by Sheryl Lynn
“It doesn’t matter, does it? Look, I don’t care about the cops or the FBI. I didn’t want them involved in the first place. Do you know where Penny is? Is she okay?”
“Gimme a number.”
Startled by the harsh command, she blinked, uncomprehending.
“Gimme a phone number!”
“Oh, the telephone number.” She rolled a hand at McKennon. “You want a phone number.”
McKennon wrote rapidly. He shoved the telephone number before her and she repeated it, slowly, making sure each number was spoken clearly. The man disconnected, leaving her with a dead phone and an aching numbness in her belly.
“He hung up on me.”
“But he asked for the number. He’ll call back.” His eyes gleamed with green fire. Muscles leaped in his jaw. He looked dangerous. “If he says he has Penny make him prove it. Demand to speak to her.”
“And if he won’t do it?”
“Then the number is useless.”
She curled her lips against her teeth, fighting the impulse to blurt out, She’s dead. She refused to entertain that thought. Refused to let the idea take hold in her brain. Never taking her eyes off the silent telephone, she paced in an aimless circle. Memories rose of teaching Penny to swim. Penny had disguised her terror of unknown waters behind high-pitched giggles. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” Frankie had assured her. “Nothing can happen to you as long as I’m here.”
“I’m here, Penny,” she mouthed, willing her thoughts to cross the universe and find her sister safe.
The seconds crawled, the minutes crept past with such excruciating slowness, Frankie thought she might go mad. She glared at the digital clock display on the oven. The numbers appeared frozen in time.
McKennon picked up the condo telephone.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“If it’s the kidnappers, Ross needs to know. He has the money.”
She groaned and dropped her face on a hand. She’d forgotten about the money. She didn’t see how they were supposed to smuggle four heavy suitcases out of Elk River Resort without the cops or FBI finding out. This wasn’t a kidnapping, it was a Quentin Tarantino movie. All they lacked was John Travolta shooting up the condo.
She silently beseeched the telephone to ring. She caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. Her hair sprung from her head in clownish corkscrew curls and her eyes were demented. She looked nuts out of her mind.
“You’re strong, baby,” her mother used to tell her. “You were born strong.”
Frankie stared at her reflection. The wild woman staring back didn’t look strong. She looked as if the slightest touch might shatter her into a million pieces.
Furious at herself, furious at the kidnappers, she raked both hands through her hair. She jerked at tangles, taking dark satisfaction from the pain she inflicted on her scalp.
I am strong, she thought. I was born strong. She jerked and pulled at her hair with her fingers until her hair looked almost normal.
Until she felt almost normal.
Feeling eyes, she turned about slowly. Head cocked, McKennon peered at her, his expression puzzled. She supposed she acted rather strangely.
“What did Ross say?”
“He’s on his way to Elk River. He’ll work with Mrs. Haxman to come up with a plausible reason why she needs the money back right now.”
“How many FBI agents will accompany the money to the Springs?”
“Ross is resourceful. Trust him.”
A sigh slipped past her teeth. If worse came to worst she’d rob a bank to get the money. Let the cops pop her for a crime she actually committed.
McKennon’s telephone trilled. Frankie jumped, and her heart thundered in her breast. He glanced at the Caller ID readout and his face turned to stone. Thrusting the telephone at her, he said, “It’s for you.”
She answered with a crisp, “Frankie Forrest here.” The connection was harsh with static. She wondered if he were still in the mountains.
“I want my money,” he said.
His squeaky voice roused an image of a rat in human form. A narrow, buck-toothed face. A scrawny body. A demon’s red eyes. Pure evil in human form.
“I want my sister. Do you have her?”
“It’ll cost you to know.”
“You get nothing until I know she’s alive.” In the background she heard a rushing sound and a faint mechanical roar. She listened closely and decided he was in a vehicle with the heater blowing. “Let me talk to her.”
“How about I send you her foot in a box?” His voice lowered.
Short hairs raised on Frankie’s nape. Creepy claws skittered along her spine. Her stomach ached and the large meal she’d eaten threatened a return appearance.
