Antiques Maul

by Barbara Allan

  We moved collectively through the kitchen, but I reached the door first, and opened it to Brian Lawson, who stepped in.

  Not surprisingly, he looked like someone who had been dragged out of bed; but in spite of the cockeyed-buttoned flannel shirt, slacks sans belt, and uncombed hair, the officer’s eyes were alert, and his jaw set.

  I introduced Brian to my ex and suggested everyone move into the living room; Mother returned to the chair by the phone, Roger and I took the couch, and Brian sat across from us in an antique Queen Anne needlepoint chair as valuable as it was uncomfortable.

  The clock on the mantel chimed four times.

  Brian began, his eyes focused on Roger and me. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Amber Alert. . . .”

  We nodded.

  “In order to put that in motion, we must have a description of the person your son was seen going off with, and/or the car he got into . . . and as I understand it, from my conversation with Vivian, you don’t have any such information. . . . Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I said, “Mother was the last to see Jake—around midnight at the Haunted House.... He knew where our car was parked and was supposed to me meet there—and I was waiting in it. He never showed up.”

  “This was around one a.m.?”

  “Yes.”

  Roger asked, with a burr in his voice, “Are you telling us, Officer, that there’s nothing that can be done at the moment?”

  “Not at all,” Brian said. “I’ve spoken to the dispatcher and given a detailed description of Jake. . . . I’m familiar with your son, sir.”

  “I gathered.”

  “And the patrol cars that are out cruising have been notified to be on the lookout for him.” Brian paused. “But yes, as of now, I’m afraid that’s all we can do.”

  Choking back tears, I sputtered, “Till he shows up dead in a ditch, you mean!”

  Roger touched my shoulder and said, “Brandy—please . . .”

  “We can’t just sit here!” I insisted to my ex, getting right in his face. “If Jake has been kidnapped, every minute that goes by puts our son in greater danger. He’s out there somewhere, and we have to find him!”

  Roger sucked air in sharply, as something flashed in his eyes. “Brandy! Do you know if Jake had his Global Positioning System with him?”

  I blinked back tears. “He . . . he could have . . . he usually carries all that portable electronic gear around in his pockets.”

  Roger was on his feet. “Can I use your computer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Or maybe—do you have wireless?”

  “Yeah, we have wireless.” I couldn’t see where this was going.

  Roger strode over to his carry-on, abandoned by the front door, unzipped it, and withdrew a sleek gray-and-blue laptop computer.

  I said, “I thought a GPS was only used for locating things . . . not to be located.”

  Brian, right with Roger on this line of thought, said, “Unless it has its own tracking device. . . .”

  “It does,” Roger replied, returning to the couch. He opened the computer on his lap. “I wanted to be able to find Jake if he ever got lost doing his geocaching.”

  Or if his mother ever took off with him?

  Even if that were the real reason for the tracking device, I didn’t care; it was a line of approach, and a smart one.

  Brian sat on the other side of Roger, and we both looked over my ex’s shoulders as Roger’s fingers danced nimbly on the flat keyboard, going first to the Internet tracking site, logging in his account number, then clicking on Track Now.

  Almost instantaneously the screen filled with a map. Roger pointed to a flashing red star. “There he is!”

  I stared at the screen. “Where is there?”

  Brian, leaning in for a view, eyes narrow, said, “That’s Tipton Road, west of town.... Let’s take my unmarked car.”

  And the two men stood, in lockstep.

  I got to my feet, also, and started to follow them; but Roger stopped me, putting his hands on my shoulders.

  “No, Brandy. You should stay here, in case Jake calls.”

  “But he’s my son, too! What if . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the unthinkable.

  Roger was shaking his head.

  I said, “If he calls on my cell, I’ll have it with me. The phone here, Mother can watch, and—”

  Roger gave me a look that said: Do you really want to leave your mother in charge of that important duty?

  And I had to admit, in the echo chamber of my mind, that he was right.

  Mother, who had been listening all this time, said softly, “Roger’s right, dear.”

