by Maria Herren
"My parents did, too, Jimmy. Can I have s'more soup?"
“'Are ya' sure ya' won't get sick, Charly? I have ta' keep cleanin' you up."
"I'm feeling better now, Jimmy. If I get sick again maybe I could help clean myself if you unwound this wire around my arms."
"They wouldn' like that," he said, decisively.
"Do you like cleaning up after me when I get sick?" she asked.
"No, Charly, I really don't," he admitted.
"I could feed myself, too, Jimmy. And you wouldn't have to keep wiping my chin," she told him.
Finally he made his decision. "Promise ya' won't eat too much too fast?"
"I promise, Jimmy," she whispered, barely breathing, afraid that he would change his mind.
He got the cutters and clipped the wires. She massaged her wrists for a second before reaching greedily for the bowl and slurping slowly under his watchful eye.
"Thank you, Jimmy," she said.
He loved doing things to make her happy, and when she said, "Thank you, Jimmy." Nobody had ever thanked him before from as far back as he could remember.
"Yer welcome, Charly," he said, liking the sound of that, too. He wanted to add that he thought he loved her but he remembered the warning from his brothers. They didn't want him to like her too much because she couldn't stay.
"Where are we, Jimmy?" she asked, interrupting his reverie.
"Well, we're here in the cabin!" he said, laughing as if he were speaking to a child who'd said something silly.
"I mean, are we close to anybody else? You know, like neighbors, or friends?"
"Oh! You mean like Sam!"
"Right, Jimmy! Is Sam a friend of yours?"
"He's a lot closer to the lake. He don't talk much to me," Jimmy said.
"Well, that's not very nice of him," Charly said.
"No. He's not very nice," Jimmy said.
Charly handed him the empty bowl and he marched it promptly through the doorway. The broth had given her strength. The numbness was leaving her mouth. It had been awhile since they'd drugged her. Which meant that the brothers would be coming back soon. She didn't have a lot of time.
"Do I see a radio in there, Jimmy?"
He was excited. "Yeah, Charly. We've been kind of listening to things while you was sleepin'."
"Did you hear anything interesting?" she asked.
''Not really, Charly," he said, shuffling his feet. "Just the news and stuff."
"Can you get some music stations on it?"
"I ain't too sure, Charly, why?" he asked her, curiously.
"It's been a long time since I got to move my legs much, and I'd like to try to dance a little, Jimmy," Charly said, tapping her foot to an imaginary beat.
He frowned at her. "I don't know how to dance, Charly. I really ain't too good at movin' around."
"I'll tell you what, Jimmy!" she said, enthusiastically. "Why don't you just turn on the radio and we'll see if you can find some music I could show you how to dance to!"
An interested gleam came into his dull eyes and she knew she'd almost convinced him to trust her.
"I dunno, Charly," he said, but his whole body was quivering with excitement. He got up and turned the radio on.
"Bring it in here, Jimmy!" she called. "I can hardly hear it!" She looked down at the wire that was knotted around her ankles. "Bring those cutters out here, too!"
He cut her loose and helped her stand on shaky legs. "Are ya' sure ya' kin teach me? I ain't a very good learner," he explained.
"I'm sure, Jimmy. I can barely hear the music. Would you turn it up a little louder?"
He bent down and she swayed softly toward him. "It's like this, Jimmy," she said, rocking slowly from side to side. He was mesmerized, trying hard to follow her movements. "That's good, Jimmy. That's really good," she said, encouragingly.
He smiled proudly back at her. "Am I dancin'?"
"You're dancing beautifully, Jimmy, but I don't think this is the right music. See if you can get another station," she suggested.
He turned back to the radio and knelt down to switch the dial. She came up behind him, standing on tiptoe with the cutters raised. God please forgive me, she prayed before she plunged them into his neck.
It was a deep wound, but it wasn't enough.
He was like a raging bull, clawing at his neck and screaming. She forced the clippers deeper and finally he grabbed her hands, swung her away from him. He charged toward her with murder in his eyes. She crawled away from him, into the other room, under the kitchen table. She could see a knife by the kitchen sink.
