by Nevada Barr
There was a stunned silence.
“But thank you for asking,” Anna said.
Rhoades snorted.
Roland squashed her annoyance between thinning lips.
Rhoades and Roland.
Nancy and Manny.
Manny Rhoades. Many roads. Nancy Roland. Nancy Ronald. Ronald Reagan. Nancy Reagan. Aliases? Why Anna’s thoughts ran down that rabbit hole, she wasn’t sure. Neither name was unusual or uncommon but they rang a false note. Anna let it go. When every bell rang a false note one had to move on or cross from borderline to genuine paranoid.
Nancy managed a belated laugh. “You have a wonderful sense of humor, Anna. Of course I meant rescue . . . Helena . . . a second time in the sense of helping us to get her the care she so desperately needs.”
“She can get that from you?” Anna asked.
“She can get that from me—from us—” Nancy included Manny.
Anna resisted the temptation to ask if either one of them was breastfeeding at the moment.
“Mrs. Martinez is having trouble letting go of the baby,” Nancy confided. “It’s perfectly understandable. She’s recently given birth herself. The mothering instinct is strong right now. But it is best for the baby if it can have proper medical care and so forth.”
“What’s the mailing address of your office in Midland?” Anna asked Manny.
He looked at Nancy as if he could crib answers from her face.
Nancy started to speak, presumably to give the address for him.
Anna held up a hand to silence her. “What street is it on, Manny? What’s the phone number there?”
“Manny hasn’t been with us long,” Nancy said sharply. “I don’t see where you’re going with this, Miss . . .”
Anna stood up. “Could I see some ID?”
An awkward silence descended on the sofa. The cat yawned audibly. Manny started to get up.
“Stay,” Anna said. He sat back down but he didn’t like it.
“You want to see our driver’s licenses?” Nancy said carefully.
“Let’s start with that,” Anna said.
Nancy rearranged her face into sterner lines. “Really, I don’t think you can demand ID of us. You’re not a policewoman, are you?” This was said with sugary politeness, the kind women use to best other women in arguments, to show they, at least, have risen above vulgarity. It was not a weapon Anna ever chose because it was not sharp enough.
“And I’d like to see identification from your office.”
“This is absurd,” Nancy said. “Do you want me to call the police? I will if I have to and you could serve jail time. Interfering in the care of a child who is the ward of the state is a serious crime in Texas.”
Before Anna could respond the piercing sound of a baby crying cut through the thick atmosphere.
Nancy went on point with the hunting instinct of a bird dog. Manny rose from the couch, looking not at all like a nerd and every inch an enforcer.
“The kid’s here,” he stated flatly, as if that was the end of the discussion of the proper care and feeding of a foundling.
“That’s Edgar,” Anna said with as much dismissal as she could dredge up through a voice box tight with fear. “Lisa and Freddy’s youngest.”
A second wailing joined the first.
“And that isn’t,” Nancy said.
Anna snatched up a heavy lamp from an end table, her hands choking its neck as if it was a Louisville Slugger. “Lisa! Run!” she shouted.
THIRTY
Get the baby,” Nancy ordered her associate.
“Don’t,” Anna said. Adrenaline and something very like exaltation were tingling in her veins. Fear was in the mix, but not for herself. At that moment Anna felt invulnerable; nothing short of kryptonite could take her down.
By the look on Manny’s face Anna knew he figured a hard right to her jaw would do the trick.
Nancy had him cramped in the corner at the end of the sofa where it butted against the wall by the hive-shaped fireplace. She tried to scramble out of his way but didn’t move quickly enough for his taste. He stepped over the coffee table, his long legs clearing it easily.
Manny wasn’t agile and most of his strength was in his upper body, the part that showed in the mirror, but he was big and, superwoman or not, Anna knew when all else was equal, big won. Young won.