  My ex gave Mother a grateful look.

  Brian touched my arm and his warm eyes did their best to reassure me. “We’ll call you when we get there.”

  Then the two most important (adult) men in my life exited through the kitchen, leaving Mother and me behind.

  Mother came to join me on the couch. “We must put our trust in the Lord, dear,” she said, patting my hand.

  I had no such instinct. The Lord helped those who helped themselves, as far as I was concerned, and I was sick at heart and literally sick to my stomach, stuck here next to my eccentric mother in her witch’s costume while somewhere out there in the darkness my son’s fate was being decided. Without me.

  My cell phone rang shrilly.

  I jumped to my feet and got it out and open, and the voice on the other end was faint, but oh so familiar. “Mom? It’s me. . . .”

  “Jake! Where are you! We’ve been so worried!”

  “Mom . . . you have to stay cool. Can you do that for me, Mom?”

  “Jake—”

  “You really have to do what this guy says, okay?”

  “Jake! Where—”

  A male voice, low and coarse, said, “As you heard, your son is fine.”

  My knees buckled and I sank back into the nearby couch.

  I managed to ask (keeping perhaps 50 percent of the hate out of it): “What do you want?”

  “Something that belongs to me.”

  “What in hell?”

  “Just listen! Your son claims it’s under his mattress. I want you to put it in a grocery sack and go out to Weed Park, where you’ll place the sack in the trash can—next to the band shell. Then you’re to leave . . . got it?”

  “I think so. . . .”

  “Say it back.”

  “Under his mattress, grocery sack, Weed Park, trash can by the band shell. Leave.”

  “Good. This smart kid has a smart mom.”

  Go to hell, you bastard! Go to hell, you bastard!

  “Now listen with both ears, lady—you’re to do this alone, within the hour. You’re not to call the police or tell anyone where you’re going or what you have with you, and what you have to do. You up to that?”

  “Yes! And then you’ll let Jake go.” I didn’t want it to be a question.

  “Yeah, unless you cross me. . . .”

  “I won’t, I won’t! I’ll do exactly as you say . . . and after you let Jake go, we won’t say any—”

  The phone clicked dead.

  Mother said, “Then Jake has been kidnapped.”

  I nodded numbly. “I need a grocery sack, Mother.”

  As a frowning mother went into the kitchen, I bolted upstairs to Jake’s room.

  I didn’t know what I’d find hidden beneath my son’s mattress—money? jewels? drugs?—but when I lifted the bottom corner exposing the box spring, I could only gasp.

  A gun.

  Not unlike the paint gun I took away from Jake. But this gun was all too real; the only color it would splash was deadly red, and, as I learned upon closer inspection, the awful thing was loaded with five bullets.

  Where on earth did Jake get it?

  And what was so important about this particular weapon that somebody would risk kidnapping a child for its return?

  I didn’t have the luxury of time to explore possible answers to these questio
ns. I ran downstairs where Mother was waiting with a brown paper bag.

  When she saw what was in my hand, her eyes behind the thick lenses popped. “My goodness! Where did that come from?”

  Carefully placing the weapon in the sack, I said, “It’s what the kidnapper is after. How or why Jake had it, I have no idea. And I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  Mother followed me to the front door. “What if Roger or Officer Lawson calls? What should I say?”

  My words came out in a tumbling rush: “You need to say something that’s very unusual for you, Mother. But you have to do this and be letter perfect. If you ever remembered your lines in any play, remember them in this one.”

  “What, dear? What would you have me say?”

  “Nothing.”

  I was halfway out the door when she pleaded, “Can’t you tell me where you’re going, dear?”

  “No, Mother.”

  “Just a little hint,” she begged. “Is it in Serenity? Just nod, you won’t really be telling me—”

  “Mother! Jake’s life is at stake! Stick to the damn script!”

  “Yes, dear . . . you . . . you’re his mother. And you know what’s best. Mothers always do.”

  I left her on the porch and hurried to my car.

