My cell phone vibrates, and I pick up. “Ronnie, what do you think you’re doing?” my brother asks.
“Helping Francesca and you,” I say.
“Not on your life,” he responds.
“Frank, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into—”
“Leave and go home,” he demands.
“I could stay as backup until you get here,” I offer, looking in my dog’s big brown eyes. I scratch Warrior’s head.
“On no account are you to follow Juliana and interfere. Are we clear?” I don’t answer. “Are we clear?” Frank repeats.
I hold the phone away from my face and yell, “Frank, can you hear me? I’m having a hard time hearing you—”
“Don’t pull that one, Ronnie—” he interrupts. I hang up.
Chapter Forty-Three
“Warrior, it’s time to make my exit,” I say to my dog, as I watch Juliana go back inside the coffee shop and sit down with Bobby. “I have an idea where Frankie may be.” I pour water into Warrior’s bowl and place it on the car’s floor.
“If I can release the girl and get her somewhere safe, that takes her out of harm’s way, and then my brother won’t have to go anywhere near the Taylors. Plus those creeps won’t have any more leverage against my brother and Juliana.” Even though we’re in the shade, it’s pretty hot outside, so I’ve lowered each of the windows a little more than usual for cross-ventilation. I want to make sure Warrior will be fine…should things take longer than I expect.
“Now, Warrior, listen.” I look straight into his soulful brown eyes and speak slowly. “If I don’t come back, when you see Juliana or Frank, bark. A loud bark, OK?” He puts his head down and nuzzles me. I drop the car keys on the driver’s floor mat, kiss the top of his head, and slip out of the Toyota. I scuttle to the side of the motel quickly and glimpse Juliana, who’s still in heated discussion with Bobby.
Then I slink down the same alley that Bobby just used—it’s as dirty and smelly as the last time I was here. Again, I peek into windows, looking at dumpy, messy rooms with unmade beds or ones that appear to be empty of guests—I guess housekeeping starts later here than at most motels.
I reach the back corner room, passing a window that reveals a huge pile of clothes on a full-sized bed. I slow down before making a left turn into the alley on the back side of the motel, not wanting to repeat that unfortunate run-in with the stoned and malodorous Jimmy, if he should be back there smoking weed again.
I stop and backtrack to the last window. Had something in that mound of clothes moved, or was it my imagination? I see the tip of a navy Converse sneaker twitch. I tap on the window, and a pair of navy sneakers kicks out of the heap of clothing. Suddenly the mass rises jerkily, and pieces of clothing drop away as a dark-haired head emerges from the dirty laundry. The girl squirms around to face the window, her feet tied at the ankles, her arms bound behind her, and grey duct tape covering her mouth.
It’s Francesca. Our eyes meet; hers are huge and scared. I again put my finger to my mouth, as a sign to stay quiet, and point to indicate I’m coming to help her. She nods hastily, and I dash around the corner and enter the motel, looking every which way to see if the coast is clear.
A haggard-looking maid with a housekeeping cart stands outside a room several doors down from the one where Francesca is tied up. I walk to the door of what I assume to be Bobby Taylor’s room and rummage in my purse as if searching for my key card. Looking up, I meet her eyes. “Morning. Too much to do to get ready for my high school reunion.” I give her a big smile, which she returns, and go back to my bag-rummaging.
While digging around in the depths of my handbag, I pull out two twenties and a ten. “I give up,” I say, stepping over to her cart and offering her the tip. “I know I should go to the front desk for a new key card, but I’m running so late, I’ll miss my appointment. Can you do me a favor and let me in?”
The woman looks suspiciously at the money and then at me. “Please,” I say. “You’d really be helping me out.”
She takes the money. “Well, good thing you’re catching me right as I go on break.” She heads over to unlock the door. “You know, so that I never saw you.” The lock clicks, and she holds the door open slightly for me.
“Thank you,” I say and put my shoulder against the door, so that it doesn’t click shut again.
She looks at her watch. “Yep, break time.” She pushes the cart into an alcove further down the hall and leaves.