The point was to make sure all else was as unequal as possible. The moment Manny was astraddle the small table, Anna stepped in and swung hard, aiming for his knee. The lamp’s plug caught in the socket for an instant before the force of her swing pulled it free and the main impact struck Manny on the thigh, the long quadriceps muscle absorbing the blow. He yelled as much in surprise as pain, Anna guessed, and slowed not at all.
From what seemed exceedingly far away, Anna heard pounding and hoped it was Lisa running out a back door with Edgar and Helena in her arms. Whoever the impostors were, they weren’t after little Edgar Allan Martinez, but she didn’t credit them with the sensitivity to distinguish one child from another.
Clear of the coffee table, Manny lost his balance for a second, his thigh feeling the hit when his weight came down on it. Anna swung the lamp again, again at his knee. Manny knew what was coming this time and got his hand down in time to protect the joint. The heavy pottery base smashed into his fingers, crushing them against the kneecap. This time his scream was not of surprise but pain and rage.
Jumping back, Anna cocked the lamp for another swing. Fractured crockery parted and the two halves clattered to the tile floor, leaving her holding nothing but a bit of wire and a turquoise shade.
Time stopped for a heartbeat and the three of them glared at one another. The room soaked up the violence and returned silence. Into it came the pounding again. There was no back door; the hall dead-ended at the master bedroom. Lisa was trying to get a window open.
Freddy had been worried about “punks” in the neighborhood. Had he rigged the windows so they wouldn’t open?
“The back of the house,” Manny said to Nancy. “No door. I checked. Go get the damn kid.”
To crab her way around the couch, Nancy had to pass near Anna. She opted for climbing over the back. The cat had disappeared at the first change in the atmosphere. Nancy Roland, aka Wretched Bitch, had to be the brains of the team; she was clearly not adept at the physical side, unaccustomed to using her body for anything but sitting and standing.
Moving fast, Anna swatted her hard in the face with the lamp shade and the woman fell backward onto the cushions in shock at the attack and the sting. It wouldn’t hold her long. Soon the temper Anna had suspected of being close to the surface would burn through and demand action to feed on. Flinging the lamp shade at Manny’s head as a distraction, Anna retreated to the kitchen, knocking over chairs and small tables in her wake. If Manny got ahold of her, she would be in trouble.
“Back room, God dammit!” Manny shouted, and he came after her. Nancy edged in behind, waiting for him to neutralize Anna before she committed herself to the room. On a good day, Anna would have put her money on Lisa against Nancy even though Lisa was older. Carrying two squirming and undoubtedly shrieking babies changed the odds.
Grabbing the coffeepot from the stove, she hurled it across the kitchen. The pot banged into the wall, spattering both of her assailants with hot liquid but not enough to do damage. With the half second this bought her, Anna pulled a knife from the block on the counter and a dish towel from the sink.
The knife was designed for cutting big pieces of animal flesh, the steel blade two and a half inches wide where it went into the haft and eight or nine inches from base to point. The black wooden handle felt good in her hand but, against Manny’s superior height and weight, unless she got lucky with her first strike, he would take it from her and use it against her. Whipping the dish towel around her left arm for what little protection it could provide, Anna grasped the knife in her right hand. She didn’t hold it low and to the side the way knife fighters are characteristically
depicted in the movies but with the point toward the floor and the haft in her fist the way Norman Bates did in Psycho.
Uttering a shriek she hoped was horrible enough to terrify banshee children, she charged.
Manny was expecting it.
Nancy wasn’t. Back against the kitchen wall, mouth in a horrified O, eyes about the same size and shape and just as empty, she froze. Anna smashed into her, knocking the breath out of her and rattling her brains with unaccustomed trauma. Before she could recover, Anna was behind her, the towel-wrapped arm around her throat, the butcher knife perpendicular to her jugular and touching the flesh of her neck.
Nancy recovered quickly and the temper Anna had seen simmering beneath her smiles blew up. She began to struggle, then the chokehold and the knife blade reminded her what a bad idea that was. She began to yell.
