Stokes hadn’t figured out exactly where he was going, only that he had to get away from Nancy’s house. Martinson hadn’t been awake to check in with his dispatcher so the rest of the cops would get suspicious soon. Stokes had briefly considered taking the cop’s car, but realized that it probably had a LoJack-type device, a transponder or something that would tell the authorities exactly where it was, and therefore, where he was. So he stuck with Bobby’s truck and tried to put some distance between them and Nancy’s house, all the while considering his options.
He couldn’t come up with any good ones.
SIXTEEN
9:36 P.M.
STOKES DROVE OUT OF NANCY’S neighborhood. Within a few minutes they were traveling along a road with a few scattered houses, not truly part of any neighborhood, just houses lined up along the road. He didn’t have much of a plan. He figured he’d stash the cop in the woods somewhere, someplace fairly remote. If he got the chance later, he’d call the police and tell them where to find their buddy. Every once in a while as he drove he’d lean a little so he could see Nancy in his rearview mirror, and every now and then the moonlight hit her and he’d realize that she was even prettier now than when he first saw her, the moonlight bathing her face, the wind whipping her hair into a yellow storm. He let himself fantasize for a moment about how beautifully this could end. He saves the girl. He’s a hero. She loves him for it and they live happily ever after. Perfect. And pure fantasy—one he wasn’t even completely certain he’d want to come true. He hadn’t done such a great job of settling down the first time he’d tried it.
Without warning, he hit the brakes, jerked the wheel, and bounced up a driveway. He looked at the house illuminated in his headlights. Windows completely dark. The place was small, didn’t even have a garage, and there were no cars in the driveway or on the street out front. It was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn that attracted him. It looked to Stokes like the owners had moved out before they could sell. He got out of the truck and peered in a front window. No furniture. And no alarm system he could see. A realtor’s lockbox for the house key hanging on the front-door knob. Stokes looked to his left, then his right, and saw that the houses on either side of this one were each a good fifty yards away. This would work.
He drove the truck around the back of the house, parked it, and got out.
“He didn’t wake up?”
“Slept like a big baby,” Nancy said.
Without the wind blowing her hair around, it hung shapelessly. She didn’t bother to fix it, which Stokes liked about her. Just a quick shake of her head to clear stray strands from her eyes. She looked tired, though. And worried.
“She’ll be OK,” he said. “I promise.”
She smiled a small smile and nodded.
“Wait here a second.”
Stokes walked over to the house and, as quietly as he could, smashed a windowpane on the back door with a rock. If he’d had his lock picks with him, he could have been neater about it. And quieter. He knocked out the glass shards that remained in the opening, then reached through and unlocked the door from the inside. He walked back to the truck, reached into the cab, took Martinson’s gun from its holster, and stuck it into the back of his jeans.
“Think you’ll need that?” Nancy asked.
“Hope to hell I don’t, but I’d rather have it if I do.”
Together, he and Nancy slid Martinson to the end of the truck bed, where Stokes bent down so they could work the unconscious cop onto Stokes’s shoulder. His back was starting to ache from all the people-lugging he’d been doing.
Stokes carried the guy, all two-hundred-or-so pounds of him, into the dark house, down a dark hall, and into a dark bedroom, which he made darker by pulling down the window shades after depositing Martinson on the floor. His shoulders throbbed. His legs burned. He went back into the hall and was nearly to the back door when he heard sounds coming from inside the house. When he reached the bedroom again he found that Martinson had woken up and was struggling ferociously against his bonds, grunting like an angry, desperate wild animal into his gag. When he heard Stokes’s footsteps, he tipped his head back, trying to see underneath his blindfold.
Stokes deepened his voice in an improvised and somewhat pathetic attempt to disguise it and said, “Stop that.”
The cop didn’t. He grunted louder as he strained to break free.
Stokes added, “I’ve got your gun and it’s pointed at your balls, so shut up or you lose your boys.”
The gun was still in the back of his jeans but the cop didn’t know that, so he shut up and stopped struggling.
“Listen, Officer,” Stokes said in a quiet, faux-deep voice, “this seems like a shit situation, but it isn’t as bad as you think. I don’t want to hurt you. I will if I have to, but I don’t want to. Why, you ask? Well, I’ve got nothing against you personally, except the fact that you’re a cop, but that’s not enough to make me want to hurt you. Also, I know I’m in deep shit for this and I don’t need the added trouble that hurting you more than I already have will bring. You understand?”
Martinson tilted his head up, again trying to see under the bottom of his blindfold. That was good, Stokes realized, because it probably meant he hadn’t gotten a look at Stokes’s face earlier. Of course, he might have simply been trying to figure out where he was, assessing his situation.
“Now,” Stokes continued, “I’m gonna leave you here for a little bit, a couple of hours at most, then I’ll let your police pals know where to find you. I just need you out of the way for a while, that’s all.”
Martinson shook his head and tried to speak.
“I don’t really want to hear what you have to say, Officer, and I don’t have time to explain this any better. So that’s the situation. Deal with it.”