I step inside the room and see the girl sitting on the bed, looking terrified. “Francesca?” She nods. “I’m Ronnie, a friend of—” I stop myself. How much does she know? “Of Juliana’s, and I’ve come to get you out of here.” I walk to the bed. “Let’s untie you first.”
I work on the rope binding her wrists, but don’t have much luck. “There are so many knots, this will take forever,” I say. “Hold on, I’ve got something that will cut these ropes.”
Digging around in my bag again, I find my small Swiss army knife that big brother Peter gave me when I went off to college many moons ago. I look up at Frankie and show it to her. “This’ll work, and I’ll be careful, OK?” She nods again. I slide the knife blade under the rope and rotate the blade toward me and away from her skin and slowly cut back and forth. After several moments, the rope snaps, and the girl rubs her wrists and arms.
“Frankie, you take the tape off your mouth, and I’ll cut off the ropes around your ankles.” I use the same technique to cut those ropes, while she slowly works the tape off her mouth, grimacing as if she were carefully pulling a Band-Aid off a wound. I free her feet at the same moment she gets the tape off her mouth.
“Yuck. That tape is disgusting. The sticky side is gross.” She rubs her mouth, making a funny face. I look at her and we both giggle lamely. Nerves?
I tuck the knife deep into my front jeans pocket, the slight bulge hidden by my loose shirt. “Before we leave, I’ve got something for you in case we get separated.” She looks distressed and grabs my arm. “Which we won’t. Please don’t worry.” I reach into my bag one more time. “I always like to have not only a Plan A, but a Plan B and C, if possible. Voilà.” I pull out a small black metal canister.
“This is pepper spray.” I give Frankie a mock demonstration. “The closer you hold it to your attacker’s face, the better the spray will work to burn his eyes. Then you press this button on top and count to three. Pssst.”
“What if one squirt isn’t enough?” she asks.
“Trust me, one time will work, but you can spray it two times, and then it’s empty.” I give her the small can. “Stick this in your jeans pocket, and let’s see if we can find you something baggy, so if we get caught, the pepper spray won’t be noticed in your pocket. OK?”
I dig around an open duffle bag filled with rumpled clothing and my hand hits something sticky. “Ewww.” I pull my hand out and it looks like toothpaste—maybe a broken tube that got all over the clothes. I smell mint on my hand, but who can be sure. I dash into the cramped and filthy bathroom.
While washing my hands, my eyes settle on the worn, damp toothbrush in a plastic cup. Bobby Taylor’s toothbrush? There’s an unused cup in a clear plastic sleeve. I remove the cup from the covering and use the plastic sleeve to bag the toothbrush. You never know—this DNA could come in handy. I’m still wondering about Francesca’s paternity.
I return to the room and tuck the wrapped toothbrush in my purse. Frankie has found a large tee-shirt in the pile of clothes that covered her on the bed and sniffs at it. “This smells bad, Ronnie.”
“I’m sure it does, Frankie. Turn it inside out, and maybe the creep who tied you up won’t notice you have it on if he finds us. If he does, just say you got cold from being scared. OK?” She nods, and I help her pull it over her head. “Let’s get out of here.” I reach out my hand, Frankie grabs it, and we turn to leave.
Just then we hear the click of the door lock, because someone has used a key card to get in. We freeze. The door ope
ns, and in steps Jimmy, the stoned guy who attacked me behind this motel on my last visit. He’s as shocked to see me as I am him.
“What the f— are you doing here?” Jimmy says as he grabs me, while I yell, “Run, Frankie!”
Which she does. I slam my knee up between Jimmy’s legs, right into his crotch, hard. Bull’s eye! He collapses on the filthy carpet moaning. I turn to leave.
“Hold it, bitch.” Bobby stands between the door and me, holding Frankie, with a gun pointed at her head. “I wouldn’t try anything stupid.”
I stand still. “Don’t hurt her,” I beg. “What do you want?”
“First, your phone,” Bobby says. I hand it to him, and he throws it on the ground, stomping on it and crushing it.
