He peered out at the crowd. They were restless. It was time to conference with the press.
Raking a comb through his slightly mussed up hair, he tugged at the knot of his red, white, and blue paisley print silk necktie before stepping to the edge of the porch.
This was why the crowd had gathered. Sporadic hush-hushing quieted the media mob.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Theodore Hines. I’m the Special Agent In Charge of the FBI at the Salt Lake office. It appears Miz Julia Andrasy has fallen victim to foul play.”
“Why is the FBI involved? What happened to the local authorities?” a chunky man wearing a maroon Harley Davidson T-shirt shouted.
“The New Greensburgh Police asked for assistance and we’re giving it to them,” Hines replied. But that was a lie. He had waved his federal badge and snatched the case from under the locals’ noses, claiming Jewels’ disappearance was related to a major federal case. One that was a matter of national security. The locals had no reason to question him or protest.
“Did you a find a body?” one female reporter blurted out.
“No. There’s plenty of evidence Miz Andrasy fought back. We’re hopeful she’s still alive.”
“Word is, there’s blood splattered all over the house. Is it hers?” another female shouted.
“I can’t answer that question at this time.”
“Is it true her dog’s head was cut off?” a male voice quizzed from the sea of hungry reporters.
“It’s true the animal, a golden retriever, was killed, but not decapitated.”
A flurry of questions blistered Hines, reporters talking over one another in hope their question would be answered next.
Agent Hines waved his hands in front of him. “Please, please. One at a time.” Pointing to a fat man wearing a black tweed jacket, “Do you have a question?”
“Has a ransom note been found?”
“No. And we don’t think we’ll see one. We don’t believe Miz Andrasy’s disappearance was motivated by financial gain, but we’re not completely ruling it out.”
“If not money, then what’s the motive?” the fat man blurted out.
Hines ignored him, pointed to the young man standing next to the fat guy as an indication he’d field his question next.
“Thank you, Agent Hines. Do you think Miz Andrasy’s disappearance is connected to her friend’s murder that just happened yesterday? Perhaps even the motive for her disappearance?”
Hines shifted his eyes to the floor. Jingled the loose change in his pocket. Thinking. After taking a deep breath, he looked above the heads of the reporters, purposely avoiding eye contact. “We don’t know exactly what happened yesterday or to what extent Miz Andrasy was involved. I can tell you, however, we haven’t ruled out the possibility of a connection.”
“I did some digging on Sharon Jeppson,” an enthusiastic young reporter called out, “and she seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth about two years ago until she cropped up yesterday at the deli, murdered. Do you know where she’s been and why she surfaced after two years off the grid?”
FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines, frowned. Eyes narrowed. Leg stance widened. Leaned his body forward slightly toward the annoying reporter, exhibiting subtle aggressive body language as in indication that was all the answer the young man was going to get on the subject.
“So what are you doing to find Julia Andrasy?” piped up a pudgy Barbara Walters look-alike standing in the back row.
Nodding his head at her, and relaxing his stance a bit, he answered, “We have an APB out on Miz Andrasy’s Humvee. This vehicle is highly customized and very distinctive. The locals would know it instantly. And before you leave, I would like each of you to have a color photo of Miz Andrasy’s Hummer which will also be available to download from our web site. If anyone sees this vehicle, or anyone saw this vehicle between approximately ten last night and six this morning, they should contact me directly and immediately.”
“Do you think she’s still alive?” the Walters look-alike probed.
“We have no evidence to the contrary and certainly hope so.”
A tall lanky man, pen and pad in hand, pushed his way forward. “What tipped you off that Miz Andrasy was missing?”
“Last night Miz Andrasy sent an electronic message to her secretary who discovered it just this morning. It was a message of distress. Exactly what was happening to Miz Andrasy when she sent the message is unknown at this time.”
A second flurry of questions bombarded Hines.
Holding up his hands like stop signs, “Folks. Folks, that’s all for now. Thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
FRIDAY, 0848 HOURS. “Hey, Doc! How’s our girl?” Tank called, bursting through the exam room door.
