by Susan Fleet
He kissed her cheeks, first one, then the other. “You gotta stay strong, Ma. I've got a surprise for you. Two days from now we're flying to Mexico.”
“Mexico? What for?” she said, smiling at her handsome son. “You taking me on vacation?”
“No, I’m taking you there to get you a new liver,” he said, beaming at her, his dark eyes glowing with excitement. “No waiting in Mexico, Ma. They've got a new liver lined up for you already.”
“Where you get the money to fly me to Mexico?”
He waved his hand. “Don't worry. This time tomorrow, I'll have plenty of money. How do you like the new rosary I got you?”
She glanced at the beads and the cross on her bedside table. “It's nice, Darin. Thank you so much for getting it for me. But I miss my old one. It had my name on the cross.”
He bent down and kissed her cheek again. “Don't worry, Ma. You bring this one with you, and I'll have someone in Mexico engrave whatever you want on the cross.”
_____
4:30 PM
“Let's call it a day,” Frank said. “By the time we get back to my car it'll be five o'clock.”
“Fine by me,” David said as he stopped at a traffic light at Williams Boulevard.
“You got a hot date tonight?”
David laughed. “Yeah, with my television set. You?”
“No, but Kelly will be back tomorrow night. I'm picking her up at the airport.”
The light changed and David got on the I-10. Frank got on his cellphone, called Blanche and asked if she’d heard from Donna.
“No,” Blanche said, “and it's driving me crazy. I keep thinking about her riding around with René looking for her car. Frank, if he shoots someone and she's with him, she'll be as guilty as he is.”
Yes, she will. “Let's hope they don't find it. I've been driving around Kenner with another detective, but we didn't find it. If Donna calls you again, call me immediately.”
He ended the call as David got in the exit lane for Clearview Parkway. Frank's car was parked at a strip mall beside the exit road.
His cellphone rang. When he answered, Kenyon said, “Frank, Tanya had coffee with Sam's wife today, one of those gripe sessions, you know, like wives love to do. Tanya said I was working a tough case, a little boy got murdered. Abby asked if it was the Gates kid. She said Sam was very upset about it.”
David took the Clearview exit, pulled into the strip mall and stopped beside Frank's Dodge Charger. Frank held up a wait-a-minute finger and said to Kenyon, “Did she say anything else?”
“Yes. When Tanya said she was pissed because I was working too much, Abby said Sam was working a lot, too. Private details. At night.”
“Since when?” Maybe Sam really was involved in the kidnapping.
“Last Saturday. Man, I hate to say it, but Sam could have been minding the hostages. You want me to go over and talk to him?”
Hearing the reluctance in his voice, Frank said, “I don't want to put that on you, Kenyon. Let's hold off until Monday, talk to him at the station.”
“Okay. Damn, I hate to think Sam's mixed up in this.”
“We don't know for certain that he is,” Frank said. Not yet anyway.
“Call me if anything develops,” Kenyon said. Frank said he would and ended the call
“You think the guy who came in the office is Donald Duck?” David said.
“I'm not sure. His wife said he was upset about Robbie's murder.” Frank opened his door. “Go on home and be a couch potato, David. Thanks for all your help.”
“No problem,” David said. “Call me right away if you hear anything.”
Frank said he would and got in his car. But he didn't feel like going to his condo. Saturday nights he usually stayed at Kelly's house, but she was in Chicago. He left the parking lot and headed for the entrance to I-10 West, drawn to Kenner like a magnet.
Robbie's killer lived in a shotgun somewhere below the flight path to the airport. It would still be light for a while. Maybe he'd get lucky and find it.
_____
4:45 PM
When they found her Honda, the sky was streaked purple and orange, the beginnings of a beautiful sunset. Too bad she couldn't enjoy it. If the car been on her side, she would have kept quiet and let René drive by it, but as luck would have it, the house where the kidnappers had held her was on his side of the street.
