by Karen Woods
“I love you, too, Hunt. Do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Hunt’s voice assured her.
“If I don’t get out of this, be happy. Go back to work for your Uncle. He always gave you tasks that kept your active mind busy. Life has a way of dealing us surprises, love. And some of them aren’t all that surprising when we think about them, in retrospect. I feel like a fool, Hunt. Michael warned me that I was leaving myself open. This feels just like it did when Jarod died, Hunt. Just like it.”
Hunt stopped the player. He looked at Michael, pointedly.
“What does she mean like when Jarod died?” John asked sharply. “That was an accident.”
Michael shook his head negatively. “No. It was a hostile action aimed at her, designed to look like something else,” Michael said reluctantly. “And she thinks that this is similar.”
John looked at Michael sharply.
“You’ve verified that?” Hunt questioned.
“Unfortunately,” Michael replied.
Vinnie, one of Michael’s security men, elaborated, “One of the men, who shortly afterwards died from a hit and run, had a crush on Magpie. As near as we can tell, he sabotaged her car out of jealousy. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else to, either.”
John looked at his half-sister’s stepfather, “Maggie figured that out. Didn’t she? At least, partially. That is why she did the double time decamp from your house.”
Michael nodded tightly. “She knew that someone had tried to kill her.”
“When I agreed not to contest Patty’s will which gave you guardianship of her, you promised me that you would keep her safe,” John said. “Mike, damnit, I trusted you with her.”
“I didn’t even know about this until just before last Christmas,” Michael responded defensively.
The effort that it took for John to bit back his reply was visible.
“Remonstrations aren’t going to change the past. If we are lucky, we will be able to keep this situation from becoming worse,” Hunt said quietly.
John nodded. “True,” he agreed tersely.
“Look,” Hunt told them, strongly, “The important thing is that she knows that the people who are holding her are not Basque separatists. She knows that this whole thing was designed to get her. Knowing that, she is going to find a way out, if there is one.”
John nodded. “I have confidence in her ability. If Maggie doesn’t panic, she’ll do better than most people would have,” her brother said quietly. “But, unarmed, against a group with automatic weapons. I wouldn’t want to be in that position myself.”
“Let’s see if we can unravel this enough to give her some help, shall we?” Hunt asked just before he pressed ‘play’ once more.
Maggie continued, “If you can’t meet the terms, bury me in the cemetery where Mom was buried. It is an hour or so outside of Madison. This time of year it should be a pretty drive. It’s a quiet place. Very old. Secluded. Small. I want my requiem said at either St. Teresa, St. John, or St. Thomas the Apostle’s. And see if Father Nathaniel Edwards, who baptized me, can officiate at the requiem. Oh, Hunt, I don’t care what you have to do to get me out of here. Just do it.”
He stopped the recording.
“Saint Teresa? St. Therese of Lieux, the Little Flower. St. Teresa of Avila . . . .” Hunt thought aloud.
Michael nodded. “Avila. Got to be. St. John and St. Theresa were co-workers in the reforming of the Carmelite order. Avila. It’s just outside of Madrid. Madison. Madrid. That has to be what she meant.”
Vinnie smiled. “Rewind the tape. I want to listen to that first exchange between Hunt and Maggie again.”
“It’s me,” Hunt’s voice said from the recorder.
“Ah, Hunt. Very sorry, sweetheart,” Maggie said, quickly. “I had to let them take your grandmother’s ring. Like it or not, there was no choice. At least, by letting them take my things neither of the two men with Uzis had any excuse to shoot me.”
“Catch it,” Vinnie asked in excitement. “Ah, Very, I, Like, At. It spells Avila.”
Hunt nodded. “It fits.”
Michael fast-forwarded the tape, stopping it at the burial instructions exchange. He played the tape.