A deflated Callahan sat in a chair next to an empty exam table, his face doused in misery.
The room looked like it had been ransacked by a crack head in search of a fix. Cabinet drawers and doors open. Medical paraphernalia scattered all over the floor and across the counter tops.
Thrusting his hands on his hips and gazing down at him, “What the fuck happened, Doc?” Tank quizzed, annoyance in his voice.
Shaking his head, Callahan confessed, “I strapped her down, like you said. But then we got talking and...,” he shrugged, “she needed to go to the bathroom.”
That’s all Tank needed to hear. He knew exactly what had happened: the bitch had tricked the marshmallow-hearted old geezer and escaped.
“Shit,” he snorted, swiftly turning and sprinting out of the exam room. Erupting into the gloomy hall, “Red alert! Red alert! Prisoner’s escaped! Prisoner’s escaped,” he bellowed.
Chapter Seventeen
ONLY THE NOISE OF THE SOLES of army boots madly slapping against the damp stone floor could deafen the hammering of Jewels’ heart. Abruptly the hurried pounding of heavy boots stopped. A meager army gathered outside the closet door that kept Jewels invisible. Instead of retreating into the darkness, she felt compelled to keep an eye on the group and peered through the crack, but camo-clad legs and black lace-up army boots were all she could see.
“Men, our escaped prisoner is a woman.”
Jewels cringed. She knew that voice. It was her kidnapper’s.
Catcalls rose from the men like steam from a pressure cooker whose lid had just opened.
“Not that you really need to know more details other than it’s a woman you’re looking for—”
“So we’re looking for that Sharon skank,” one of the men blurted out, referring to the only female member ever admitted into the group.
Laughter erupted.
Snickering, Jewels’ kidnapper clarified, “Nope. She’s gone. Won’t be back.”
“Ahhh, I’m gonna miss that girly ass,” a man said, with a demeaning laugh.
“Ta hell with her ass,” another man scolded. “She was thee design wizard of our booby trap bombs and with—”
“Pay attention,” Jewels’ kidnapper ferociously interrupted.
The men instantly fell silent.
“You’re looking for a woman about five seven, long blonde hair, maybe a hundred-fifteen pounds. Her name is Julia. Julia Andrasy.”
Her kidnapper’s audience gasped.
“That’s right guys, she’s the Commander’s woman. So for chrissake, don’t kill her and make sure you don’t hurt her either. She must be apprehended unharmed. But one word of caution: don’t let the fact she’s a pretty little dame fool you into thinking she couldn’t cause you pain. She’s as nasty as a grizzly caught in a steel trap, so be careful.”
Scoffs and murmurs of disbelief rumbled through the gathered men.
“I’m fuckin’ serious. This woman shot me. Even tried to rip my eyes out. And poor Doc Callahan, well, she really pulverized his clusters.”
Odd grunts and groans of misery filled the hallway. Jewels imagined eyebrows arching and faces grimacing to match the sounds.
“So watch your eyes and balls,�
� Jewels’ kidnapper warned. “She couldn’t have gotten very far in this hippie complex, but she could be holed up somewhere. I want every nook and cranny searched. And when you find her, take her to the infirmary and wait for me. I’ll be outside searching the compound perimeter.”
Every nook and cranny searched? Presumably including the one she was hiding in less than two feet from the searchers. Shit! Discovery was imminent. Jewels pinched her eyes shut, held her breath, and crossed her fingers. Wishing. Hoping. Praying. If God or Lady Luck ever considered helping her, now would be the time.
Once again the sound of army boots hurriedly thumping against rock swelled within the corridor. Then silence. Call it dumb luck, the hand of God, her fairy godmother, or just plain incompetence on the part of the searchers, but not one of them had bothered to inspect the closet right behind them.
Despite her momentary good fortune, Jewels’ teeth chattered from the awestruck terror shredding her innards like a demon blender. How was she going to elude capture? Of course reaching the top of the stairs would be a good start, though her kidnapper told his men he was going outside.
