In the background, a windup clock ticked loudly, the noise competing with the sputtering air conditioner. The old man picked up a remote, fumbled for a few moments with the buttons, first turning up the volume before finally decreasing the sound.
"I'm still tryin' to get used to this darn TV," Ron said as he eased himself down on the couch. "I liked my old one. But when they switched something, it no longer worked. Something about analog and digital. My old TV worked just fine."
Debbie sat down on a chair covered with the clear fitted plastic that had been popular in the sixties. "Please, please go ahead and eat. I don't want your food to get cold."
The man waved his hand dismissively. "This stuff tastes nothing like my wife's cooking. I'd probably stop eating altogether if it wasn't for Joshua. I force food--if you can call this food--into my body to stay strong for him. Otherwise, there's just not much left for me here on this earth."
Debbie couldn't help feel guilty about the BLT she'd just finished at Ada's. "TV dinners don't beat a home-cooked meal. That's for sure."
Ronald Lucas pushed the tray aside. "So Mr. Laclede told you about me."
"Actually, I saw you over in juvenile detention a few weeks ago, talking to your grandson," Debbie admitted. "And I've heard about you and Joshua's grandmother from a variety of people. Seems you and your wife are held in high regard."
"I have no idea how we got Mr. Laclede. I know he's worth more than I could pay him. I had a little bit of money saved from my wife's life insurance that I had taken out a long time ago. I'd been saving it for my grandson. A college nest egg; a tiny one, but a start." His voice trailed off before getting strong again. "That Mr. Laclede. I wish Joshua would learn something from him."
"From what I've heard, you're a pretty good role model, too. I understand you're a veteran. Vietnam," Debbie said as she pointed to a Purple Heart mounted in a glass case on the wall.
He waved his hand dismissively. "What ya gonna do? You get drafted. You gotta go. Then you just try to stay alive. I got hit by some shrapnel after a buddy stepped on a land mine. He didn't make it. I did. Random luck, both good and bad, that decided I'd be standing where I was that day, and where he was that day."
Ron fell quiet for moment, his eyes resting on the Purple Heart. "My wounds brought me back home. I didn't have any college, but I was a veteran. Once all the shrapnel was taken out of my body--arms, legs, neck--and healed up, I got a job with the St. Louis Public Schools as a janitor. That's when I met my sweet Sarah. She was a kindergarten teacher. And thank God that little ones are always making messes that require a janitor."
The old man smiled and rubbed his eyes. "I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her. She was the kindest woman I'd ever met. To this day, God didn't make anyone more gentle. But boy howdy, you bet she could keep those little ones in line without ever even raising her voice. The kids just loved her. They wanted to please her. Her classroom was sunny and bright. Just like she was. After being in a war that was none of my damn business, it felt good to be around all that hope."
Ron stood up. He winced. "You can take bits of metal out of a man, but the body ain't never gonna be the same again." He walked over to a cabinet and took down a photo. "This is me and Sarah on our wedding day."
"She's lovely. And you look so handsome," Debbie said as she gazed at the old man as he once was, so long ago, standing next to an attractive woman with a bright smile.
"Sarah always said she loved my strength. She felt safe with me. And I worshiped her. Heck, I wasn't the only one. Her students did too. You know they named a garden after her?"
Debbie nodded. "I heard."
"She'd be so disappointed in me now. I thought I could protect her from heartache, but I couldn't. You see, our daughter, Joshua's momma, caused my wife a world of hurt."
"What happened?" Debbie asked.
"We had a good little life. We bought this house. We had a baby girl. We was real happy. But then crack cocaine swept through our world. When my daughter was teenager, she got caught up on it. We tried so hard to get her cleaned up. I finally had to kick her out. My wife was heartbroken. Our daughter ended up on the street doing God knows what for drugs."
Ron was silent again. He pointed to another photo. "That's Joshua's momma before the bad times."