“There it is!” René exclaimed. He jammed on the brakes and parked the black Chevy Tahoe across the street. The house, a dingy one-story shotgun painted drab gray, had a small front porch. And a one-car garage at the end of a driveway on the left side of the house. Below a partially raised door, the bumper of her bright blue Honda Accord was clearly visible.
René opened his door. Panic-stricken, she grabbed his arm. “What are you going to do?”
“Stay in the car. I'm gonna talk to the scumbag who killed Robbie.”
He got out and slammed the door and trotted across the street. His windbreaker was zipped up to his chin, not to fend off the chill air, to cover the gun tucked into his waistband. So he could shoot Robbie’s killer.
She watched him run up the steps and stop at the door. Saw him unzip his windbreaker and ring the bell with his left hand. His right hand held the gun.
“No,” she moaned. If she had a cellphone, she’d dial 9-1-1 and the cops would be here in minutes, but she had no phone. Frantic, she studied the house on her side of the street. Was anyone home? She didn't dare leave the car to find out.
She saw René ring the bell again and dug her nails into her palms. If Mickey opened the door, would René shoot him? René was no gunslinger, he was a sensitive musician. He wouldn't even kill the mice that got into the cottage he shared with Lenny. But he was convinced Mickey had killed Robbie.
If she didn't do something, René might never hold his next child either. He'd be in jail.
Damn it, she had to stop him! Three houses ahead of her, a young boy in shorts and a T-shirt was shooting a basketball at a free-standing hoop in the driveway. She could run pretty fast. Race down there and tell the kid to have his parents call the police. But what if they recognized her?
To her immense relief, she saw René run down the front steps of Mickey's house and jog toward the Tahoe. His right hand was empty. The gun was back in its hiding place under his windbreaker.
He opened the door, jumped inside and said, “Nobody’s home.”
Good, she thought. Let's go home.
But René turned reached into the back seat for the clipboard with sheets of music paper he kept in the Tahoe. If he got an idea for a song, he wanted to be able to write it down. Resting the clipboard against his thigh, he took out a felt-tipped pen and began to print, angling the clipboard away from her so she couldn't see what wrote.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing the scumbag a note.” He tore off the top sheet and folded it. “Be right back.”
She watched him trot up the steps to the porch. Please, don't let Mickey open the door. Inspired by a sudden idea, she grabbed the felt-tipped pen and printed the kidnapper's address on a sheet of music paper.
When she finished, she looked up. Jesus, René was almost at the car! She hurriedly tore off the sheet, folded it and stuck it inside her shirt.
René jumped in the Tahoe. Without a word, he did a U-turn and drove toward Williams Boulevard. Relieved that he hadn't shot anyone, Donna sank back in her seat. When they stopped at the Williams Boulevard traffic signal, René said, “Let's get takeout for dinner.”
“Okay.” She was too tired to think about food. She wanted to go home and rest.
René took out his cellphone. “I'll call Lenny, see if he wants anything.”
Acting as though he went gunning for kidnappers every day. Acting like everything was normal. She massaged her throbbing temples. Would her life ever be normal again? She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the headrest while René talked to Lenny.
“We found Donna's car,” René said
. After a moment, he added, “No. She doesn't have the keys.”
Donna puffed her cheeks. Of course she didn’t. The kidnapper had them. There was a spare set on a hook in the mudroom at her house in Lakeview, but she wasn't going there to get them.
“Great,” René said to Lenny. “Lots of tourists come here for Halloween to take the ghost tours.”
Tomorrow was Halloween, she realized. She'd been so stressed out, she'd totally forgotten about Halloween. What would Emily do?
Usually Emily and Robbie put on their costumes, and she and Hunter walked them through the neighborhood. The lovely power couple and their happy family. But not this year. Robbie was dead, and she was hiding from her husband, terrified that he would kill her.
“Okay, have fun,” René said, and closed his cellphone. “Lenny's going clubbing tonight to celebrate. He sold a bunch of paintings today.”
“Good for him,” she said, and yawned. “Maybe we can talk about the memorial service tonight.”
René hesitated, not looking at her, and said, “Okay. But if I get a phone call, I might have to leave.”
