Chrome edging secured worn linoleum to the countertop, which was covered in boxes of cereal and dirty dishes. I grabbed the coffee, then walked around the room, pulling drawers out, looking for a measuring cup or spoon. The soles of my boots snagged the shabby linoleum floor, buckled in spots where it had split. I found a small plastic cup and used it to scoop the coffee into the filter.
Joe finished filling the pitcher and turned off the faucet.
“This better work,” he said.
Adam tromped back down the stairs. “Nobody’s up there.”
My stomach rolled in hunger, shocking me. I hadn’t eaten since Mrs. Pierce’s early morning breakfast, but was surprised that my body could think of such a thing at a time like this. My wife and daughter were kidnapped, being held at the hands of a maniac, and here I was rummaging around for food in a stranger’s kitchen.
I began to fumble through the cabinets. The refrigerator was about half full, with just a few items. There was a whole loaf of wheat bread in the freezer. I took that out and began to toast six slices. I found an unopened jar of peanut butter and decided it looked safe enough. Coffee and peanut butter toast. Searching some more, I found a bunch of ripe bananas on the top of the refrigerator. Who knew how long we’d be on the hunt? We’d need sustenance to continue the search. I popped some into my coat pocket, and didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it.
The first two pieces of bread popped out of the toaster. I started the next two as I strained to listen to the activities in the next room.
“Cripes!” Joe shouted. “Wake up, will you?”
I ran into the living room. Gilmer lay sideways on the soaked cushion, his hair plastered to his head. A sleazy smile played across his mouth.
“Try it again,” Adam suggested, pointing to the pitcher.
I grabbed it before Joe could and ran to the kitchen. This was taking far too long. I filled it quickly and ran back to the couch. Without hesitating, I dashed it against Gilmer’s face. He spluttered for a few seconds, and then went back to dreamland.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, fuming.
“He’s out, stone cold,” Adam said. “We might as well eat something, then work on him some more.”
I nodded in defeat. “Okay. Come on. I fixed some toast.”
We stood next to the grimy kitchen table and stuffed our mouths with bananas and peanut butter toast, gobbling it as fast as we could. The coffee, intended for the drunk, gave me the jolt of adrenaline I needed. In less than five minutes, we returned to Gilmer’s side.
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard. “For crying out loud, wake up.”
He wiggled out of my grasp and snuggled back onto the couch.
“What about the shower?” I said.
Joe nodded. “Yeah. It might work. Adam, was the bathroom on the second floor?”
“Yep. Right at the top of the stairs.”
“Okay. Gus, you take his legs. Adam, take his shoulders. I’ll help you with the middle.”
We struggled with the stinking man and eventually got him into the tub. Adam jerked the curtain out of the way and leaned over to turn on the water.
The cold shower splashed against Gilmer’s face and chest. He squirmed a little, then spluttered.
After two full minutes of drenching, he finally coughed, shivered, and pulled himself up on the edge of the tub.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I yanked him up by his hair and shouted into his face. “Where’s my family?”
He looked at me as if he hadn’t seen me before. “Towel,” he muttered.
Joe grabbed a frayed towel off the rack and threw it at Gilmer. “Where are they?” he said, his tone threatening.
Gilmer Saltzmann toweled off his shaggy head. Finally, he shrugged and blurted it out. “He came here first. I wouldn’t let him stay. No way am I going back to the joint.” He wrapped the towel around his shoulders, shivering.
“Where’d he go?” I shouted, ready to punch him again.
“He called some rich guy he’s been milking for contributions to his church. Went to Keuka Lake. To the guy’s cabin. It’s called Paradise. That’s all I know. He’s got both of them.”
Adam was on the phone in a second, asking someone at the department to look up a cottage on Keuka Lake with “Paradise” in the name. He found it within ten minutes, including directions to “Lakeside Paradise” on the upper west side of the lake, owned by one George Martinelli.