“Listen to me,” she growled. “Every cop in the state is breathing down my neck. They aren’t looking for you, they’re looking for me! But you trust this, bubba, as soon as they catch me they will be after you. We’re both running out of time. Now, I want Penny and you want cash. Simple. We make a trade. We don’t have time for games. Got it?”
He actually laughed, the noise tinny through the static.
“You let me talk to her right now or the conversation ends. You get squat.”
“Fine,” he whispered.
“Frankie!”
The sound of Penny’s scream sent arrows of ice through Frankie’s heart. “Penny? Oh, sweetie, are you all right?”
“Julius is dead!” she wailed. “He’s going to kill—”
“Shut up!” Flesh smacked loudly against flesh.
Frankie bit back her cries of protest. Penny was alive.
“Hey! Don’t you be hurting her!” another person yelled.
“I’ll hurt you both, moron. Shut up. And shut her the hell up, too!”
“Stop it,” Frankie said, as calmly as she could. Her insides fluttered and jumped. The rat-man sounded dangerous and mean. “Nobody needs to get hurt. Are you listening? Where do you want the money? But no games, just you and me. You give me Penny, I give you the money. A straight-up trade.”
“You are in no position to bargain.”
“Neither are you. Let’s just do this short and sweet.”
“Uh-uh, the ante is up. Let’s call it payment for my pain and suffering.”
Frankie staggered backward. McKennon caught her shoulders in both hands, preventing her fall. On watery knees, she stared blindly into the distance. Three million had been a nearly impossible sum to raise and he wanted more?
“I want an extra ten g’s. You hear me? Fifty grand in cash—small bills.”
“Fifty...thousand?” she said stupidly. What happened to the three-million-dollar demand?
“You heard me! Fifty grand and not a penny less.” He barked a wicked laugh. “Or you’ll be Penny-less, got it?”
“I got it,” she said. Fifty thousand? Either this man had the world’s worst memory or else this kidnapping was even more bizarre than it appeared. “Where and when?” She snatched up a pencil.
“You better understand something. I got me a nice little Glock 9mm. Fully loaded, that’s thirteen rounds. If I spot one cop, or even anything that looks like a cop, I’ll pump all thirteen into your sister. You get her back in a garbage bag.”
Frankie smacked her gummy lips. “No cops.”
“You go south through Fountain and pick up Squirrel Creek Road. Head east. About a mile past Peyton Highway there’s a dirt trail. We trade off there. No tricks, no tracking devices, no cops flying planes overhead. I will know.”
“No problem,” she said through her teeth. She’d accompanied Max to the firing range before. He favored 9mm semiautomatic pistols. She’d seen firsthand what a 9mm round did to a paper target. She didn’t want to even imagine what it would do to a young girl.
“You come alone.”
“No problem. What time?”
“Sunset.” The kidnapper killed the connection.
Her shaky knees failed her. McKennon guided her to a
stool, and she slumped over, exhausted. She recounted the kidnapper’s end of the conversation. “Call Ross,” she said. “We’ve got until sunset to come up with fifty thousand dollars.”
Easier said than done. According to her cousin, Agent Patrick wanted to negotiate with the kidnappers via a press conference. She’d arranged for the conference to happen tomorrow morning. The Colonel and Elise Duke would make their pleas for Penny’s safe return. Frankie watched the clock in the oven with horror. Where previously time had crawled, now the numbers seem to flip through the minutes like an old-movie, transition trick. If they didn’t get the money, Penny was going to die.
“Maybe we should let Ms. Patrick in on what we know,” McKennon said.
“Absolutely not! She had her chance and she blew it. I’m not taking any chances with Penny’s life, just so that woman can keep her cushy job in Colorado.” She slammed a fist against her palm.
Ross called again. Agent Patrick wasn’t budging. Connie Haxman had asked for the money returned, but the FBI agent cajoled her to wait until they reestablished communications. The only way Connie could have reasonably demanded her money would be to tell the FBI that communication had already been established. Connie offered twelve thousand dollars, the most cash she could quickly gather on such short notice. Ross claimed he and Dawn could put up another thirty. Frankie nearly wept at their generosity.
