Lethal Ransom

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Nick waited in the lobby between the two sets of doors, watching, always watching—the sidewalk, the street, the traffic from business to business. He spotted a store across the street that sold Tracfones, solving one of their problems—their need for a phone. Cruising too fast up the sleepy little town’s street barreled a dark SUV, the same one that had paced them on the highway. Other drivers honked at the oversize vehicle and a mother snatched her bicycling child away from the road seconds before the right bumper would have caught the boy’s back wheel. She shouted at the men in the SUV, but they ignored her, speeding on with no regard for bicyclists or children.

  Bicyclists. If he and Kristen could obtain bikes, they could get away faster than on foot. Renting a car was out of the question since neither had ID, let alone driver’s licenses. Renting bikes might be just as bad. Maybe Kristen would be willing to buy them if he paid her back. If she could ride a bike. Given how little outdoor activity she had enjoyed in her life, Nick wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t know how to ride a bike.

  Kristen emerged from the bank with her hand pressed to a noticeably fatter left front pocket and a tentative smile on her lips. “All done.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “Ready to go?”

  “Depends on our destination,” Nick said.

  “The cell phone store.”

  “So you noticed it.”

  “I notice a great deal.”

  “So have you noticed I am unenthusiastic about you using yourself as bait?” He gave her a grim smile.

  “Do you have better ideas? Other than letting me be locked up. That’s not an idea.”

  “Then you’d better observe and hide. Jennifer Belk is driving up the street at this moment.”

  Kristen swung on her heel to peer down the street, saw the black Escalade, and darted between cars—parked and moving—to reach the cell phone store. She didn’t look back or give Nick so much as a wave.

  Her message was clear. If he wasn’t with her, then he was against her.

  As far as he knew, he was the only person nearby who was with her.

  THIRTEEN

  Kristen hadn’t ridden a bicycle in over ten years. After a wobbly start, however, she got her balance and was able to peddle away, certain muscles she’d forgotten about would be sore the next day.

  If she lived to see the next day.

  But she had talked to US Marshal Callahan himself at Nick’s insistence, and he assured her marshals would be in place to keep Kirkpatrick and his men from killing anyone, especially Kristen, or taking anyone else captive. Until Kirkpatrick’s men revealed themselves for the violent men they were, Kristen wanted her and Nick to appear as if they were on their own.

  So they set out for Nick’s family cottage along the shore of Lake Michigan. When they reached their location Kristen intended to send some specific messages to the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times and the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. If the editors read her messages, they would soon learn she was challenging the men who had taken her mother. If they didn’t both get killed. And if Kirkpatrick held up his end of the bargain and released her mother. If the media was going to say awful things about her helping the people who had kidnapped her mother, then Kristen was going to use them to free her mother.

  She hoped.

  “Worst-case scenario,” she said for the tenth time, “this doesn’t work, as in Kirkpatrick doesn’t take the bait.”

  “Worst-case scenario is that you get yourself and your mother killed.”

  “That too.” Kristen fell silent, saving her breath for riding.

  At least she had clean clothes and sneakers instead of flip-flops and so did Nick. Though he still needed to shave and her hair needed a shampoo and vigorous brushing, they would appear far more respectable when they stopped to eat.

  Which they could also do.

  Nick knew the out-of-the-way places, since they weren’t on the main highway. They didn’t want to get caught before the scene was set.

  The last call Kristen made was to the kind family who had helped them to ensure everyone was all right and tell them where they could find the phone she borrowed.

  Kristen frowned. “After that rain, though, I may have to buy her a new one. I’ll call tomorrow to make sure.”

  Nick merely grunted. He wasn’t happy with her. He wanted her all locked up safe and sound like a one-of-a-kind jewel—precious and useless in the dark of a hidden compartment. And that made her mad at him. She was tired of being wrapped in cotton wool. She didn’t just want to hear about the bad things in the world through her clients and the evening news; she wanted to see it, learn about it in a deep way, so she could work with those who wanted to make changes, bring light into the darkness.