He sighed. "But then, she somehow made it into her early thirties. She was locked up for a while, that probably helped. She met a guy, Joshua's dad. Our daughter got pregnant, but the couple started doing drugs again soon after Joshua was born. My wife took the baby. And when Joshua came to live with us, my Sarah found new meaning, new joy. Joshua was her chance to make things right. It was good to have a young'un in the house. I think it was her chance for a do-over, you know? A chance to fix the mistakes she felt she made with our daughter. 'Course, she wouldn't listen to me when I told her that our daughter's getting messed up in drugs wasn't my wife's fault. But you know how mothers are. They think everything is their fault."
"What happened to Joshua's mom?" Debbie asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
"Well, when Joshua was five, his momma was found dead. Murdered. I always thought it was Joshua's dad. But the cops didn't have nothin'. My daughter's murder is still listed as unsolved," Ron said.
Debbie could sense that he didn't want to share the details of his daughter's death. She'd look them up later. Perhaps Flannery knew the full story.
"Anyway, when my daughter died, my wife's heart just couldn't take it. She had a stroke. And then another. She was gone before Joshua turned six."
Ron wiped at a tear from his eye with a cloth handkerchief he'd pulled from his pants pocket. "I made a vow to my wife that I'd take good care of the boy. I thank God every day that he spared her from experiencing this latest mess. The boy is locked up. And even though he says he found the car, nothin's gonna change the fact that an innocent girl is dead."
He sighed. "I'm tired. I don't know how long I can keep going. Any strength I got left has to be coming from my wife beyond the grave. I let the love of my life down. I shoulda kept a better eye on him."
Debbie looked into the man's eyes. "It isn't like you can keep a child under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. Especially a headstrong teenager."
Love, Debbie thought, between a man and a woman, between a parent and a child, between a grandparent and a grandchild, could be uplifting or devastating--or both.
The sky was growing dim. It was time to go home. Debbie was drained. "I'm sorry that you're having to handle all of this alone. I imagine that your grandson is relying on your strength--the very quality that your wife admired so much."
Ron shook his head. "What do ya think will happen to my grandson, Miss Bradley?"
Debbie shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. I think the one thing that is in your favor is that he's a juvenile. If the judge doesn't certify him as an adult, he's may get a second chance. But I can't imagine that he's going to get off with a slap on the wrist. As you said, someone was killed."
"That's what Mr. Laclede keeps saying," Ron replied.
Debbie stood up. "I should be going now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Lucas."
The old man walked her to the door. "I got nothin' but time."
As Debbie walked down the steps, she wondered if she could bring something by later. Maybe some fresh tomatoes. Maybe some of Ada's cornbread. Ron Lucas was broken. Good food wouldn't fix that. But doesn't he deserve some small pleasure to give him a break from his world of pain?
She looked back at the front door, but it had already been closed. Debbie imagined Joshua's grandfather throwing his cold, untouched TV dinner in the trash.
Debbie unlocked her car door, climbed inside, strapped on her seatbelt, then put her key in the ignition.
That's when she felt a firm push to the base of her skull.
"Keep both hands on the wheel and drive," a voice commanded.
Debbie looked in the rearview mirror. All that she could see was a dark mask and the outline of a gun point
ing at her head.
"Stop," the person in the backseat commanded. To add emphasis to the order, the barrel of a gun was pushed against the back of Debbie's head.
The journalist had been directed to drive to an abandoned industrial area just north of downtown. Her headlights and the faint glow of distant office buildings were all the illumination Debbie had to guide her car. A river barge blared in the distance.
"Put it in park," her carjacker barked.
Debbie did as she was told, all the while racking her brain for an explanation as to how someone managed to get into the backseat of her car. She'd locked her doors. There was no sign of her car being broken into while she'd been inside interviewing Joshua's grandfather.
Stop it, she told herself. Figuring out how someone managed to get in was the least of her worries. The more pressing problem: How was she going to get out of this alive?