Still, kidnapper lurking outside or not, maybe once free of the dungeon and outside, she’d find her Humvee and ... “Be gone like a bat out of hell,” Jewels whispered to herself.
After calmness filled the corridor for several minutes, though still jittery on the inside and out, she eased the storage door open wide enough to peek her head around the corner.
Empty hallway.
Scurrying on all fours out of the cubby space, she lunged to her feet. As a precaution, she vigorously dusted off her arms and legs then shook her head, swatting at the strands of hair just in case one of the giant spider’s relatives wanted to hitch a ride.
Just then, behind her down the hall, pandemonium was unleashed. Men shouting to one another. Doors ripping open and slamming closed. Sporadic shuffling and thudding of heavy steps hammering against the rock floor. An echoing symphony of chaos. A prelude to unavoidable capture ... unless she got out of there. Fast!
Advancing in DEFCON Two defensive mode—ready for war—surgical scissors in one hand and the scalpel in the other, Jewels surreptitiously traversed the dungeon-like corridor toward the stairs. The door was ajar. Brilliant rays of sunshine illuminated the way. “Light at the end of the tunnel,” Jewels whispered with a slight smile, a surge of hope for freedom instantly yanking the plug on the demon blender that had been pureeing her innards.
At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused for a moment, mustering courage. Blowing air threw puffed cheeks, “You’re operating in the red now,” she whispered, reminding herself that DEFCON Two mode was the equivalent of Jeff Cooper’s red in the color codes of awareness for escalating self-defense. Only one color, black, or one level, DEFCON One remained: active fighting in a no-holds-barred war. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to engage in battle.
Bounding up the rock stairs toward the light, she halted at the top. On the other side of the door, daylight. Freedom.
Still grasping her improvised weapons, one in each hand, she extended her foot out to hook her big toe around the bottom of the metal door. Exerting a bit of force with her leg, she edged the door open with her foot, keeping herself hidden behind the weighty slab.
The hinges ground out a long, lazy whine as they rotated. Jewels cringed and gritted her teeth, hoping the sound wouldn’t blow her escape.
With her foot lodged as a doorstop and shielding her face with her forearm from the sunshine, she snooped around the corner. Immediately spied her Hummer. It was parked under a massive free standing awning. Fifteen or twenty other four-wheel-drive vehicles were neatly lined up in rows four deep. Her H1 was parked not more than fifty feet in front of her, in the end spot closest to the door she was hiding behind. A viable means of escape was right in front of her. The prospect of freedom electrified her body.
Taking stock of her surroundings, her attention was drawn to the road in front of her. The dirt and gravel four-wheel-drive trail leisurely wound through a meadow, the length of about two city blocks. The grassy flatland was bordered by towering pines interspersed with quaking aspen. The well-traveled road seemed to vanish into the dense thicket at the end of the meadow, instantly reminding her of Sharon’s crude map. Would this route lead to the main road or near the lake Sharon had sketched and, more importantly, would either be populated enough to summon help from others? Or would the road direct her to the cabin ... the one Sharon had underlined and traced over multiple times for emphasis? Maybe that cabin wasn’t a cabin at all, but a Ranger’s station with a radio and staffed with armed rangers and ...?
A half dozen men were walking away from her at the far perimeter of the meadow, presumably searching for her. All were dressed in woodland green camouflage, identical to the flowing T-shirt Doc had given her.
One last time she surveyed the scene. No sign of her kidnapper. Appeared clear. “On the count of three,” she whispered. “One ... two ... three.” Bolting from behind the metal door, she exploded into a dead run toward her Hummer. The sharp edges of crushed rock—inexpensive man-made gravel—clawed and chewed the tender soles of her feet, but she clenched her teeth and endured the pain. In another twenty feet she’d be there.
“Gotcha!” he barked from behind her, followed by the distinctive sound of a cartridge being chambered in a long gun.
Jewels knew that voice. It was her kidnapper’s. Skidding to a halt, goosebumps sprouted. Heart flip-flopped. Where the hell did he come from? Seemed to appear out of nowhere, just like he had in her kitchen.