  So she endured Nick’s grumpy mood and stopped talking altogether. She needed to concentrate on pushing down one pedal after the other again and again, to keep the bike gliding forward. As hard as pedaling was, it beat trying to walk. They traveled much faster. By early evening, she smelled the lake on the breeze. Within an hour, they were cruising along a gravel lane bordered by trees, then emerged into the open with a rustic cabin and the wide, wide blue lake beyond.

  “How did your family manage this kind of real estate?” Kristen asked.

  “It’s been in the family for three generations. We’ve had enough offers to make us all rich, but we don’t want to see the trees cut down and the land turned into another resort hotel.” Nick jumped off his bike. “There’s a key in a magnetic box under the third rocking chair from the door. Go ahead and go inside while I put these bikes in the shed.”

  “Thanks.” Kristen propped her bike against the railing of a structure too rough-hewn to be called a veranda and too low to be her idea of a porch. A swing and several rocking chairs filled the space beneath the overhanging roof, along with some tables and a pile of children’s beach toys.

  She counted three chairs from the door and reached beneath. After some fumbling around, she located a little metal box attached to the chair’s frame and flipped it open. A key slid into her palm. Eager for shelter where Nick had assured her she could have true privacy, a real bed behind a closed door, she unlocked the front door, stepped inside the cabin—

  And came face-to-face with her mother.

  Julia Lang sat with her arms and legs bound to the kitchen chair beneath her. Her elegant twist was gone and her hair fell in tangled hanks around her pale face now devoid of makeup. Her suit jacket was torn and the shell beneath grubby. But she held her head erect, her eyes boring into Kristen’s as though trying to convey a message she couldn’t speak with her mouth duct-taped.

  Kristen felt as though an invisible fist had punched her in the middle. She couldn’t warn Nick to be careful. She couldn’t cry out. She couldn’t so much as catch her breath. This was all wrong. Kirkpatrick wasn’t supposed to be there yet. But there he was. The creak of a floorboard drew her attention from her mother to the tall, broad-faced man whom she had seen too often in the courtroom.

  “You,” she squeaked out, and then louder, “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “That’s right,” Kirkpatrick said, “yell so your boyfriend comes running.”

  “No, Nick, do—”

  A hand like a side of beef clamped over her mouth. “That’s enough,” a familiar voice said in her ear. The voice of the man who had carried her from her car.

  She smelled garlic, too much garlic, and gagged.

  He removed his hand in a hurry. “Be quiet and I won’t tape you up like your ma.”

  Kristen nodded.

  “Now sit down and let’s talk,” Kirkpatrick said.

  Kristen staggered to the chair across from her mother and dropped onto the wooden seat. “How did you know to come here? The papers were supposed to post that you should call the number I gave to get directions.”

  “We got our sources.” Kirkpatrick grinned.


  His only possible source was someone in the Marshals Service.

  * * *

  Nick heard the cry from the house and grinned. She had probably seen a mouse. He should have warned her no one had been at the cabin since Memorial Day and the critters did like to move in uninvited.

  He finished locking the bikes in the shed, replaced the key under the overflowing rain barrel and started around the side of the cabin—where he stopped short and dropped to his knees, examining the ground.

  The earth was still wet from the storm that morning. It held footprints. Deep footprints. Big footprints. Kristen was a tall girl and not delicately built, but her feet weren’t anywhere near this big, nor was she heavy enough to make such a deep impression. She had also not walked along the side of the cabin.

  Kristen hadn’t seen a mouse; she had seen a criminal. They hadn’t spoken to Kirkpatrick yet. The messages giving instructions for Kirkpatrick to find them hadn’t gone out long enough ago for him to contact them for directions to the cabin. Only one other person knew Kristen and Nick’s location. He could have sent marshals sooner than he said he would, but they weren’t supposed to be near the cabin.