"Why, Charly?" he screamed. "I like you! Why would you hurt me?" His voice had grown softer and softer. He was getting weak from the loss of blood. "Jimmy likes you," he moaned, sinking to his knees.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy," she whispered.
"S'okay," he whispered back. He reached out a big hand. Her hands were trembling but she held his big hand in both of hers. "Yuh sure' are purty," he whispered, before he died.
⇼
She ran rapidly down the hill, stumbling through bushes and into trees. Branches whipped across her face and tore at her clothes. She was running in blind panic and didn't feel the pain of the limbs that were flaying her or the barbs that embedded themselves in her body.
Eventually she could smell the water and see his cabin. She propelled herself faster through the underbrush.
Sam had the coals going and was fishing for dinner when he heard her come crashing down the mountain. Thinking it might be a wounded animal, he ran inside to grab his shotgun. He had her in his sights when she stumbled out of the woods.
"Stand where you are!" he thundered. "Put your hands where I can see 'em!"
She stopped dead in her tracks and tried unsuccessfully to raise her arms over her head.
"I ... I need ... your help," she panted, walking forward, unconsciously daring his gun.
Now he could see that she was covered in blood. "Stop right there, ma'am, or I'll shoot you where you stand."
Charly stopped.
"Sam?" she asked, hesitantly.
"How do you know my name?" he yelled.
"Jimmy ... told ... me," she whispered, sinking to her knees. "I just ... killed him."
⇼
Sam was busy wiping the blood from her face when she came to. The gratitude in her eyes embarrassed him.
"I've done called the sheriff's office," he said, looking away. "They'll be here soon to take you in."
''No!" Charly yelled, trying to force herself up. "We can't wait! Get us out of here! You don't understand!"
"I understand what I can, ma'am," he said, calmly. "I understand that you've killed Jimmy and interrupted my dinner. Anything more complicated than that is up to the authorities."
She kept from screaming at him with great effort. "Sam?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I need to make a phone call."
He spit a steady stream from his tobacco. "Would it be a long distance call, ma'am?" he asked, politely.
"Just one phone call?" she asked, again.
"On this mountain, anything past the sheriff's office and the fishin' store is long distance," he explained.
"Then I guess it would be," Charly said.
"Well then I'd prefer that you didn't," he said. "Sheriff Tate will let you use the office phone."
There was nothing she could say to change his mind and she knew it. "I don't like to get involved in people's personal problems," Sam said, apologetically.
Charly glared in frustration. The hell with it, she thought, closing her eyes, wearily.
The gunshots woke her up.
Charly leaped forward, screaming in horror at the sight of the tall man standing over Sam's fallen body. His face was twisted in a hideous mask of rage.
"Hello, Charly!" he snarled.
Fourteen
The cabin was quiet and the coals were cold when Sheriff Ralph Tate got out of his jeep. "Had a flat tire, Sam!" he called out. "Had to borrow this jeep.
Sorry I took so long!"
Sam hadn't given him any details over the phone, just told him to come on up the mountain as soon as he should. It was unusual for Sam to ask him to his cabin and even more unusual to ask him to hurry. Prob'ly caught more fish than he could eat by himself, Ralph thought. Hope he's got some left!
"Sam!" He called in through the screen door. "If you'd told me I was comin' for dinner I would've brought some beer!"
He pushed the door open and stopped cold at the sight of the tracks of blood leading to the back of the cabin. He dropped in a crouch with his revolver drawn, listening for any noise. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light in the room and he could make out Sam's boots sticking awkwardly into the hallway from the bathroom.
Standing over Sam's limp body he lowered his gun and sagged against the doorway.
"It took you awhile to get here, Ralph," Sam said with great effort, opening his eyes and breathing shallowly.
"Jesus Christ!" Ralph swore, kneeling quickly. "What the hell happened?"