No way would she give up without a fight. DEFCON One! With white knuckles constricted around the makeshift defensive tools, she drew her elbows in close to her chest to assume a modified boxer’s guard position, concealing the scissors and scalpel as best she could. Possessing hidden weapons afforded her the advantage of the element of surprise in the counterattack. Would it be enough to prevail against a commanding barbarian wielding an assault rifle?
The sound of dried leaves and gravel crunching forewarned his determined strides were rapidly approaching. Rotating her head and body in opposite directions to keep her weapons from his sight, she peered over her shoulder. No more than a yardstick away he stood.
A mammoth of a man. Six four, three-hundred-twenty-five pounds. Solid muscle. Perfect chestnut complexion. Bullethead, shaved and shiny. Eyes beady, black, and piercing, hovering above a large flat nose like Mike Tyson’s. A perfectly trimmed Fu Manchu mustache framed a cruel mouth. Sparkling in his left ear lobe, a diamond solitaire. A woodland green camo T-shirt spanned his massive chest, revealing vascular bloated biceps.
It was the first time she had seen her kidnapper without the leather mask disguising most of his face and black clothes covering his body from chin to ankles. No doubt, he was more intimidating and bone-chilling without the mask.
“You’re a real smart one,” he said, aiming the front sight at her head.
Remaining unruffled, she waited, head still craned over her shoulder toward him. Scissors and scalpel still clutched to her chest.
Snickering, yet in a tone that noted he was impressed with her cunning, “Fooled poor Doc Callahan. From the looks of him you musta really busted his nuts.”
Swallowing dryly, she held her ground, maintaining composure.
“Okay, tough-girl. Play time’s over. Drop whatever shit you got in your hands and hit the gravel,” he ordered, inching the barrel closer toward her ear.
Wait. Timing is everything, she told herself.
Jewels didn’t waiver. Kept an eye on him. Her ace in the hole was the fact he couldn’t kill her. Wasn’t even supposed to hurt her because she was the Commander’s, whoever he was.
Still, the AR in her face was a problem. Whether or not he was supposed to keep her from harm, accidents happened, especially with guns. Accidents with firearms were at higher odds of occurring especially in tense situations. Jewels had reported too many stories about people mistakenly tapping a trigger tha
t resulted in wounding or killing a person they had no intention of harming. That sobering fact alone was cause enough to reconsider the option of surrendering. But she refused, figuring eventually he’d have to lower the barrel and point the muzzle at the ground. And when he did: DEFCON One.
“Are you fuckin’ deaf?” he snarled.
Obviously a rhetorical question. She didn’t respond or flinch.
“GRRRRR,” he growled. “What is it with you?” Unmistakably boiling with impatience over Jewels’ failure to succumb to his intimidation tactic, he slung the AR over his back in frustration. “Goddammit!”
This was what she had been waiting for ... the opportunity to strike.
“I said get down in that fuckin’ gravel or I’ll put you down,” he demanded, seizing her slight shoulder in his massive palm and clamping down his fingers.
Code black! Twirling around, she launched an aggressive counterattack. Like a prize fighter in a brutal bout, her fists pounded a torrid flurry of right and left hooks, the scalpel and scissors slicing and puncturing the flesh of her kidnapper’s face, chest, hands, and arms. If she was lucky, she’d hit a main artery. Kill the bastard.
As she had hoped, and despite his own words of caution regarding her tenacious nature, her counterstrike caught him off guard. Instantly he recoiled, howling in pain, his hands covering the wicked slash gouged across his cheek. Blood streamed between his thick fingers, over his broad chest, and down his well-developed forearms from the numerous wounds. “My face! You fuckin’ bitch! My face!”
His momentary retreat and preoccupation with his gushing injuries presented Jewels with the opportunity to resume her mad dash to the Hummer.
“Jesus, God,” he hollered, deep distress in his voice.
Jewels couldn’t help herself, looked back, watched as he attempted to shoulder the rifle, but instantly dropped it to apply direct pressure with the palm of his left hand on the spurting wound on his upper right arm.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 15