“You bitch, you fucking bitch. Kill her, Danny! If you think you’re going to get away with this . . . You psycho cunt . . .”
Like most women, Anna was not fond of the “C” word. Unlike some of them, there was something she could do about it. The butcher knife moved fractionally and Nancy shut up with a squeak.
“Danny, Manny. Not very creative,” Anna said to the man hovering in the doorway, unsure whether to let Anna kill the woman and get the job done or if his interests would be better served by keeping Nancy alive.
Nancy must have seen the decision wavering in his eyes, as well, because she said in a voice that rang of authority, “Don’t even think about it, asshole.”
“Little pitchers have big ears,” Anna said, and moved the knife a teensy-weensy bit.
“You are fucking kidding me!”
Another wee twitch of the steel and Nancy desisted. Anna realized she was not kidding. Edgar and Helena might be preverbal but if their first word was to have four letters, she wanted it to be Mama.
Adrenaline strength would soon begin to dissipate into shakes. Rather like the proverbial car-chasing hound, now that Anna had caught Nancy she didn’t know what came next. The threat of the knife was empty. Not that she wouldn’t use it to defend herself, or people she liked, but she wasn’t going to slash Nancy’s throat. There was no point in it. Nancy alive might prove a shield, a bargaining chip. Nancy dead was just a mess on Lisa’s kitchen floor.
For what seemed too long, Anna said nothing, did nothing. She’d never expected to be the knife-wielding hostage taker. All her training had been the other way around. True, she had been spoiling for a fight, but now she wanted it over. Like sexual fantasies, vengeance fantasies were more enjoyable in thought than in deed.
“I want you to leave,” she said evenly. “Is your boy Danny going to cooperate with me or is he going to make me slit your throat?” she asked the woman smashed against the front of her body.
“Yes, he is,” Nancy choked out.
Tension had caused Anna to half strangle the woman. She took a bit of the pressure off Nancy’s trachea.
“Is what? Going to make me slit your throat or going to cooperate?” Anna addressed the question to Nancy but she was only interested in what Danny intended to do. At home or the office or the rock these two had crawled out from under, Nancy might be the one in charge. Maybe Danny didn’t like it that way. Maybe he didn’t like Nancy. Maybe they didn’t even know each other and had been brought together for this job. There were those who snatched babies for love—or the closest their crippled hearts could come to it—but Anna didn’t think that was the case with these two. That left perversion and money with money far in the lead. Maybe Danny would get her pay as well as his if he was the last man standing.
In the back of the house one of the babies was still crying. Edgar, Anna knew, and was amazed that she could distinguish the different voices so soon. Edgar’s cries sounded like a nonverbal person pleading for help. Helena’s cries sounded like a nonverbal person imperiously demanding assistance.
Danny’s gaze followed the sound.
“Don’t you do this to me, you bastard,” Nancy hissed. “You won’t live long enough to savor it, you worthless prick.”
Anna could feel her vibrating with fury, a thrum that gave off an almost imperceptible electrical current, or so it felt where Anna’s skin touched her captive’s.
Danny stared at the two of them. Behind the glasses, his eyes were unreadable. The electrical charge coming from Nancy amped up till Anna was vibrating with as much unvented emotion as she was.
“Let’s be reasonable,” Nancy said, and Anna had to admit she sounded pretty in control when she wasn’t spouting obscenities, like it wasn’t too late for them to be reasonable, to settle this amicably and all go home with a job well done.
“We all have the child’s welfare at heart. Let’s stop the fighting, sit down and work this through. I don’t see why Helena can’t stay where she is,” she said as if she had not let it be known that Manny was Danny and did not have a knife at her throat. As if none of this had transpired and the clock was turned back to when they were passing as kindly social workers.
Anna marveled at the insanity, the same insanity that allowed politicians to stand on the national stage and tell the same lie again and again. If they found a lie people wanted to believe, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t true, that scholars and researchers and videographers were screaming that it wasn’t true; nothing mattered but that they said the right words. The crowd’s need to believe it was getting what it wanted did the rest.