''Long story, Ralph," Sam said with a grimace. "Get in the cupboard and let's get me patched."
"Who did it?" Ralph asked, moving quickly to the cupboard.
"One of the Salvi brothers. I'm not sure which one, but my guess is it wasn't Jimmy," Sam said.
Ralph tied off Sam's leg above the blood running from his knee. "Where else are you hit, Sam?"
"One went through my shoulder. There's one in my chest. Don't worry about my neck. It looks pretty bad but it's just a flesh wound," Sam said.
Ralph nodded, rolling him as gently as he could onto his back. "Where are your scissors?" he asked.
"Same cupboard. Upper left. Got some gauze up there, too."
It was the first time Ralph had ever seen his bare chest. Old scars stood out wickedly against the new blood on his dark skin. Some had been stitched together roughly and their uneven ridges left a strange pattern. Others were deep and had created small ravines for the blood. Ralph made no comment while he packed the wound. "I've got to get you to the truck, Sam. You're losing a lot of blood," he paused. "It's going to be a pretty rough walk. You got any whiskey?"
Sam grunted his assent. "... cupboard... over the sink," he let out a low laugh. "Don't break the crystal."
Ralph laughed, too, until he opened the cupboard and saw all of the neatly arranged crystal glasses. He found the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels easily. It had a big red bow on it. He poured as much as he could into Sam before taking a belt himself.
"Ready to go, partner?"
"I've been waitin' on you, Ralph," Sam said.
Ralph sped down the mountain, not slowing for the curves. Sam didn't comment, but whenever a quick turn threw his shoulder against the door he took another long pull from the bottle.
Ralph had known Sam for enough years to know that he would talk when he was ready. He concentrated on the dark road.
Finally, Sam tilted his head slightly. "Has there been any mention of a kidnapping lately?"
"Nothing much, unless you count the Gravier's missing cat."
"Is he a big gray?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," Ralph said.
"He's not missin'. I've seen him. Been feedin' him scraps," Sam said.
"That'll make their day. In that case, no. No kidnappings around town. Why do you ask?" Ralph questioned.
Ralph took another curve sharply. Sam took another drink of whiskey.
"A lady came to my cabin. Looked distressed. Said she'd been kidnapped and had just killed Jimmy Salvi," Sam finally told him.
"What do you mean by "distressed," Sam?" Ralph asked.
"There was some blood on her," Sam told him.
"What kind of car was she driving?" Ralph asked.
"No car," Sam said. "She came on foot down the mountain from their cabin."
Ralph stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me this when you called?"
"I figured she'd tell the story better. I don't like getting involved in other people's problems. Watch the road, Ralph," Sam warned.
"Would you be able to describe her?" Ralph asked.
"Yeah, I got a real good look at her when I cleaned her face," Sam said.
Ralph offered him some more whiskey. "What does she look like?" he asked.
"Black hair. Green eyes. Nice features. Strong body. Her name's Charly," Sam said.
Ralph choked on the whiskey. "Was her last name Carruci?"
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Sam said.
Ralph punched the gas pedal and they screeched down the mountain. He put out on the wire all the information Sam could give him before they took him into surgery.
⇼
It was the night for the money to be wired to the accounts that had been set up by the kidnappers. Frank had made it known that he would be the only one to notify Carlo of any unforeseen developments but staring at the photographs he'd just received of Jimmy's body and the bloodstains from Sam's cabin he still hadn't made the call to Carlo.
Carlo had agreed to wait in his office a few blocks away at one of his restaurants until the transaction was complete. He didn't know a lot about computers and he didn't want to make anyone else nervous.
There was a soft knock at Frank's door. "Who is it?'' he demanded, irritably.
"There's an Agent Eric Tyler to see you, sir," responded a timid voice. "He's right behind me and he's got credentials."
The door opened and his assistant fled before he had the chance to glower at her. "Do I know you?" Frank asked, heaving himself up from behind the desk.
"No, sir, you don't," Eric was standing at attention. "Several friends you've talked to in Washington say you should."
