s supposed to be secret, but he told Ferruz about it hoping he would see the misunderstanding and disarm.” I was leaning toward believing the manager. It made sense. The whole thing was a misunderstanding. If he’d been hiding Uber, he certainly wouldn’t be telling us about it. He’d more than likely try to perpetuate the idea that he didn’t have cheddar at all. Given that cheddar was rare in Paris, it would be a huge PR event to have such a sale, and it made sense that the manager would do a lot to safeguard the existence of the cheddar. It had taken this long to break his resistance and let it slip within earshot and recorder shot of all those reporters.

  At the same time, I had a lot of sympathy for Uber addicts. Dad was an addict before it killed him. With most street drugs, people know what they are getting into. If you drop acid or snort cocaine or even smoke a joint you might be stupid but you know what it’s going to do. That’s why you’re doing it in the first place. Those people WANT to get high. But unlike other drug addictions, Uber sneaks up on you. Most people didn’t eat the cheese knowing it was Uber. You didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t an escape, or a plea for help, or even peer pressure. It just gets you when you weren’t expecting it. You’re just sitting there enjoying a cheese sandwich and the next thing you know you’re naked on a roof singing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” and craving more cheese like you’d been pregnant for two months. That was a real surprise for my Dad, let me tell you. Even someone like Mr. Ferruz, who had apparently handled the stuff for years, could be caught unawares.

  I was beginning to entertain the idea of saving his life. If we could get him to medical care soon enough, and clean out his system before OOPS really took hold, he could actually get through this. There’d been some advances in early intervention since Dad died. About fifty people had been exposed to Uber and survived, but it was really hard to keep people off of it. They kept going back to it again like moths to a flame. I hadn’t personally been involved with any of the rescues, but I really wanted to be. That’s kind of what my job was all about.

  “While we wait for the warrant, Mr. Ferruz,” I continued, “we would very much like to verify the condition of the hostages. Would you be so kind as to clear the obstructions from in front of the windows? If I can assure my superiors that the hostages are being well treated, it will go a long way toward getting you what you want. We’d like to see through all 13 front panels, please.” Was it lame? Probably. Did it work
? Like a charm.

  Inside, we saw a reaction from Mr. Ferruz as soon as I said the number 13. He stopped short, and his eyes tracked across the array of windows. He dropped the handset, which dangled from the phone and swung back and forth like a clock pendulum. His mouth hung open for a moment, then he stepped back and raised his pistol. He fired three shots over everyone’s heads, shattering the top half of the glass panel and obliterating most of the ‘F’ in ‘FROMAGE’. The shards of glass fell harmlessly into the buffer zone, but the front row of spectators took a step backwards anyway. There was now a jagged edge across the panel, though higher than anyone could reach without a ladder. He picked up the phone again. “Now there are twelve,” Badger translated. Then Ferruz took the handset away from his ear and said something to the hostages, again, waving his pistol. Three of them, two young men and a young woman, began moving the displays away from the windows and soon we had an unobstructed view.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ferruz. You’ve been most cooperative.” I counted heads and verified that there were twelve hostages remaining. There were the manager, seven men and four women. One woman was asleep on one checkout counter, and two of the men were apparently playing cards on another. How the woman could sleep through all this I didn’t know. I found out later that she was deaf.

  Mr. Ferruz returned the handset to his ear, let loose a string of French, and hung up without waiting for a reply. I looked at Badger. “You don’t want to know,” he said.

  “So, does that verify that he’s afraid of the number 13?” asked Sir Haughty.

  “I guess so. But I’m not sure if that helps us or not.”

  “Where there’s one superstition, there are probably others,” suggested Billings.

  I shrugged. “I’m open to ideas.”

  Suddenly we heard the crowd gasp. I spun and looked into the store. It seemed one of the women had the same idea we did. She’d caught on to his suspicious nature and was slowly reaching for her umbrella. From the looks of it, she’d already tried using it as a weapon. The handle was broken, but the mechanism was intact. She was beginning to open it. “Oh no,” I said. “Lady, don’t do it.” It would only antagonize him and she was too vulnerable. His response to the window count had been to shoot one out. It was stupid to try, but she was probably scared and tired and wasn’t thinking clearly. The umbrella snapped open.

  Mr. Ferruz turned on her quickly, reflexively, and fired the pistol. He hit her in the upper arm. She dropped the umbrella, which hit the floor upside down, twirling like a dying top and waiting for pennies from heaven. Her other hand flew to her shoulder and she curled away from him, nudging the sleeping woman, who woke up with a start. The wakened woman quickly assessed what had happened, and moved to comfort the injured woman. Mr. Ferruz picked up the umbrella gingerly and closed it again, then grabbed it at the center and threw it out the shattered window like a javelin. It landed in a crumpled heap in the parking lot buffer zone.

  I dialed the phone again, but this time Ferruz refused to pick up. He was pacing like a caged lion, pointing at the manager and spouting French whenever he came near him. We could hear the phone ringing through the shattered window, but he let it ring and ring, pacing and apparently raving. After about 15 rings, I hung up. Instead, I shouted, “Mr. Ferruz, my superiors will not like that! It will not help you get your cheese.”

  He stood directly under the broken window and yelled out at us. Badger strained to hear. “Your superiors don’t have the cheese. The swine manager has it,” he translated, then commented, “he’s really stuck on the swine thing. Don’t crazy people usually have more of an imagination?”