And she nearly wept because it wasn’t enough.
McKennon tossed her the wig. “Get dressed, baby. We’re going to the bank.”
“What?”
“I have some money set aside.”
It took a few seconds for her to understand why he had money set aside. His son was severely injured, and the cost of his medical care must be astronomical. After seeing his car and where he lived, she knew he granted himself no indulgences or luxuries. She shook her head. “Is it Jamie’s money?”
He lowered his gaze to the floor. “His college fund.”
An ache formed below her breastbone. He loved his son more than life itself—she saw it every time he mentioned the boy. All he had to go on was hope for a recovery, hope that the child would someday grow into a man and need a college fund. She touched his hand, lightly, with only her little finger against his. He didn’t merely offer money, he admitted to himself that his son might never awaken.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said. “Every dime, with interest. I promise. Jamie won’t miss out on college because of me.”
He smiled wanly. “We’ll discuss the terms later.”
“I always keep my promises.” She stared until he finally met her gaze. “Always.”
“So do I. Let’s move.”
FRANKIE AND MCKENNON met Ross south of Fountain. On a deserted farm road she searched the gray landscape. Another storm rolled across the sky. The clouds hung heavy and featureless like a sheet of hammered lead. Clouds blotted out the mountains. Only the barest hint of Pikes Peak was visible, misty and undefined. The rocky, snow-covered peak seemed to hang in midair.
Icy wind bit Frankie’s cheeks. A few stray flakes of snow swirled around her face. She shivered inside the Frankenstein coat.
“Here.” Ross handed over a blue nylon gym bag. “Small bills. You’ve got the rest?”
“Yes. We’ll get her back.”
“You sure I can’t go along?” Ross smoothed a hand over his greatcoat, revealing the bulge of a firearm strapped to his hip. “I’ll be good backup. You’re going to need it.”
Frankie had refused to tell even her beloved cousin where exactly she was to meet with the kidnapper. She was taking no chances. “You wait right here. We’ll holler if we need you.”
He looked around at the bleak landscape. The country east of the interstate looked so different from the mountains to the west that it could as well have been in another state. Here the land rolled in a treeless plain, scoured by nearly constant wind, stretching forever, broken only by the dark ribbon of foliage growing along Fountain Creek.
“I’ll be right here.” Ross gave Frankie a quick assuring hug.
McKennon tested the remote trunk opener on Connie Haxman’s Cadillac. The trunk opened with a soft click and a sigh. He pulled off his coat, folded it and laid it inside the trunk. He slipped his handgun out of the holster and with a press of his thumb released the clip. He checked the rounds before slapping the clip back into the gun.
Frankie’s belly hurt. Rat-man had sounded exactly as she imagined a vicious killer would. If he harmed Penny, McKennon would kill him. Of that she didn’t harbor the slightest doubt.
“Stay out of potholes, okay?” He climbed into the trunk. It was roomy, but he was big, and he curled up awkwardly with his coat under his head. “Shut the lid and let’s move.”
As she pulled the lid closed, he said, “As soon as this is over, you and I have some things to discuss.”
“Hope we can discuss it through a glass partition,” she wisecracked. “I’ll probably end up in prison.”
“I’m serious.”
She searched his solemn but beautiful green eyes. Wordlessly, she pushed the trunk closed. Her cousin gave her a thumbs-up. She flashed him a wan smile and slid behind the wheel.
I’m coming, Penny, she thought and put the big car in Drive.
Past Fountain Creek the landscape seemed even more featureless and forlorn. Mile after mile of snow-covered fields were broken only by an occasional farmhouse and barbwire fences. She played in her head McKennon’s instructions: “Keep your head up and maintain eye contact. Keep your hands in view at all times. All he wants is the money. Just hand it over and don’t get into arguments with him.”
She reached Peyton Highway. She kept an eye on the odometer as it clicked through tenths of a mile. When she’d driven a mile, she slowed the car to a crawl. So little daylight remained that she could see nothing. “He isn’t here,” she called. She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. “Can you hear me? I can’t see a dirt road.”