CHAPTER 40
SATURDAY – 6:20 PM
Darin parked in front of his house, grabbed the Domino's Pizza box and dashed up the walk to his door. When he opened it, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Jesus-fucking-Christ! His rent wasn't due till Monday, but the landlord was already bugging him about it.
He tossed the note on the coffee table and carried the pizza box in the kitchen. He hated pizza, but he'd been too busy running around all day to eat and he was ravenous. He slid the meatball pizza onto a dinner plate, put it in the microwave, set the controls and leaned against the counter. He had the mother of all headaches, worked late last night, got up early this morning. And he still had to prepare for the meeting.
No, not the meeting. The showdown with his father.
He went in his bedroom, took the revolver off the closet shelf and opened the cylinder. Seven killer bullets. That should be plenty, but he'd take the box of extra ammo just in case. He smiled, imagining the look on his father's face when he got the drop on him. His other surprise was on the bureau, the photo of Gates and his mother, Ma smiling happily, her eyes sparkling, Gates standing beside her with a startled look on his face. The prick.
The microwave dinged. Finally, he could eat something. He carried the box of ammo, the gun and the photo to the living room, put them on coffee table and went in the kitchen. The odor of greasy beef hit him, and his stomach rumbled. He took the plate out of the microwave and set it on the counter. Unable to wait, he bit into one slice and brought the plate in the living room.
He sank onto the futon and devoured the rest of the slice. A beer would taste great, but he had to stay sharp for the showdown. It had been a helluva day. He fired up a Newport Menthol, recalling his dispute with the woman at the charter company. After he left the hospital, he'd driven to Lakefront Airport to make sure the charter was set. But the bitch wanted 750 bucks to guarantee the flight on Monday. When he said he didn't have it, she'd said, “Don't you have a credit card?” Smirking at him. Jerking his chain.
He puffed his cigarette, picturing the woman and her frizzy brown hair. He should have punched her stupid-cow face, but he had to lock in the flight. Seething, he got in his van and went looking for a loan shark, finally found one on Basin Street near Armstrong Park. The guy said it would cost him a grand: 750 plus 250 for the vig. When he said that was too much, the guy said, “You want 750 today, you pay me a grand tomorrow.” So he took the deal, but then he had to drive all the way back to Lakefront Airport. The bitch at the charter company took the cash, but then she'd made him wait for her to do the paperwork, taking her own sweet time about it.
He snubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, picked up a slice of pizza and noticed the scrap of paper on the table. He folded the slice, took a big bite, and grease oozed over his fingers. He put the slice on the plate, wiped his fingers on his pants and opened the note.
YOU MURDERED MY SON.
CALL MY CELLPHONE. 504-845-6643.
CALL ME TODAY OR I'LL CALL THE COPS.
Jesus! What the fuck was this? Call the cops?
He ran to the door, flung it open and looked around the corner at the garage. The woman's car was still there, the rear bumper and license plate visible below the broken door. Because the fucking landlord wouldn't pay to fix it. He went back in the living room.
What if the cops saw the car? Shards of pain stabbed his head.
He read the note again, the most important part being: Call me today or I'll call the cops.
How the fuck did Gates find out where he lived? Only one way to find out. He got on his cellphone, punched in the number and hit Send.
One ring, and a voice said, “Hello?”
But it wasn't Gates. He knew that voice. He'd heard the asshole do the press conference. Who the fuck was this guy?
“Who's this?”
“You get my note?”
“I didn't kill your kid.”
“Yes you did. You killed Robbie and threw him in a dumpster like he was a piece of garbage.”
Jesus, the guy knew he killed Robbie! “You mean the Gates kid?”
“Gates isn't his father. I am.”
“Hey, don't blame me, blame Gates,” he said, and ended the call.
His heart hammered his chest like a runaway horse. He didn't know who the guy was, but the guy knew where he lived! If the prick called the cops, he couldn't afford to be here when they showed up.