  The woman who’d been sleeping disappeared into one of the nearby aisles and returned with a roll of gauze. She began wrapping the injured woman’s arm without even asking permission from Mr. Ferruz, who didn’t seem to care anyway. He was still pacing. His lips were moving as if he were muttering to himself. He’d stop every now and then in front of the manager to intimidate him some more, then begin pacing again. I was a little surprised that he hadn’t shot the manager already. I began to feel that Mr. Ferruz was not really a violent man. He was clearly struggling with something. But it was never a good idea to assume that a hostage taker wouldn’t shoot. No matter how docile a person seemed, there was always that chance.

  While this was going on, my phone rang. It wasn’t Ferruz calling back. I checked the readout. It was Agnes and/or Avis calling from the plane. “Hey girls, how are you feeling?” I asked, amiably enough.

  “We’re coming to help.”

  I heard Nitro in the background contradicting them, so at least I didn’t have to worry that they were going to escape the plane. Nevertheless, I responded, “No you’re not,” echoing Nitro’s exact words without even trying to. “Get back to your seats and rest. That’s an order.”

  “We don’t need to rest.” I couldn’t tell whether it was Agnes or Avis speaking. I suppose it didn’t matter. “We feel fine. It’s not bleeding anymore. It doesn’t even itch.” The last word trailed off as, I’m guessing, Nitro grabbed the phone away from them.

  “Sorry Helena. I went to use the restroom and they got loose,” Nitro said.

  “Make sure they didn’t reopen the wound, would you? And don’t give them their phone back until after takeoff.”

  “Understood. Again, sorry.”

  I was going to hang up, but I had one more question. “Where’s Dinny? She should have taken a watch while you were gone.”

  Nitro hesitated, then sighed. “She was trimming T.B.’s and Backwash’s claws. Don’t worry. She stopped bleeding almost right away.”

  I ended the call and hung up, keeping the phone in my hand. Sometimes it feels like I should just have Nitro implant it there. I could learn to eat with it. Unlike Badger’s smartphone, mine still had a flip cover, which would make a serviceable spoon, I suppose. With effort, I pulled my focus back to Ferruz.

  It was then that one of the reporters came running up to me holding a long pipe with a puffy microphone on one end. A long cord trailed after him. “Boom,” he said excitedly. I thanked him and took the pipe. One end had a large microphone mounted on it, followed by a long cord strapped to the length of pipe. There was more cord behind it which ended in an antenna that would transmit the sound to a pair of headphones. The reporter handed Badger the headphones and tapped his ear. Badger nodded that he understood.

  “Okay, we have to sneak in there and put this somewhere where it will pick up their conversations,” I said. Billings and Sir Haughty both volunteered. “I think I should do it,” I said. “I’m small and less noticeable.”

  “Mom,” said Billings.

  “Helena,” said Sir Haughty.

  “Where will you put it?” asked Badger.

  “I’ll find some place. Badger, I need you to get Ferruz on the phone and keep him on the phone.” He pulled out his own smartphone and I gave him the number. I didn’t look back as I carried the boom mic quickly around the side of the building before Ferruz could see it.

  I found a side door, but it was locked. I kept going toward the back of the building, where I found a metal fire escape. The back of the store was two stories high. There were probably offices on the second floor. But even standing on tiptoe I couldn’t reach the ladder to pull it down. Finally, I remembered the boom mic, which was mounted on a long pole. I reached up with the pole, hooked the mic on the bottom rung, and pulled, gently at first, then a little harder to get the ladder down. It kind of made a lot of noise, but so did the crowd out front. I waited until I could assume I was safe on that account. I knew where to go now.

  I climbed the ladder to the roof and hurried across. There was a short drop to the lower roof, and a centrally located ladder leading down. Soon, I was creeping toward the front of the store around several vents and weird pipe extensions. I didn’t want to be seen, so I kept low, mostly crawling toward the front edge. I switched the boom mic on and looked over the edge to see where the broken window was, and once I had my be
arings I was able to slowly lower the boom mic. I lowered it as far as I dared, the pipe sticking straight up several inches above the roof. Then I carefully followed the cord backwards and tied it around a narrow vent, making sure the open end of the antenna was free and directed toward Badger. I went back up the drop ladder, and then down the fire escape and made my way casually back to my team.

  As ordered, Badger was still talking to Ferruz, though I had no idea what they were saying. He saw me approach and I gave him an okay sign. He handed me the phone, which I held as if I were a caveman, totally afraid of touching the wrong part of the screen, while he put on the headphones. He adjusted the volume on the side of his right ear. “It’s kind of faint,” he said, “but I’m getting something.” French was still coming through the tinny speaker of Badger’s phone. “I’m going to have to turn it off while he’s on the phone. Unless you’re really interested in umbrella lady’s bodily functions.”

  I gave him the okay. “What is Ferruz saying now?”

  “He wants to know if we have the warrant yet.”

  “Tell him not yet. But I need to talk to him about Rennet Butler.” If I could get him to see that Rennet Butler was using him, maybe he’d realize the best solution was for him to give himself up. Perhaps he had information about Butler that he could use as a bargaining chip to reduce his sentence. “Do you know that Mr. Butler is an international criminal?” I had Badger ask him.

  “Yes. He told me,” came the reply.

  “What did he tell you?”

  Ferruz hesitated, then flung a string of French at Badger. “He told me he was my friend. He told me he would help me. He told me…that he killed a man in Reno.”

  I pressed my lips together to stop from laughing out loud. Butler had been in Reno, but all he’d done there was steal a car and drive it to the East coast He’d been 19 at the time and did it to ditch his parole officer. “Mr. Ferruz,” I was finally able to say, “Mr. Butler didn’t kill a man in Reno. He stole a car there, a long time ago. He was lying to you. He is wanted for trafficking in illegal drugs, including Uber cheese. What else did he say?”