Maggie continued, “If you can’t meet the terms, bury me in the cemetery where Mom was buried. It is an hour or so outside of Madison. This time of year it should be a pretty drive. It’s a quiet place. Very old. Secluded. Small. I want my requiem said at either St. Teresa, St. John, or St. Thomas the Apostle’s. And see if Father Nathaniel Edwards, who baptized me, can officiate at the requiem. Oh, Hunt, I don’t care what you have to do to get me out of here. Just do it.”
John spoke, “St. Thomas the Apostle. Thomas. doubting Thomas. Thomas is the patron of architects . . . .”
“Does she mean that she knows that she is in Avila in some architecturally interesting building? Or does she mean that she thinks, but can’t prove, that she is in Avila?” Hunt asked quietly. “Or is she telling us that she is in or near Avila and she doubts most everything else?”
“Unknown,” Michael replied, thoughtfully. “I’d wager that she has a good idea of the direction that she was taken. And I know that she has an ability to gauge distances. I suspect that she is in or around Avila.”
“It’s a place to start,” John agreed. “Rewind that. I want to hear those phrases again. We’ve missed something.”
They listened to the phrases again. Then Hunt shut off the player.
John smiled. “She knows that she’s not in Avila, proper. Wherever she is, it’s in a secluded area. And in an old, small, building.”
“We need to get some aerial photographs of the area. We can narrow down the number of possibilities from there,” Hunt said.
Michael nodded. One of his security men left the room.
Hunt pressed the play button again.
“I know that you will,” Maggie replied, then she cleared her throat painfully. “Some helpmate I’ve proven for you, my love,” she added tightly. “All I’ve caused you is trouble. First, with my stepfather, then with my brother, and now with this.”
“A better help than your captors’ know, Maggie mine,” Hunt replied quietly as he shut off the tape.
“This is all conjecture,” John stated reluctantly. “There isn’t a shred of this that would hold up in even a Spanish court.”
Hunt smiled slightly. “I know. But, it’s all that we have. I say that we go with it.”
“Anything’s better than sitting around here twiddling our thumbs, waiting for them to call with instructions,” Michael replied.
The security man returned to the room. “We’ll have the photos in a couple of hours, sir.”
Hunt looked at Michael. “Are we going to handle this ourselves, or involve the police further?”
“We should, at least, report the telephone call to the police. We don’t have to tell them that we took a tape of the conversation. In fact, the less that we tell the police, the better that I will like it,” Michael said.
“If we have to go in after her ourselves, it could have some serious international ramifications, in addition to Spanish charges being leveled against us,” Hunt replied thoughtfully. “The scandal could ruin your political ambitions, Michael.”
Michael nodded his blonde head. “That is true. But, all I am really concerned about is Daisy. Her safety has to come first. The longer we leave her with those men, the less safe she is.”
John sighed. “You know, we’ll be lucky if the Spanish don’t declare us all PNG and expel us from the country when this is all over.”
“I’d be more concerned with the Spanish tossing us all in jail,” Hunt said quietly. “I’d rather avoid Spanish jails, if at all possible.”
“We’ll all have tight alibi’s whatever happens,” Michael replied firmly. “Don’t worry about it.”
Hunt looked at Maggie’s stepfather. “Look, I agree that letting people in on our plans could be dangerous for Maggie. But, we really don�
�t want to step on Spanish toes. We ought to coordinate our efforts with theirs. Rescuing her will be easier if we can do it under the aegis of some arm of the Spanish government.”
Michael thought for a moment. “You may be right, Hunt.”
“But, before we contact the Spanish authorities, I’m going to hold a press conference,” Hunt said.
John nodded agreement. “It’s time to put a little pressure on the kidnappers.”
Michael frowned. “Not too much pressure. Or they might take it out on Daisy.”
“How much cash can we scrape together between us, today?” Hunt asked.
When they had a figure, Hunt sighed. “That’s about ten million pesetas. That should be enough of a reward for information leading to the safe return of Maggie and the capture and conviction of her kidnappers. That much money should get local people out looking for Maggie. The locals are more likely to spot anything out of the ordinary than we are.”
“I am hesitant to do that,” Michael said.