Her phone was in her purse. But her bag had been snatched almost immediately by the stranger with a gun. It was now in the backseat.
"Look, I'll leave my keys in the car. You can have my purse, my wallet, my credit cards. I'll even give you the PIN numbers. Just let me go," she pleaded.
The barrel of the gun swept left to right against her skull. "Get out."
Debbie opened the door. Gravel crunched under her feet. She tried to turn to look at the person who'd kidnapped her. Judging by the huskiness of his voice, she assumed he was taller and wider than she. The shoulders broader.
"Nope, turn back around," he ordered. "Put your hands above your head. Spread your legs."
She felt hands grabbing her around her waist. Debbie gasped. The hands slid down her torso and then along the inside of her legs.
"Stay where you are," the carjacker commanded after the pat-down. "And don't turn around."
Debbie did as she was told. With her hands still in the air, a mask was thrust in front of her. "Put this on."
She hesitated. Would it be better to run and risk getting shot at? Or should she put the mask on and wait for another opportunity to escape?
The kidnapper pushed her sharply in the back, her body falling hard against her car. "Don't make me shoot you here. Because I will. Now, put the hood on."
The hood was a burlap bag that smelled of coffee beans. There were no holes for her eyes, or for her nostrils. Once she had pulled it over her head, her hands were grabbed and pulled tightly together in front of her body. She felt a zip tie go around her wrists and then it was cinched with just a little bit of wiggle room between, though not enough to turn her hands and pull them from the constraints. Then she was led by her forearm back to the car and shoved into the backseat.
She was now the passenger instead of the driver.
"Lie down," the kidnapper ordered before slamming the door.
Debbie felt the car start and heard the gear shift move.
"How did you get into my car?" Debbie asked, her voice muffled by the burlap.
"Easy. I had a key made."
"But how?" Debbie said, coughing as she tried to ask the question, the sack choking her when she tried to talk.
"You haven't always had your car with you since you've arrived in St. Louis, now have you?"
Debbie's stomach knotted. Flannery. Why had she followed his suggestion for a mechanic so blindly?
"You've really been a thorn in my side. In everyone's side."
"Are you working for Flannery?" Debbie asked.
The man snorted. "Always asking questions you shouldn't be asking. Your curiosity gets you into trouble, doesn't it?"
"How did you find me?"
"We've got our ways of tracking you. Or at least tracking your car."
"You put a tracker on my car?" Debbie said before convulsing into a stream of coughs.
The man didn't reply.
She had to get away. Her purse had to be somewhere in the back seat with her. Could she find it and get her phone? Or her tape recorder at least? It wouldn't be easy. Her hands were behind her back, and she could see nothing. She was lying face down across the back seat, having been shoved in face first. Her head was turned to the side. And she managed to tuck her legs under her belly. Perhaps if she could just use one leg to feel around on the floor.
As she gently poked around, she felt the bag. It was closed. There was no way she'd be able to start her tape recorder with her feet, even if she could get inside her purse to activate it.
But at least she knew where it was.
"You had to go sticking your nose into business where it didn't belong," the driver said. "If you'd just let things be, you'd be at home right now with your mother. Funny, isn't it?"
"What?" came Debbie's muffled reply.
"You probably thought that when you returned to St. Louis, there was a chance you'd wind up attending your mom's funeral. But now, it looks like she's going to have to go to yours--that's if they find your body."
The image of her mother, grief-stricken and alone, flashed in her mind. And how would Christian react? Would he be filled with sadness and regret--always wondering what their lives could have been together? Debbie wondered. Or, after a respectable period of mourning, would he close the chapter to their relationship and move on?
The car stopped. Debbie heard the engine switch off. The driver opened the door.
It was hot and muggy outside, and the bag made breathing even more labored. Each breath left the area around her face moist. She felt lightheaded. Slow. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four.
Debbie heard the passenger's door open and felt someone yank at the waistband of her jeans. Her body slid across the back seat, and she felt herself falling to the ground.