We left Gilmer in the bathroom, ran downstairs, and jumped into the Jeep. I took the keys back from Adam and careened onto the road.
Chapter 63
The wind whistled through downed trees and hardened the road slush to crusty snow. Telephone poles and iced wires still swayed dangerously overhead. The Jeep jumped sideways, pushed by a particularly brutal gust. I twisted the wheel to get us back in the lane, and continued east toward Keuka Lake.
We swung onto Route 15 and headed north toward Routes 5/20. The streetlights at the intersection were out, but the gas station on the corner was lit up like Christmas. A cop stood in the center of the road, moving his flashlight back and forth. I glanced at the gas gauge when we neared the Mobil station. Almost empty. I jerked the steering wheel and pulled up to a self-serve pump. Adam jumped out and unscrewed the cap.
“Do you need anything, Joe?” I asked.
He frowned for a minute. “Maybe some more D-sized batteries for the flashlights. And some juice or water. We might be out for a while.”
“Okay.” I jumped out of the Jeep and ran inside. There were a few people milling around inside, watching the news on the TV mounted in the corner of the ceiling. I grabbed what we needed, paid for everything, and ran back outside. The wind changed. It was oddly warm and blew harder, pushing empty shopping bags and debris across the parking lot. Thunder rumbled in the distance, punctuated by flashes of lightning.
A thunderstorm.
In March.
In Upstate New York.
I pulled out onto Routes 5/20 and sped eastward. The gusts of wind strengthened and whipped the trees and branches across the road. Tree limbs skidded across the fields and roadway. I braked and swerved several times to avoid collisions with brush and a few trashcans that rolled like tumbleweeds. There were few cars on the road and the pavement was just wet on the stretch of road that headed east toward Keuka Lake.
When we reached Lima, the first town past Avon, we were forced to stop again. A telephone pole lay diagonally across the intersection of Routes 5/20 and 15A. Fortunately, it had missed the buildings and vehicles that were parked along the road. The power lines jumped and sparked between the Donut Shop and the old inn on the opposite corner. I guessed it must have just happened since there were no fire or police in attendance. A tractor-trailer was stalled on the westbound side and a salt truck idled on the southbound approach. A cluster of concerned citizens had assembled in the nearby church parking lot with cell phones to their ears.
“Adam? Could you take out the Finger Lakes street map please? It’s in the pocket behind my seat.”
I backed up half a block, pulled into the fire department driveway, and snaked around the back of the building to merge with 15A south. We drove south for a few miles until Adam directed me to take a left on Chase Road. Just as I was feeling comfortable, we screeched around an S-curve and nearly plunged into a small lake flooding the road. I braked hard and skidded sideways, spraying water high into the air.
“Geez, we can’t catch a break,” Joe grumbled.
Adam rolled his window down and pointed to the cornfield. “Why don’t you try off-roading for a while? The ground looks solid.”
I backed up and followed his lead. The ditches were deep and full of melted water, but there was a tractor entrance that looked firm. I pulled into it and bounced over the shorn corn stalks up a gently sloping hill. We skidded sideways a few times when the tires slipped on mud. Finally, we reached the top of the hill and headed down the other side.
The flooding breeched a go
od half mile of road. I followed the ditch along the flooded road until I located another dirt track leading back onto the tarred road. Glad to have made it through the field, I let loose a sigh of relief.
It was short-lived.
The vehicle slid sideways. I lost control and the Jeep spun around, landing in the ditch. Mud splattered the passenger side windows and we tilted at a crazy angle. I tried to accelerate out of the mess, but it was no use. The wheels just spun.
Angrily, I jammed the shifter into reverse, then tried rocking it back and forth. We sunk deeper into the oozing mud puddle.
“We’ve gotta do this the hard way,” Joe said. He and Adam climbed out and stood near the back bumper. I opened my window to hear their instructions.
“Give it some gas,” Adam yelled.
The wheels spun again, squealing as we slipped from side to side.