“The kidnappers have already released the story to the papers. Maggie’s picture has already been plastered all over the news media,” Hunt replied quietly. “Now, it is time to use their tactics against them. They can’t complain too strongly.”
“They could kill her,” Michael said.
“If we don’t do anything, they will kill her. We all know that,” Hunt countered. “I don’t believe that they have any intention of setting her free, in the first place. It’s time for more drastic action.”
John nodded. “I have to agree with Hunt, Michael. It’s time to do something. We know that Maggie was alive a couple of hours ago. At worst case, they may have already killed her, since she has now delivered their message.”
Hunt breathed raggedly. He had to acknowledge the truth in John’s words. They had proven that Maggie was alive. Keeping her alive now might not be necessary. The only reason that they might now be keeping her alive would be if they planned on having her deliver more messages.
Michael said, his voice almost shaking with pain, “We just don’t know who we are dealing with. If these people are amateurs, then we just don’t know what they might or might not do.”
“I wonder if they know, themselves,” Hunt replied quietly. “But, we have to mobilize the population. So far, the press accounts haven’t motivated them with sensationalism. Let’s see if greed motivates them any better.”
John looked at Hunt. Maggie’s half-brother said dryly, “That’s certainly the bottom line, isn’t it?”
“Motivation?” Hunt asked.
“Greed,” John replied.
“Unfortunately,” Hunt agreed.
Chapter 12
Maggie was shaken awake the next morning. The timing hadn’t been right for her to launch her plan. Barely awake, Maggie was yanked to her feet. She batted the hands from her as she came to awareness. “This is not necessary,” she said strongly in English. “Just tell me what you want. There is no need to manhandle me.”
“You are going to make another telephone call, Senorita O’Shay,” the leader said. “Come with me.”
Maggie gathered her sarong blanket more tightly around.
No blindfold this time. And no guards except the leader who now had the muzzle of his gun planted firmly in her back. She didn’t see why they had blindfolded her so the first time. The hall she walked down was empty. There were no windows. Neither was there anything in the hallway which she could use as a weapon. If it hadn’t been for the Uzi whose muzzle rested firmly on her third thoracic vertebra, she would not have gone so meekly with him.
When she was in the room with the telephones, the leader walked around the desk, put the weapon on safety, and let it hang down from the sling. He tossed a newspaper at her. “Sit down, have some breakfast, and read that,” he ordered gruffly.
The old wooden chair that sat before the desk was a new addition to the spartan furnishings of the room. Maggie took a seat and placed the newspaper down on the desk.
She picked up a churro from the plate on the desk and munched on it. The leader poured her a cup of hot chocolate from a thermos. The churros were not terribly well prepared. They tasted as though the oil had been allowed to grow more than slightly old and rancid. The hot chocolate was not much better. Yet, the warmth was a welcome relief from the chill she felt.
In the paper was the story of Hunt’s press conference. A reward was being offered for information leading to Maggie’s safe return. Ten million pesetas. Maggie did a quick calculation. The reward was nearly $80,000.
She folded the newspaper and returned it to the leader. “So?” she asked casually as she rose from the chair.
“You are going to get on the telephone in a few minutes and tell your loving fiancee what an awful idea that reward was.”
“No,” Maggie defied him.
“Don’t make us hurt you, Senorita,” the leader urged as he approached her menacingly. He struck her with bruising force, as he had before.
This time, Maggie didn’t hesitate. One swift knife-edged blow to his throat, followed immediately by a blow to his temple, took the man to the floor. She took the Uzi from him, placing it on the desk. Then, Maggie checked the leader for a pulse. He was alive, but unconscious, as she had intended. Maggie pulled off the ski mask the leader wore. This was the man whom Maggie had seen following her through the tapa bars. Somehow, that did not surprise her.
She quickly searched the desk where one of the telephones sat for something with which to bind the man. Wide, fiber reinforced tape. How perfectly ironic! A small pair of very sharp scissors lay beside the tape.