  Weed Park—my destination—was so named after the Weed family who donated the land and provided these largely weed-free grounds with their ironic designation. Sprawling over rolling hills on the bluff of the river, the park had a state-of-the-art aquatic center, multiple tennis courts, a baseball diamond, numerous playgrounds, a large duck pond, plus the usual array of picnic shelters, benches, and outdoor grills.

  Also a band shell.

  I followed the winding, one-way, single-lane road through the dark deserted park, with only my headlights and my combination of fear and rage to guide me. Finally I came to the ancient stone-and-cement bandshell where a teenage Brandy once played her trumpet in a much nicer small-town world, one that seemed a lifetime ago now.

  Leaving my Buick idling at the curb, I walked purposefully to the trash can in front of the band shell, lifted the metal lid, placed the brown paper bag inside, and replaced the cover.

  I returned to my car and drove off.

  But the moment I rounded the next hilly curve and was out of sight, I wheeled off the road, drove behind a picnic shelter, and cut the engine.

  Then I jumped out and, keeping low, running as quietly as I could, headed back through the wooded park . . .

  . . . toward the band shell.

  Not far from the trash can was a large hydrangea bush, and I crawled inside it and waited.

  And waited.

  Had the kidnapper seen me?

  Would my actions compromise my son’s life?

  I was being eaten alive—mentally with fear, and physically by mosquitos who had found a tasty early morning victim. As I screamed at myself in my mind for being such a fool, not doing exactly as I’d been told by my son’s captor, another voice screamed back: I was Jake’s mother, and I would do whatever it took to get him back, safe and sound.

  Then headlights appeared around the curve in the road, moving stealthily, glowing like the eyes of a nocturnal beast stalking its prey. The late-model sedan slowed, then came to a stop at the curb in front of the band shell.

  The engine died.

  A man got out.

  From the womb of my hydrangea bush, I watched as the apparently male figure walked cautiously toward the trash can, looking around for witnesses. He had cause for concern: The moon still provided enough light to allow me to see his features.

  I covered a gasp with a hand.

  The man seeking a handgun ransom was the one I’d seen in the mall parking lot, arguing with Mother’s old friend-and-enemy Bernice, and—judging by the clothes he was wearing—he was also the creepy Jason who had come to our door, obviously to get a good long look at Jake.

  Jason lifted the trash can lid, and as he bent to retrieve the sack, I crawled out of the hydrangea bush.

  Mother was correct to have trust in the Lord . . . but, like I said, helping Him help you couldn’t hurt....

  “This what you’re looking for?” I asked, showing him the gun grasped in my right hand.

  Startled, he jumped back, dropping the lid, which clanged noisily against the metal can.

  “Don’t do anything stupid!” he said.

  “You shouldn’t have done something stupid,” I said, and shot him in the left foot. “Now where’s my son!”

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Secondhand stores, such as Good Will and the Salvation Army, are great places to shop for tomorrow’s antiques at yesterday’s prices, today. I once found a vintage Chanel bag, but they wouldn’t take a check, so I ran home to get cash, and by the time I got back . . . you guessed it. Adieu.

  Chapter Twelve

  Down by the Old Mill Scream

  Like the world’s worst Riverdance audition, Jason hopped on one shoe and shrieked, “You bitch! You shot me! In the goddamn foot!”

  I pointed the gun below his belt buckle. “Guess where the next one goes?”

  “You crazy bitch!”

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  I aimed straight at his zipper; my hand was trembling but that only made it more threatening, so I was cool with that. Owning the fear.

  Adrenaline trumps Prozac every time.

  “Where is my son?”

  Now he was hopping and holding up his hands at the same time, choreography that would have been a laugh riot if I had been in the mood, and he hadn’t been bleeding.

  “Okay! Okay, lady—take it easy! Your kid is fine, I swear, I would never—”

  “Where, I said!”

  “The . . . the old mill.”

  “More specific.”