Stokes appraised the cop.
“Sorry about this,” he said as he used another plastic tie to secure the cop’s wrist bond to his ankle bond. He figured the guy might be able to scoot around the floor a little if he tried hard enough, but hog-tied as he was now, he wouldn’t be able to stand or open the door, which Stokes was going to close. He might free himself eventually, but it would probably take a while and Stokes only had to make it through another few hours. Satisfied, he headed back outside.
Nancy was sitting in the passenger seat of the truck with the door open. Her duffel bag was in her lap. His bag of money was between her feet.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
He looked at the backpack on the floor. The flap was closed but not fastened. He reached in and picked the bag up by a strap.
“Did you look in here?”
She hesitated. “I had to see it.” She paused. Stokes waited. “It’s what caused all this,” she added. “It’s what put Amanda in danger. I wanted to see it, that’s all.”
Stokes nodded. “Well, it’s what’s going to save her now,” he said, wishing he felt as confident as he tried to sound.
He started for the driver’s door.
“Was that him?” Nancy asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Was that the cop making that noise?”
“What noise?”
“It just came from inside the house. Glass breaking maybe?”
“Shit, I’ll be right back.” Stokes slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the house.
“Toss me the keys. I’ll start the truck and turn it around.”
“Just give me a second.” He ran into the house and through it until he came to the door to the bedroom where he’d left the cop. It was still closed. Maybe the guy had slipped out of some of his bonds somehow. Or maybe all of them. Maybe he was waiting just inside the room, waiting to take Stokes down the second he stepped into it. To hell with it, Stokes thought. He didn’t have time for this. He kicked the door open and saw Martinson right where he’d left him, though his gag was starting to slip. Stokes walk
ed over to secure it better. He knelt down and untied the gag, intending to slap it right back on him, tied tighter this time. As soon as the gag was out, Martinson said, “I don’t have to tell you, buddy, that you’re in a mess of trouble.”
“No,” Stokes said, “you don’t.”
“So why don’t you cut me free now?”
“Sorry, I’ve still got some work to do.”
“You’re really screwed, pal, you know that? You’re going to prison for a long time.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They were silent for a moment. Stokes looked at his watch: 9:44 p.m.
“Here’s the thing, Officer. I’d love to end this. I’d love to let you go. It sure as hell wasn’t in my plans to have to bring you along, stash you here. But I’m doing something important tonight and I can’t have you screwing it up. You’re not gonna believe this, but I’m trying to do something good. And it’s not even illegal. I’m trying to help someone. A little kid.”
“What are you talking about?”
Stokes probably shouldn’t say anything, especially given that this cop theoretically could be the kidnappers’ inside source in the police department. But Martinson wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so it couldn’t hurt if Stokes shared a little. Besides, if the guy wasn’t on the kidnappers’ payroll, and if he believed Stokes, maybe they’d go easier on him when they arrested him later.
“A little girl’s been kidnapped,” Stokes said. “I gotta get her back.”
Martinson seemed to be thinking that over, probably trying to decide whether it was total bullshit.
“Who’s the little girl?”
“Just a kid. I don’t know her. Never even met her.”
“Then why are you trying to help her? Just a Good Samaritan?”
“Not me. And don’t ask me why. I’m not completely sure myself, but I have my suspicions.”
Martinson tipped his head back again, trying to see Stokes.
“Stop that,” Stokes ordered.
“How do you plan to get her back?”
“Give the kidnappers the money they want.”
“How much?”
“Almost two hundred fifty thousand, three fifty if I can manage it.”
Martinson snorted and Stokes knew he thought he was getting snowed. “Where are you gonna get that kind of money?”
“I already have most of it. Got it from the girl’s father. He had the money with him when he had a car accident.”
Martinson shook his head.
“I don’t care if you believe me, but the kid’s dad died today. You got kids, Officer?”
The cop said nothing.
“Come on, you got kids?”
“One son.”
“You love him to death, right? Tuck him in at night, read him stories, all that stuff?”
“None of your business.”
“What? You don’t love him? You don’t tuck him in?”
The cop hesitated. “He lives with his mother.”
“Oh. You probably have pictures of him everywhere, little drawings he made at school hanging on your fridge, all that stuff, right?” Stokes thought about all the photos of Amanda at Jenkins’s house.
Martinson nodded. “All over my house. What’s your point?”
“You’d do anything for him, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, this kid’s dad would have done anything for her, but he’s dead. I’m stepping in. Somebody’s got to.”
Stokes reached for the gag.
“Wait,” Martinson said quickly.
Stokes paused.
“If this is true, call the police. This is our job, not yours. It isn’t your problem.”
“Yeah, I keep telling myself that.”
“So call them. They can help.”
“I can’t do that,” Stokes said.
“Why not?”