"Jesus! Why did you have to bring her here?" a woman said. The muffled voice sounded familiar, but Debbie was having trouble placing it. And the lack of oxygen was making her lightheaded.
"Shut up!" It was the driver. "You kept screwing things up. I finally took matters into my own hands."
"So what are we gonna do?"
The driver responded. "You're gonna get one of the guys to leave her car out on the street, one of those places in the city where carjackers love to leave their rides. Then someone from the crew is going to tip off the neighborhood kids that there's an abandoned car with keys inside. They're gonna take it for a spin. Just like that young punk did with that Audi."
The woman, who was standing several feet away from Debbie, asked, "And does she have a gun in there? Like the Audi did? Wouldn't it be beautiful if her bullets were the ones doing all the killing?"
Audi? Debbie thought. The woman with the Civic who was worried about Isis had Betsy. But Hank Frederich said nothing about a gun. Or did he lie?
"I doubt it. She's too much of a libtard for that. I did a body search. Turned up nothin'," the carjacker said.
The woman responded, "Well, we still need to go through her purse, pull out her wallet, tape recorder, notebook. I don't want them lying around. And you'll need to get rid of the phone--but make sure you leave it as far from this place as possible. In fact, you should've already gotten rid of it. Who knows what kinda tracker she's got on it."
Debbie felt a hand grab her by the upper arm. She was being yanked up off the ground and pushed forward. "Hmmm. She was pretty," said the man. "Seems a shame to waste something like that. Why don't you let me have a go at her before you finish her off?"
His hands rubbed her shoulders and moved down her back, cupping her ass. Debbie jerked away.
"Cut it out, you Neanderthal," she heard the woman say. "The last thing we need is for your DNA to be discovered on her body. I can guarantee you that the medical examiner will do an especially thorough job because if her body is found, the press is going to go crazy. Not just local press, national press. And the medical examiner hasn't been bought--yet. We're still working on that."
Hands touched her breasts. Debbie jerked again. "Pity. Seems like such a waste."
"I said cut it out. You men are all pigs. Disgusting," said the woman impatiently. "C'mon, we got work to do."
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Debbie was pushed forward. The gravel gave way to what felt like concrete. A door slammed, and the noise echoed. She had to be in a large space.
"Who's that?"
There was now a third person added to the mix. Debbie recognized it as well. A male voice. But because she couldn't see, her own loud breathing and the muffling properties of the sack all combined to make it difficult for her to get a clear read on the voices.
"That reporter--that snoopy one," the carjacker said.
"Jesus Christ," the newcomer answered. "I didn't sign up for this. It wasn't part of our deal. What are we going to do with her?"
"She's got to be handled," the carjacker said.
At least adrenaline blocks the pain, Debbie thought. But for how long?
She'd been dragged out of her own car, dropped to the ground, then shoved into a room and pushed down onto what she believed was a concrete floor without warning. With a bag over her head, she felt the assaults after they happened, rather than anticipating the impacts.
Now she found herself alone, fantasizing about punching the guy who dared touch her without permission. Fuck that piece of shit. I'm gonna bring him to his knees with a crowbar to the crotch, then maybe a second whack just to make my point. And a third whack just because I'll enjoy it. Then I'm going to take his picture. Then I'm going to write about him.
To fulfill her revenge fantasy, Debbie knew she had to escape.
She was lying on the floor where she'd been shoved before a door had slammed, leaving her alone. She'd landed on her right shoulder, at least saving her head from a knockout blow.
No doubt she already had bruises and cuts. If something was broken, she didn't know it yet. So it couldn't be too broken. I need to see.
Debbie bent her knees to her forehead, leaned forward, and grasped the bag covering her head between her legs.
Debbie slowly pulled her head back. The first try moved the bag a few inches. She opened her knees and grasped the bag higher up now that more of it was free at the top. It took four of the movements before her face was finally free.
Crime Beat Girl Page 17