  “The Old Mill at Wild Cat Den! My God, it hurts! I need a hospital! Listen, I think I’m gonna pass out or something. . . .”

  “Fine,” I said, “but, first, empty your pockets.”

  Still one-legged hopping, he had his hands down now, on his waist—more Riverdance. His forehead was contorted and his eyes were woozy. “Wh . . . what?”

  “You heard me . . . quit hopping like a wounded rabbit and take out everything in your pockets and toss them on the grass, one at a time. And don’t make me shoot you again.”

  With his weight on his good foot, he fished in his jeans, then dropped a cell phone, car keys, and a wallet onto the ground.

  “Now back up two or three feet. Do it!”

  He did.

  My eyes remained glued on him as I bent at my knees, snatching up the keys, then, straightening, pointed the remote at his car and popped the trunk.

  I gestured with the gun. “Hop on over,” I said, “and get inside.”

  His forehead creased with disbelief. “What are you, high? You can see I’m hurt!”

  “Sure. I remember doing it to you.”

  He was afraid, truly afraid now; maybe as afraid as I was. “What, do you want me to bleed to death in there?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “I’ll suffocate!”

  “Not my problem. Move!”

  He hobbled over to the car, dragging the injured foot, more Mummy walk than Irish jig now. Finally, he paused at the trunk’s yawning mouth and stared at it in horror, as if it were the jaw of a beast waiting to devour him.

  “Look, lady.” He craned to look at me, pleading, getting a pathetic smile going. “Your son is fine . . . just tied up, not real tight or anything. He’s great.”

  “Who’s watching him?”

  “I was! I left him there—by himself!”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, but short of shooting him again, didn’t know what to do about it....

  He was saying, desperately, “I really was gonna let him go . . . I needed what he took! You’re holding it—holding what I need!” He nodded to the gun in my grasp.

  “That’s why I gave you some,” I said sweetly. “Inside.�
�

  Now he tried a smile—and it was the sickliest smile I ever saw. “We’re both, you know, reasonable people. Why don’t we just discuss this calmly?”

  But he was anything but calm, brow sweating, eyes darting, searching for a way out. The man was a head taller than me and way heavier, and really was dangerous; gun in my hand or not, I had a shiver of fear—who knew what this shifty SOB would do to me, given half a chance?

  So I took my best shot—literally.

  I put on my crazy face, reserved for full-scale mental meltdowns, and fired the gun again, this time hitting one of his back tires, bullet thunking into the rubber and initiating a hissing worthy of an audience at a meller-drama letting the villain know what they thought of him.

  “What the hell!” he blurted.

  If he was wondering why I’d done that, I didn’t bother telling him. For your edification, the why was (1) to disable the car, and (2) to throw another scare into the creep.

  “Okay, okay! Jesus, lady! I’m getting in!” He swung the good leg in first, easing into the trunk, then, flinching, pulling the wounded limb in after.

  “I’m in, okay? I’m in!”

  “Make like a fetus,” I told him. “And, hey. Feel free to suck your thumb.”

  He curled up, and I slammed down the lid. I had a momentary flash on that old James Cagney gangster movie where Cagney put a traitor in the trunk of a car and then provided plenty of air holes with his pistol. Those were the good old days....

  Then I threw Jason’s car keys in the hydrangea bush and took off, sprinting back toward my car. On the go, I fumbled to turn on my cell phone and speed-dialed, frantic with concern.

  Roger’s voice came on immediately. “Brandy! Where are you? We didn’t get anybody at the house, just the message machine.”

  “Mother . . . Mother didn’t answer?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t . . . worry . . . about that.”

  “Don’t worry about that!”

  I was sprinting, so my words were halting. “I mean . . . remember it’s . . . it’s Mother.... She must’ve . . . must’ve figured the best way . . . way to handle any incoming calls . . . with questions . . . regarding my whereabouts? . . . Was just to never . . . never take them . . . in the first place.”

  Obviously working not to lose his temper entirely, Roger said, “What are your whereabouts?”