He thought about the video of the kidnapper cutting off Amanda’s finger. And he thought about how the kidnappers knew very quickly that Jenkins’s car had been found and that Jenkins hadn’t been. “The kidnappers have a source with the cops. They say they’ll kill the girl if anyone goes to the authorities.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I know it for a fact. The kid’s dad already tried it, and they cut off one of her fingers. They say they have someone with the police and the FBI, too. I’m actually not sure whether the father called you guys or the Feds, but I know the kidnappers cut off her finger because of it. I’m not going to make the same mistake.”
Martinson was silent for a moment. Probably wondering whether it was possible that one of his fellow cops was that dirty. He thought for quite a while, so he clearly didn’t reject the idea out of hand.
“Listen,” he said, “cut me loose. If you’re not lying, I’ll forget all of this. We’ll get the girl back, just you and me, and I’ll forget this ever happened. I swear to God.”
Stokes wished he could believe him.
Martinson added, “If what you say is true, that little girl is counting on you. Don’t try to cowboy your way through this. Don’t do it alone. Let me help.”
He seemed completely sincere. But though the odds were against it, it was still possible that Martinson was the kidnappers’ inside man. And even if he wasn’t, there was a good chance that as soon as he was cut loose, he’d try to arrest Stokes. So as much as Stokes wanted to believe the guy, as much as he would have liked to have the cop’s help in all this, he just couldn’t take the chance.
“Sorry,” he said as he lifted the gag and fitted it snugly into place in Martinson’s mouth. As he made sure it was tight, the cop continued to plead with him. He didn’t seem to be pleading for his own sake, though; rather, he seemed to want more than anything to help save Amanda Jenkins. Confident that Martinson wouldn’t be heard if he tried calling for help, Stokes stood.
He paused. Something bothered him, something the cop had said. He wasn’t sure what, though. He heard a sound behind him and turned. Nancy walked through the door.
“What’s taking so long in here?” she asked.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong, something he was missing.
She bent down and picked up the backpack he’d left on the floor. “I’ve got this,” she said. “You almost ready to go?”
He hesitated. Something wasn’t right.
Nancy looked at him with those beautiful eyes, and then he had it.
“Yeah, let’s go,” he said. “I’ll take the money.”
He held his hand out for the bag. Nancy was starting to hand it to him when she suddenly shifted her eyes past Stokes, to where Martinson was supposed to be sitting on the floor, and said, “You better sit back down.” And Stokes, feeling like a fool almost the instant he began to turn to check on Martinson, felt a sudden, solid blow to the back of his head. The room jerked to the side of his vision, then disappeared from his sight altogether, along with everything else.
SEVENTEEN
9:51 P.M.
STOKES WAS LYING ON A hard floor. Someone was digging through his pockets. He heard a faint jingle, then footsteps fading away. A moment later he heard a car door slam. His head hurt like a bastard. He opened his eyes and, thank God, saw his backpack lying a few feet away. The flap was open. He could see inside. He blinked. There should have been money in there. Almost a quarter of a million dollars. Instead, he saw a few articles of clothing and a big, clunky metal first aid kit the size of a fishing tackle box. It was probably the first aid kit that had momentarily stunned him.
Goddamn Nancy. He struggled to his knees, expecting the truck’s engine to turn over any second outside. It didn’t. He put his hand on the wall for support and got to his feet. He was dizzy for a moment, but it passed quickly enough. He wished it had taken his headache with it. He felt behind him for
the gun and found it still snugged into the waistband of his jeans. Thank God it hadn’t gone off and shot him in the ass when he fell. He left it tucked where it was. He didn’t want to shoot Nancy.
He hurried through the house and out the back door, where he saw her, with her duffel bag over her shoulder, stepping out of the truck. She had just begun to run when he called her name. She turned and he started toward her. She must have realized he’d catch her with ease because she jumped back into the truck and yanked the door closed. He saw her push down the locks.
“Open the door, Nancy,” he said through the closed window.
“Fuck you.”
Sweet little Nancy had a nasty side.
“Looks like you took the wrong keys out of my pocket,” he said. “Took the cop’s keys, left me the truck key.”
“I know that now, asshole.”
“So I could just unlock the door myself, you idiot. You might as well save me the trouble.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she did as instructed.
“I’m gonna pull this door open now,” he said. “I don’t think anyone in these other houses is close enough to hear you scream if you try, but I don’t want to find out. So if you scream, I’ll knock you out, you understand?”
She nodded. He opened the door. She opened her mouth. Stokes didn’t know if she was going to scream or not, but he slapped her in the face anyway, just in case. He didn’t take any pleasure in hitting a woman. He’d seen too much of that when he was a kid. He didn’t want to do it a second time, and he told her so. “So don’t make me,” he added.
She rubbed her cheek and nodded. He took the bag from her lap, the one she’d transferred his money into, and dragged her out of the truck by her arm. He led her back inside the house, to a second bedroom, and shoved her into a corner. He pulled all the window shades down and pointed to a rolled-up area rug that the house’s prior owners had left behind.
“Sit down.”
She did. He rubbed his eyes.
“How much, Nancy?”
Shady Cross Page 13