  But either Kirkpatrick had arrived an hour and a half early, or the marshals were located where they weren’t supposed to be. Callahan had sold them out to Kirkpatrick.

  Such rage flowed through Nick he could have punched a hole in the log wall beside him. Rage, however, got no one anywhere. He needed to give up his anger toward Michele’s father for blaming Nick for her death, for giving him all the terrible jobs he could find in the past year, for suspending him for seeing to Kristen’s safety. Callahan wasn’t Nick’s problem now. He would face his own music afterward. What mattered to Nick was keeping Kristen alive.

  First, he needed to reconnoiter and see how many people were in the cabin. He could manage that with little difficulty. He knew every nook and cranny of this house, every creaking board and loose pane of glass.

  He returned to the rear of the house and climbed atop the rain barrel. If he slipped off the rim, the splash would give him away. He dug his fingers into the grout between logs and edged his way along the water catcher until he reached a tiny window set high in the wall for ventilation. If he moved from one side to another, he could see the entire great room.

  The sight of the judge nearly knocked him off his feet. Seeing Kristen bound to a chair as well set the adrenaline coursing through his veins. She and her mom were helpless. He feared not a single marshal, nor any other law enforcement were on their way for backup. Nick was on his own. One man against the three he counted. More could be hidden in the bathroom or bedrooms.

  One inadequately armed man against at least three men with guns and two female hostages.

  He slid off the rain barrel, the mud beneath making his descent silent, and edged away from the house. The shed contained firewood and other supplies, some tools. He could wait until dark and cut the electricity. He would know where he was, but they would fumble around. But then, he wouldn’t know where they were in relationship to the women. If he smoked them out, the ladies would suffer too, but a little smoke inhalation was far better than a bullet.

  Between the woods, the shed and the boathouse, he gathered what he needed. He moved around enough to know no one stood watch outside. No one would shoot into the house, or take more drastic measures, with the judge and her daughter inside. Kirkpatrick and his men counted on their hostages for their security. That surely meant they would keep the ladies alive for the moment anyway.

  Alive and unharmed?

  Nick yearned to throw himself into that cabin and confront the men. A suicide mission for sure. But if Kristen or her mother were hurt, he would have failed another lady in his life. Another lady who had become so important.

  Nerves jumping, he made himself wait the half hour until dusk. Once or twice, from where he waited inside the boathouse, he saw someone look out the front door, hunting for him, he supposed. They didn’t venture far from the door. He needed at least one of them to do that. One down would even the odds a little better.

  When blowing trees created weird shadows and splashing waves masked other sounds. Then he crept from the boathouse and built a fire on the ground near the corner of the porch. Once it was popping and crackling, looking as though it would reach the porch and set it alight, Nick stretched through the railing and knocked over a table. It fell with a resounding crash.

  From inside the cabin, he heard a shout, a protest, then a clear, “Go look.”

  Just what Nick wanted.

  One of Kirkpatrick’s men emerged from the cabin and stomped to the fire. When he rounded the corner out of sight of the front windows and door, Nick applied a shovel to the back of his head.

  The man crashed to the ground with nearly as much noise as the table. Nick tied him with rope from the shed and dragged him into the crawl space. That done, he added more sticks to the fire, green ones this time, producing billows of sharp smoke.

  “Hey, Zivko, what’s taking you so—” Boots tramped on the porch and coughing ensued. “What—” he coughed again “—is going—” another cough “—on?”

  A demand from inside followed, and the man outside responded, “I can’t hardly see out here. Enough smoke the whole place might be on fire. Zivko, where’d you go?”

  More commands, more grumbling, more stomping across the porch. Then a bulky shadow appeared in the gloom of evening and greenwood smoke. “Zivko—Ahh!”

  This one went down with more grace, folding up like a fan. Nick trussed him up and dragged him beneath the shed built up to avoid being flooded.