He grabbed the Magnum, the photograph and the box of extra ammo, ran outside to his van and put them on the passenger seat beside the packet of stamped envelopes. His heart was pounding and his hands trembled as he put the key in the ignition and cranked the engine.
It turned over twice, a dull groaning noise, but didn't start. Damn!
He cranked it again. Still it didn't start. He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Cranked the engine. Nothing, not even a groan.
“Fuck!”
He opened his eyes and saw the yellow engine light on the control panel. Jesus-fucking-Christ! Of all the times to have car trouble.
How would he get to the meeting? He couldn't take a taxi.
Then he remembered the car in the garage. But it hadn't been run for a week, and he didn't know how much gas was in it. And he needed the keys. He tried to remember where he'd stashed the woman's purse.
Damn! Where the hell was it? The keys to her car were in it.
_____
6:35 PM
Donna inhaled the delicious aroma rising from her plate. If her stomach wasn't so jumpy, she might enjoy her dinner. René seemed energized, wolfing down his shrimp creole dinner, plump pink shrimp and vegetables in a zesty tomato sauce over steamed rice.
On the way home she'd tried to think of an excuse to ask him to stop at a payphone. But René was no fool. He'd know why. So she could call her mother, give her the kidnapper’s address and tell her to call the police.
René wasn't going to shoot anyone tonight, but tomorrow he might. Anxiety fluttered inside her, like the tiny snowflakes drifting over the snowman inside the snow globe she'd loved playing with as a toddler.
“René, we should call the police.”
He put down his fork and looked at her, expressionless. “Why?”
“So they can arrest the kidnapper. We know where he lives.”
“No. Not till he calls me.” Rene tapped the cellphone on the table beside his plate and drank some ice water.
Why wasn’t he drinking beer? What was he planning? And why would the kidnapper call him? His cellphone rang, shrill inside the small kitchen.
Her anxiety escalated into full-blown fear.
René grabbed the phone and answered. “Hello?”
She clenched her hands, watching him, hoping it was a wrong number.
“You get my note?” René said. Moments later, his handsome face turned into a granite mask of fury. “Yes you did. You killed Robbie and threw
him in a dumpster like he was garbage.”
She dug her fingernails into her palms. René was talking to the kidnapper!
“Gates isn't his father, I am.” René ended the call, rose from the table and left the kitchen. Clutching her stomach, she sat there, too paralyzed to move.
Two minutes later he came back wearing his windbreaker. She knew what that meant. The gun was hidden under the jacket. “Where are you going?”
He kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Stay here and eat your dinner.”
“René, don't be foolish! Let the police handle this.”
But he was already out the door. Jesus! She had to call Mom and have her warn that detective. But the land-line in the cottage wasn't connected and she had no cellphone. Damn!
Maybe there was a store on Esplanade Avenue that had a payphone. She ran in the bedroom, put on the baseball cap and sunglasses and left the cottage. Twenty yards away, René's neighbor, a pudgy man in shorts and a golf shirt, was pruning the red roses that entwined the wire fence between their houses.
The twilight sky was dusky, but it was still light enough for someone to recognize her. To avoid attracting his attention, she turned left and cut across the lawn to the sidewalk, forcing herself to walk slowly. If she ran, he might notice her. At the next intersection, she turned right and ran like hell.
A minute later, breathing hard, she stopped at Esplanade Avenue. As cars passed her, she averted her face and scanned the sidewalk. No stores to the right, just houses. She looked left and spotted a Circle-K sign two blocks away. Maybe they had a payphone.
She set out for the store, jogging down the sidewalk, planning what to say to her mother. The most important part: René was going to the kidnapper's house with a gun.
Twenty yards from the store, she spotted a payphone on the outside wall. Relieved, she stopped to get her breathing under control, her breath coming in gasps. With trembling hands, she took out the sheet of music paper, studied the kidnapper's address and walked toward the Circle-K.
But an odd-looking man in cutoff shorts and a shirt with flaming pink parrots was leaning against the wall beside the payphone, smoking a cigarette. Damn! She couldn't talk to her mother while he was there. He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, taking in her sunglasses and ball cap.