Quickly, she took some of the tape to gag him. Then she unfastened his shirt, rolled him over, and pulled the shirt from him. With economical movements, quickly bound his wrists behind him. Then rolled him over onto his back and removed his shoes and jeans. He was wearing a Walther PPK in an ankle holster. She relieved him of the small weapon. She checked it for ammunition. It was loaded.
Maggie placed the small gun within reach, before binding his ankles, knees and thighs with the tape. If he came around, he would have a very difficult time moving around.
Working quickly, she got rid of the coarse blanket that had been her clothing for far too long. She put on his shirt and jeans. The pants were too big around, but his belt tightened them up enough to wear. The inseam was about right. She would have liked to have had shoes. But, this man’s shoes were far too large. So, she took his socks and shoved them in the shirt pocket. She’d need something to protect her feet, if she had to run for it.
In his jeans pockets, she found three extra loaded clips for the Walther, as well as car keys, an assortment of Spanish money, and a loaded hypodermic syringe with a plastic cover over the needle.
She checked the necklace the man wore. On the chain was a Medic Alert emblem that stated, in English, that the man was a diabetic. She assumed, but couldn’t prove that the syringe was full of insulin. She placed the syringe back in the jeans pocket.
Maggie, then, telephoned the police. After giving them the barest of facts, she left the phone off the hook, in hopes that the circuit would stay open long enough to trace the call.
She was about to leave the small room, when another of the men, this one a brown-eyed blonde, came in. Seeing her, he reached for the Uzi that he wore on a sling. The Walther was in her hand. “I wouldn’t,” she warned in English. “Drop it, gently, one hand, by the butt end. Then step away, over to the wall.”
The blonde complied. Maggie approached him. So swift that he couldn’t block the blow, she kicked him in the abdomen. The blonde doubled over. A two fisted downward blow to the back of his neck took him to the floor, unconscious. Taking the tape and the scissors from her shirt pocket, she bound the blonde and taped his mouth shut, as she had the leader. Maggie rolled the man over and searched him. She found her passport on him. Pocketing the document, she continued her search. It was worth the time. He had a well balanced, extremely sharp, knife strapped to one ankle, and a loa
ded Ruger stainless steel Security Six .357 with a two inch barrel in a holster on the other. Maggie confiscated the cutlery, and the pistol.
Never having fired an Uzi, she left it behind, after pocketing the clip, ejecting the round from the chamber, and pocketing that round, as well. The situation was too dangerous for her not to be in full control of any firearms that she was carrying. But, she wasn’t going to leave any loaded weapon behind.
She made certain that the revolver had an empty chamber under the hammer before she shoved it into her jeans pocket. Then she pulled on the socks.
Maggie left the room. Walking as quietly as she knew how, she made her way out of the building into the early morning sunshine. The building was obviously a farmhouse. Keeping the Walther in her hand, she made her way around the building, trying to get her bearings. There had been only four men that she had seen since she had gotten here. Two of those had been taken care of. If the leader had wanted her to make a telephone call, then one of the men had obviously gone somewhere to make those arrangements, probably in the same way that they had made them before by running Michael all over Madrid from pay phone to pay phone. That left one man unaccounted for.
Had he gone with the other man to make the telephone calls?
Without warning, Maggie was knocked to her knees by the impact of a bullet hitting the musculature of her left shoulder. Waves of nausea spread over her. The pain was almost too much for her to tolerate. She felt faint. Suddenly, she was face down on the ground.
“I don’t want to kill you, Senorita,” the previously unaccounted for man, a wiry and dark man, said in rapid Spanish. “We don’t get the rest of our money if you are killed by accident.”
“Only if I am killed on purpose, right?” Maggie asked cynically, in English.
The dark haired man laughed. There was another loud thud of a suppressed weapon firing.
Fire ripped through Maggie’s left hip.
“I guess that you aren’t going anywhere, now,” he said in English. “Put down the Walther. Then roll over.”