“We’re outta here—you first,” he says to me. “I’ll follow with the kid here. And my gun. So don’t get any ideas. Understand?”
“I understand.” I try to keep a calm tone, as I look at Frankie, who’s shaking she’s so scared. “Frankie, we’re going to do as he says. I’m here with you, and everything will be OK.”
“Jimmy, you stay here,” Bobby says, “and call me if anyone else comes snooping around.” Jimmy grunts but doesn’t get up.
I go out first and glance down the hallway, wondering when the maid will return from her break. Bobby gestures with the gun for me to walk toward the rear of the building, which I do. He and Frankie follow me through the back door, where we see the green SUV with its front windows down. Bobby must have brought it around while I was inside with Frankie.
“The keys are in the ignition, and you’re going to drive,” he says to me. “This little lady and I will sit in the back seat to make sure you do exactly as I say,” he tells me. “Understand?”
“I understand. Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.” Bobby’s voice is gruff. “Now move, and remember, I’ve got the gun.”
The two of them climb into the back. I see the scrapes on the passenger side of the SUV that are obviously from the night of the attack on my brother. I make my way around the front to the driver’s side, get in, start the car, and drive through the alley. Somebody’s got to stop this guy. But first I’ve got Frankie to think of.
I pull out of the alley between the coffee shop and motel, make a left turn and observe Juliana crouched on the sidewalk-side of the Meadow Farm Toyota that I drove here. A front door is open—maybe she found the car keys—and she’s quietly speaking to Warrior, who stays down. I look in the rearview mirror at Bobby, and I’m sure he hasn’t seen Juliana next to the Toyota.
The creep is distracted, muttering one obscenity after another, while he jerks roughly on Frankie’s seat belt, trying to secure her so she can’t move. The girl’s clenched jaw and stiff body show me how afraid she is, and she tries very hard not to look at the threatening Bobby recklessly waving his gun around.
As I pass the Toyota, my dog’s head pops up to look at us. My eyes meet Warrior’s, and I put my finger up to my lips telling him to be quiet. Then my eyes connect with Juliana’s, and I think Call Frank as hard as I can. A lot of good that’ll do…
Driving down the road, I look in the rearview mirror again and see Juliana and my dog pull out in the Toyota to follow us.
Chapter Forty-Four
Bobby Taylor directs me to drive to an area filled with industrial buildings. We approach one with an old sign that says Henderson Manufacturing. He then instructs me to turn in and park as close as possible to the back entrance of the building. I look up and count six stories high and then glance at the clock on the dashboard. It took us ten minutes, driving west from the motel to arrive here.
“We’re getting out,” Bobby says. “Don’t try to pull any shit on our way to that door, or else someone will get hurt.” He brandishes his gun at me. “You hear me, bitch? I don’t know your name, so I’ll just call you bitch.”
Francesca pipes up. “Her name is Ronnie.”
“Hey, what did I tell you before?” He shoves Francesca’s shoulder. “Stay quiet, you little shit.” Frankie looks scared again, and I try to beam thoughts of safety and confidence that we’ll be all right from my eyes directly to hers.
The three of us get out of the car and enter the building, only to find the elevator not working. Bobby slaps his hand on the button and then the elevator door and lets out a new string of obscenities.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the roof,” he snarls. “And it looks like we’re walking up.” The door to the stairway is jammed, and Bobby kicks it repeatedly until it opens. “Let’s go.”
I enter first, followed by Francesca and Bobby. He slams the door behind us.
He sure makes a lot of noise for someone in the midst of a kidnapping. I wonder that he isn’t worried about alerting all the other tenants and someone calling the police. “What kind of companies are in this building?” I ask, as I begin the six-story climb to get to the roof. The air is stale in here.
“None of your business who’s in this building,” he barks. “Now move it.”
Frankie runs up faster than Bobby until she’s alongside me and can grab my arm and then my hand. I look at her with a smile and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.
As we pass doors on our way up, I read out the names on the signs showing who’s doing business on that floor. Seems to mostly be storage companies of one kind or another, so probably not many people are around who could help us.