“Again,” Joe shouted. “Back up as far as you can, then we’ll jump in and push when you put her in gear.”
I was tempted to howl and rage at the bad fortune that put us in a muddy cornfield, a half-hour from my daughter’s kidnapper. But I didn’t. I followed directions, gritted my teeth, and jammed it into reverse. I made about three feet of progress in the wrong direction, then pushed it into first again. Joe and Adam leapt into the muddy trench and pushed. Finally, the vehicle inched forward.
Adam pounded on the side of the Jeep. “Go, Gus. Go!”
I gave it more gas, and finally, we were free. The men jumped into the car, their faces and clothes splattered in mud.
I didn’t hesitate, but peeled onto the road and drove east. We were quiet for a while, then turned north on Doran Road and finally reconnected with the main route. I tried to stop imagining Camille, injured and sobbing. Shelby, screaming for him to stop beating her mother. Greg, delirious and berserk, turning on Shelby.
We raced through Bloomfield and Canandaigua, ignoring the signs of 30 mph in the deserted villages. After the small hamlet of Flint, I turned right on County Road 5, continued south, and by seven o’clock, merged with Route 14A just north of the town of Penn Yan. I squinted my eyes against the sun. It dropped fast into the blood red horizon.
We reached Penn Yan and turned right on Route 54A, then zipped along the western side of the lake.
We’re close now. So close.
I pulled the wheel hard left onto West Lake Road. It hugged the shoreline, heading toward Keuka College. Lights twinkled from the eastern side of the lake. Apparently the power hadn’t been knocked out all over upstate New York, and the spottiness of the outages surprised me.
The cottage was supposed to be just beyond the campus. But before we could reach the college, we rounded a bend in a heavily wooded section of the road and stopped. Blue and white fire flitted in the trees to our left. Wires sparked and snapped overhead, and a telephone pole swung dangerously over a nearby cottage. The trees erupted in flames.
“Good God,” Joe shouted. “Back it up, Gus.”
The transmission whined when I backed up fast to avoid the live snaking wires that had almost touched our car. A huddle of residents gathered on the far side beside a police cruiser. Red and blue lights flashed. Without warning, an explosion burst from a truck a hundred yards ahead when the power lines ignited its gas tank.
Residents scattered and the cruiser screamed backwards to avoid the orange flames licking toward it. I pulled a quick U-turn, barreling back up the road to escape the wires. We reconnected with Route 54A, turned left, then continued south for another half mile. Using the map, Adam directed us onto Assembly Road, the western approach to the college.
Chapter 64
After a few curves and turns, we approached the stately entrance of Keuka College. Freddie and I had toured the campus years ago. I’d always hoped Shelby might consider this private jewel located on the shore of one of the prettiest Finger Lakes.
The thought of Shelby stabbed at me again. I pushed the awful visions away and concentrated on driving through the parking lots.
Ball Hall, an imposing brick structure, sat proudly on the crest of the hill, surrounded by newer buildings that sprawled across the campus lawns. Students waltzed between the buildings in twos and threes, shivering and hanging on each other’s arms. They carried candles and gas lamps, transistor radios and boom boxes. Puddles of melt water shimmered on the icy lake stretching in the distance. I wondered if the college was equipped with generators. A few dim lights shone from Dahlstrom Hall, the building that housed the cafeteria and meeting areas. We crept past it and crawled along the parking lot.
I found a spot on the far end of the campus and tucked the Jeep between a blue Camaro and a Silverado truck. Daylight had faded. Pale pink dusk slowly melted into indigo blackness as we got out of the Jeep and walked briskly past the Saunders and Space dormitories. According to the directions Adam got from the department, the cabin was supposed to be only a few lots down from the college on the shore side of the road.
A sky-blue garage with the street number we were searching for glimmered across the street. Apparently, this section of the street hadn’t lost power either.
“That’s it,” Joe whispered.
A bright mercury light shone on the front of the building. On the garage, a sign said “Martinelli.” The house was nestled near the shore down the embankment, a mere ten feet from the water’s edge. A hairpin curve led to the steeply paved driveway, terminating at the side door.