Anna felt that pull now. She wanted to end this reasonably, to work things out rationally. She wanted to believe Nancy was going to give her what she wanted. The phenomenon was mind-boggling. The hatred that had goosed up her energy level on and off since returning to Terlingua flamed up.
Everything in life that she hated boiled out of the abyss. Cruelty and fear, greed and the wanton destruction of the world so people could keep their SUVs, animals tied up and left to starve, dogs beaten, trees cut down to make room for billboards, men preying on women and women preying on one another, lobbying to get hate made law. And lies. Lucifer was said to be the father of lies. Lies made the rest possible. People lying to themselves and one another, to their children and their bosses, to make themselves bigger and others smaller, to steal and cheat and take.
More than anything she hated lies.
No. More than anything she hated liars.
Her hand trembled on the handle of the knife as if the hatred had taken over wrist and fingers and arm till Anna didn’t know whether or not she was going to end this one liar’s life.
Danny’s voice seemed to come from the devil in Anna’s mind: “Go ahead and kill her if you want to,” he said, and headed down the hallway toward Lisa and Edgar and Helena.
THIRTY-ONE
Anna didn’t slit Nancy’s throat, though she probably should have. Leaving a dangerous person behind and unfettered was seldom a good idea. The sound of wood splintering let Anna know Danny had kicked in the door to the bedroom where Lisa and the babies—if Lisa hadn’t managed to open a window—had barricaded themselves. Flipping her wrist, she drove the haft of the knife into her hostage’s temple and was gone before Nancy hit the floor.
The door to the master bedroom was open, fresh wood showed clean where it had splintered around the lock. Knife in hand, Anna ran down the hallway. She had little fear of ambush; Danny wanted to get Helena and get out as quickly as he could.
“I’ve called the cops!” Lisa yelled.
Anna didn’t know if Terlingua boasted a police force, the town was so tiny, but she knew Lisa hadn’t called. Her satellite phone was on the mantel in the living room.
“Where is it?” Danny demanded. He did not shout. Though there were no near neighbors to hear, in his line of work he would know the value of not calling attention to himself.
Anna was through the bedroom door. A king-sized bed with a head- and footboard made of twisted wood Freddy must have collected from the river took up most of the small room. Walls and floor were bright with Mexican rugs and pillows. Perforated tin
shades covered the bedside lamps and created rustic sconces on the walls.
In this cheery sanctuary the man Nancy called Danny radiated a darkness Anna could almost see. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the single high window; his long arms were simian, covered in dark hair. He had his back to her, facing Lisa, who stood on the far side of the bed with a single door behind her. The closet, Anna guessed.
Quicker than he had been before, Danny turned, hearing Anna’s arrival. He held up one hand like a cop stopping traffic. “You ladies don’t have to get hurt,” he said. “Just give me the baby and I’m out of here.” There was nothing of promise or negotiation in his voice. Danny was making a statement of fact. He had no compunction about hurting them to get what he came for; he just didn’t want the extra work.
Between him and the children stood Lisa, armed with nothing but courage. She had hidden Helena and Edgar and locked the door but hadn’t found anything with which to fight. It came to Anna almost as a revelation that there were people who did not expect violence, who did not run through scenes in their heads at night, private rehearsals for disaster, true innocents.
“Give me the kid,” Danny said. “We all go away happy.”
Danny had not a clue what it meant to individuals cursed with hearts to give “the kid”—any kid—into the hands of the likes of him.
“Get out!” Lisa shrieked, and began throwing things: a lamp, paperback books, a bedside clock, a cactus plant in a ceramic sombrero.
Babies started to cry, wails leaking from the closet where she’d stashed them.
Crooking an arm over his face to protect it from flying objects, his eyes fixed on Anna and the knife, Danny caught up a green-and-white-striped cotton throw from the bed.