“I remember you now,” he says with a sneer. “You and your friend were at that mixed martial arts fight by the airport when I worked security there. You’re the bitch who almost got me fired.” He looks down the barrel of his gun as though he’s aiming at me. “Bang!” He cackles—it’s a mean sound.
“And you were the creep banging that drunk guy’s head on the concrete. What were we supposed to do? Let you kill him?”
“Well, I’ve got plans for you—”
“Yeah?” I cut him off. “What kind—”
“Ronnie, shhh.” It’s Francesca, and she’s tugging on me. I settle down.
By the time we climb from the sixth floor to the roof, all three of us are huffing and puffing. I push through a heavy metal door, and we walk onto the flat roof. Francesca and I breathe in the fresh air.
The first thing I notice are a lot of cooing sounds coming from a good-sized shed halfway across the rooftop. It’s a nonstop chorus. Walkpads on top of asphalt lead straight to the shed.
“What’s that?” Frankie asks of no one in particular.
“Those are my brother’s pigeons,” Bobby says, “and you two are going into their shed.” I remember Joe Taylor talking about Teresa’s father having homing pigeons and then giving them to Joe and Bobby when he left.
Bobby uses his gun as a pointer indicating we should walk on the pads toward the shed. Keeping his weapon on us, he then unlocks the door and pushes us inside. We stand in a shabby wooden passage that provides access to two pens filled with pigeons sitting in their nesting boxes or perches, or flying about. A third pen is filthy with old pigeon droppings but empty of birds, and Bobby shoves us inside that one. He latches the door with a tight-looped rope over a hook, so we’re effectively locked inside the pen.
Bobby’s phone buzzes, and he answers, “Yeah?” He shoves the gun into his waistband and listens. “How much longer?” He listens some more. “An hour and a half? You better hope Joe doesn’t get here first, ’cause he’ll be really pissed.”
I whisper to Francesca, “He’s talking to Juliana.” She nods.
Suddenly Bobby bursts out at the caller, “Don’t give me that shit. No excuses. Call me when he’s at the coffee shop with the cash, and I’ll tell you what to do next. Bottom line, you better have all the money when you come here, or, well, you know—the kid.” He looks straight at Francesca when he says the last bit and then ends the call to go outside and sit on a bench by the door to the shed.
Somewhere out there, close by, are Juliana and my German shepherd, but if
she knows where we are, I hope she doesn’t rush in with Warrior, the way I usually would, and do something stupid. Please let them wait until Frank and Will arrive.
~~~~~
Francesca and I stand by the one small window in our pen and kill time watching the pigeons in an outdoor area that’s caged in with wire. I guess it’s a safe way for the birds to exercise without getting picked off by a hawk or some other predator. It feels like an hour or more since Bobby stuck us in this disgusting place.
But the door to the roof suddenly bursts open, and we hear Bobby jump up, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Hey, big brother—”
“You idiot,” the other voice says. “How could you bring the girl here of all places?” I know that voice. Joe Taylor. I remember it from my meeting with him to learn about his drug prevention program for school kids. Nice guy.
“You mean—here in Moosic, Joe, or here to the pigeon coop?”
“Loft, Bobby. How many times do I have to tell you it’s called a pigeon loft, not a coop.”
“Things were getting messed up at the motel,” Bobby whines. “I didn’t know what else to do, Joe.”
I hear a string of obscenities from Joe, and the sound of someone kicking a garbage can, probably Joe, too, and the can crashing on its side and rolling around. “This is my special place, Bobby, from Uncle Tony.”
“I thought these were our pigeons from Uncle Tony,” Bobby protests.
“They were ours until you went away to prison and stayed there most of your feeble life,” Joe says. “Anyway, Uncle Tony’s pigeons died a long time ago, you idiot. But why are we talking about these f—ing pigeons? Where’s the girl?” Francesca’s eyes look at me with fear, and she grabs my arm.
“I’ve got them in the empty pen in the back—”
“Them?” Joe asks.
“Yeah. The kid and the broad,” Bobby says. “I think her name’s Ronnie.”
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