  Two down, one to go. One armed man to go. One armed man with two women hostages—important women, the judge because of her position, and Kristen because of what she had come to mean to Nick. He had to lure Kirkpatrick away from the women. The fire had done as much as it could. Nick doused it with a bucket of water he’d set aside for that purpose. Steam and smoke rose into the dusk with the sharp tang of pitch, then died. Nick waited for what happened next, seeking an opportunity to take Kirkpatrick down.

  The man had turned out the lights inside, leaving on only the porch light so Nick couldn’t see inside. He listened for words or scraping chairs or the click of a cocking gun.

  He heard the click first. Then the scrape of a chair. Moments later, footfalls sounded on the pine board floor inside. Two sets of footfalls. Nick’s heart squeezed, his gut roiling long before he saw why Kirkpatrick left on the porch light.

  He wanted Nick to see him standing behind Kristen with a gun to her head.

  “Show yourself, Sandoval, or the daughter goes first, the judge second.” Kirkpatrick’s voice rang loud and clear.

  Nick heard it, though he was already at the back corner of the cabin. The southwest window of the bedroom had a broken lock. Someone always intended to fix it but no one ever got around to it. Nick slid up the sash, glad of the can of WD-40 from the shed supplies making the act silent and smooth. He hefted himself over the sill and landed on the floor like a cat. If he was good at anything, it was walking quietly. As the youngest, being able to sneak around or away from his older siblings had been a matter of survival he practiced to perfection.

  He employed the skill now, creeping past the bathroom. At the kitchen island, he crouched, listening.

  “You have one minute,” Kirkpatrick was saying. “Show yourself or I shoot.”

  Nick gritted his teeth to stop himself from speaking out loud. But you need Kristen to learn about your daughter.

  “Tell your friend to come out, Miss Lang,” Kirkpatrick persisted.

  Kristen remained silent.

  “So you don’t really care about your ma?” Kirkpatrick’s tone held a taunt.

  Sweating despite the chills running down his spine, Nick rose from behind the island and snuck forward. When he passed the judge, her eyes grew as round as
golf balls. But she didn’t make a sound to give him away.

  “You have thirty seconds,” Kirkpatrick said.

  Nick wrapped both hands around the man’s gun arm and jerked it down. “And you have zero.”

  Kirkpatrick swore, fighting for control of his arm and the gun. Nick held on, admiring the older man’s strength, his tenacity. A little more pressure, a bit more strength was all Nick needed—Kirkpatrick managed to pull the trigger the instant Nick’s pressure on his arm forced him to drop his weapon. Nick kicked it away and the agony in his side dropped him to his knees. “Kristen, help.” He looked up.

  She slammed her head back, smashing her skull into Kirkpatrick’s nose. He howled and drew his hands to his face, blood flowing. Though her hands were still bound, her feet were free. She turned, braced herself against the door frame and kicked Kirkpatrick in the knee, then the belly. He dropped onto the floor, curling up to protect himself from the kicks she applied.

  “Rope,” Nick gasped. “Back pocket. He won’t stay down for long.”

  She twisted around so she could pull the rope from Nick’s pocket and hand it to him. Nick crawled to Kirkpatrick and bound his wrists behind him. The man kicked when Nick reached for his legs, connecting with Nick’s wounded side. Blackness swirled before his eyes. Fighting nausea, he managed to get the criminal’s ankles bound. Then he must have lost consciousness, for he awoke to find himself lying on the floor with a towel pressed to his wound and Kristen kneeling over him, her face so close to his, her ponytail dangled forward and tickled his face.

  He smiled. “You got yourself free.”

  He had kept her safe. No, God had used him to keep her safe.

  “I found scissors in the kitchen.” She wiped a cool damp cloth over his face. “And I called an ambulance. You have cell service here.”

  “Resorts close by.” The blackness was taking over again, but he had to do something before he lost consciousness...or worse. “Kristen?”

  “I’m here.” She touched her lips to his forehead. “You’re going to be okay.”