“I hear you. Keep going.”
With the high beams on she searched the road ahead for any sign of a vehicle. She spotted a Bronco. Her heart leaped into her throat. She called a warning to McKennon. The big vehicle was parked off the road, facing south. The headlights were on and exhaust belched from the tailpipe. Praying it was the kidnapper and not a rancher checking cows or fences she pulled off the road.
“Keep the engine running,” McKennon called. “Be cool, baby. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She exited the car. “Hello? It’s me, Frankie Forrest.” She swung the nylon gym bag in a slow arc and rested it atop the Cadillac’s roof.
Two people emerged from the Bronco. In the poor light Frankie had trouble making out who—or what—they might be. One looked like a kid dressed up in army clothes. The other appeared deformed and possibly drunk.
“Come here.”
Frankie recognized rat-man’s voice. Her mouth went dry. She slid the bag off the roof and forced her legs to move.
“Frankie?” Penny’s voice was hoarse and raw.
“I’m here, sweetie.” She walked steadily and held the gym bag at arm’s length, an offering to evil. She noticed no one else was inside the Bronco and wondered what had happened to the other kidnapper. She imagined he was waiting out of sight, perhaps armed with a rifle and scope. Her shoulder blades itched.
Penny wore a black mask, a man’s bulky sweater and had a blanket wrapped togalike around her body. No wonder she looked deformed. The hem of her nightgown fluttered in the wind. Rat-man shoved a pistol against her throat.
She stopped in front of rat-man. The name fit. He couldn’t have been more than five feet two inches and even wearing bulky camouflaged clothing he looked scrawny. His eyes were big and rather buggy, surrounded by dark, bruised-looking flesh. She glanced at his feet. In spite of army boots they appeared as dainty as a girl’s.
Penny wore a mask, and judging by the condition of her hair, she’d been wearing it throughout her entire ordeal. If rat-man didn’t want Pe
nny to see his face, why show himself to Frankie? An ice lump filled her belly. He was going to kill her. And why not? It made no sense to leave witnesses. She prayed McKennon shot and killed him before he got away.
Frankie dropped the bag at her feet. It struck the frozen snow with a thud. “Here’s the money. Want me to count it for you?”
His buggy eyes darted, settling for a moment on the Cadillac before returning to her. “Open the bag.”
Shutting her ears to Penny’s distressed gasps, Frankie crouched and unzipped the bag. She pulled the opening wide to reveal the jumble of rubber-band-bound currency. “Turn her loose and take—”
A noise rose. Moaning, animal-like, it quavered in misery and rage. Frankie and rat-man startled and swung toward the source.
“Paul!” Penny screeched. “Stay down, Paul!”
A dark mountain seemed to rise from the snow. Uncertain what it was she saw in the tricky dusk light, she watched a man-shape unfurl. He was huge.
He was hurt. Arms outstretched like a movie monster he staggered toward rat-man. Rat-man aimed the pistol at the lurching giant.
As a gawky, too-tall, skinny, carrot-topped teenager, Frankie had needed some defense against the merciless teasing and tormenting from her peers. Other awkward girls developed social graces or found a way to hide. Frankie had developed a right hook. She didn’t hesitate.
She decked rat-man. Pain flared all the way to her shoulder, but she didn’t care if she broke every bone in her hand as long as she hurt him. His pistol flew through the air, turning in silvery circles, catching glints from the headlights until it disappeared into a snow bank.
Rat-man fell and took Penny down with him. She screeched and kicked and flailed her bound hands. Screaming at him to let Penny go, Frankie lunged for her sister. Steel flashed. Pressure arced across her belly. Frankie stumbled backward. Icy air stung her belly and she stared at the horizontal opening in the Frankenstein coat. He’d sliced a gash from the side seam to the zipper. She struck the gym bag, fought for balance and went down hard.
Penny screeched again. Rat-man had her by the hair. The quickness with which he sprang to his feet stunned Frankie.