The ranch appeared to have originally been two cottages, now linked together to make one long structure. A series of windows faced the road. We slid down the steep hill on the south side of the building under cover of fallen branches and darkness. A cement retaining wall met the driveway. We jumped over it, approaching the building.
Yellow light flooded from the windows on the south side of the house. Joe raised his forefinger to his lips and crept closer. Suddenly, the light snapped on in the room closest to us. Joe dropped fast beneath the window to stay out of sight. I held my breath. The sound of a toilet flushing was followed by steps that disappeared down the hallway.
Joe motioned us over, and Adam and I crept forward. The ground was wet and slippery and smelled of rotting leaves. I knelt on a cold rock and listened as Joe pointed to the window.
I heard Robinson inside, his voice ringing in anger. He cursed several times, almost screaming the words. Joe whispered to Adam to take position on the back door, nearest the road. Adam scurried toward it and Joe stepped up to the main entrance near the driveway with me close behind. He shouted loud enough for Adam to hear. “Now!”
Chapter 65
Someone screamed inside the cabin.
Instantly, Joe slammed his body against the door.
The damned thing didn’t budge.
He tried again, with no luck.
Scrambling noises and shouts came from inside. He motioned me back and aimed his gun on the lock. The thing splintered apart, and the door swung open. We raced inside. I heard Adam put a bullet through the back door just as we entered the kitchen.
Joe ran ahead, gun drawn. I sprinted behind him, calling for Shelby and Camille.
“Over here!” Adam yelled.
We ran down a hall, through a connecting foyer, and into the last room in the house, a bedroom.
Camille slumped on the floor near one of four twin beds. It looked like she’d tried to free herself from the ropes holding her to the bedrails and had actually dragged the whole bed away from the wall. A cloth gagged her mouth, and blood trickled down her forehead. Over one eye, an ugly bruise bulged purple.
“Camille.” I ran to her, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes blazed with terror. I struggled to untie the knot holding the gag in place. “Where’s Shelby?”
When I finally released the gag, she coughed and pointed toward the lake. “He took her,” she said.
We swiveled in the direction of the lake just in time to hear Shelby’s thin shriek.
“Save my baby,” Camille shouted. Her eyes
pleaded with me. She cried out, twisting and turning, and tried to free herself from the bonds on her wrists.
Adam scooted down beside her. “I’ve got her, guys.”
Joe and I streaked toward the lakeside door we’d missed on our first survey of the property. Greg must have used it to escape with Shelby, because now it swung wide open.
I flipped up a bank of light switches beside the door. Floodlights popped on, lighting up the deck and frozen lake.
In the distance, two figures struggled. Greg seemed to be dragging Shelby across the ice.
“Dad!” she screamed.
“Shelby!” I shouted, racing out the door, across the deck, and down the stairs. I tried to run on the wet ice, but slipped. Flying into the air, I came down hard and landed on my back. Joe appeared behind me, his face tense, but determined. This broad expanse of open space must have terrified him, but he dragged me to my feet and we hurried toward Greg and Shelby, skating across the ice in our boots.
“Robinson! Let her go!”
Shelby fought harder and yanked on Greg’s arm until he lost his balance and went down.
We moved faster, learning as we went how to move over the slippery surface without falling. The gap closed.
Shelby screamed. Greg cursed.
And then they disappeared.
My heart stopped. I tore across the ice to a glistening black patch of water where they flailed and splashed.
Greg dragged Shelby toward him when she tried to climb out. I ran for her, but Joe pushed past me and dove for Shelby’s arm, sliding forward on his belly.
“Let her go, Robinson,” Joe cried, seizing Shelby’s hand.
It was the first time I’d seen Greg in person. What surprised me most were his cherubic features and curly blond hair. With the exception of his nasty personality, he could have passed for a choirboy.
Under the Ice Page 21