Frank shut the door. "Give me a name."
Eric did.
It was all Frank needed. "Sit down," he commanded.
Frank put his glasses on and folded his hands neatly over his belly. He stared at Eric. "So this is what they send me when I ask for an expert."
"Yes, sir," Eric said.
Frank took a deep breath. "I have got to tell you, Eric Tyler, I expected someone a little older who wouldn't mind giving his career a quick flush down the toilet."
Eric was relaxed in his chair and he didn't respond. He had a call out to his father, but Frank didn't need to know that.
"So why are you doing this?" Frank asked.
He caught the dark glint in Eric's eyes when he said, "Personal reasons, sir."
Frank leaned forward. "Anything you'd like to tell me about?"
"No, sir," Eric said.
"Not much of a talker. Good," Frank said, coming around his desk. "All right. I asked for a professional and they give me one. Has the situation been explained?"
"Yes, sir. It's a kidnapping and the husband has agreed to pay the ransom. My job is to do whatever I can to catch the kidnappers," Eric said.
"That was the story until twenty minutes ago. Look at these," Frank said, handing the fistful of pictures to Eric.
"The first five are pictures of the scene where the victim was last seen alive," Frank said. "All of the blood is accounted for and none of it's hers. The rest are of the man we think she killed. We're waiting for the fingerprints."
Eric felt his blood run cold. It was like a chill over his entire body. For a second he could hear the pounding of the veins in his head. He took in the tragedy of the scenes in a matter of seconds. He spread the photos out on the desk and fired off questions.
"How far apart are the sites?"
"It's almost three miles on the road, but apparently she didn't use it. She ran straight down the mountain," Frank said.
"How long has it been since she was seen alive?"
"Close to four hours," Frank replied.
"Has there been any communication with her captors since then?"
''None," Frank said.
"Does her husband know about this yet?"
''No," Frank said.
"Have you thought about how this may affect the drop?"
"Not yet. I haven't had time," Frank said.
"Why don't you take a few minutes to think about it while I get myself some coffee?" Eric said.
Frank stared at the closed door.
Fifteen
They approached Carlo with the idea of waiting to hear from the kidnappers again before they did anything, but it was impossible to change Carlo's mind about the money. "I don't want to make them any angrier than they already are! Give them the goddamn money!"
Carlo stayed at the restaurant. He was past exhaustion, but it was hard to tell it from his frantic outpouring of energy. Margaret watched him without comment.
"How's the restaurant tonight, Margaret?"
It seemed like a lifetime since he'd asked her anything about the business. Margaret knew that he really didn't care; he was just trying to keep his mind away from his fear. "We're booked solid. They're lined up back to belly at the bar. Everyone..." she stopped for a second to reconsider. "Everyone is asking about you," she finished, softly.
"I'm going to take a look around," Carlo said.
He walked through the kitchen, stopping to sniff the aroma from a huge steaming kettle on the stove. "How was the produce today, Lorenzo?" he asked the busy masterchef.
"Fresh enough, Carlo. It was better yesterday," Lorenzo told him. "And the fish?"
"So-so. I didn't buy too much. The Chilean Sea Bass was excellent but we're already out," he said, briskly chopping a handful of fresh basil. ''Not enough of our guests are ordering the lasagna," Lorenzo pronounced.
He always made the same complaint. Lasagna was his favorite food item. "Have you heard some good news about Charly?" Lorenzo asked, hopefully.
"Nothing yet, Lorenzo," Carlo announced, curtly.
"Yeah, okay. My wife, she baked a pie for you," he said, gesturing toward one of the refrigerators. "I told her you've already eaten the whole thing and enjoyed every bite," Lorenzo said.
"Thanks, Lorenzo," Carlo said.
Margaret's head popped through the swinging door. "It's your telephone, Carlo," she said, urgently.
Carlo rushed back to his office, his heart beating wildly. He was hardly breathing when he picked up the line. "Are you there, Frank?" he asked.
