Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  “Second-degree murder. Twenty-five to life.”

  “No shit. Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Mick blinked. A little gust of laughter escaped him. “Jesus,” he repeated, with none of the alarm a sensible person might exhibit in similar circumstances.

  “Your mother sent me to Attica,” Hal said, and Mick’s smile faded. “She fed the cops information that got me convicted.”

  Mick was shaking his head. “Why would she do that? If you two were, you know, tight.”

  That question had cost Hal a lot of sleep. It couldn’t be simple greed; Judith had no clue where he’d stashed the money. Now that he’d made the acquaintance of his son, though, her betrayal was beginning to make sense. “I thought she and I might have a little chat about that,” Hal said. “Among other things. But now you’re here, and she’s not, and I’m thinking it’s better this way. There’s something I could use your help with. Son.” Hal put his arm around the kid’s shoulders.

  “Yeah, right.” Mick eyed him suspiciously. “Like I’d help you with anything. Tell you what—I’ll help you find your way outta here, how’s that, Dad? You’re on parole? You’re not supposed to have a weapon? Maybe I’ll help you by not telling the cops about that switchblade in your pocket.”

  “Two. Million. Bucks.” Hal smiled, watching his son. “Yeah, I thought that’d get your attention.”

  “Who’s got two mil? Not you.”

  “I will.” He squeezed Mick’s shoulder and released it. “We both will.”

  “What, you want me to help you rob a bank or something?”

  Hal shook his head. “We’re talking about money I had. Money I stashed away for safekeeping, where no one could possibly stumble across it. All those years inside, that cash was all I thought about. Counting and recounting it in my head. Spending it nine hundred different ways. It’s all that kept me sane, that two mil.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  From downstairs Winnie called, “Sometime today, Pops?”

  “Did she call me Pops?”

  “So?” Mick persisted. “The money?”

  “So I finally get out and what do you know—the money’s not there.”

  “Like it ever was.” Mick tossed the bloody tissues on the carpet and grabbed another handful. “You show up here after all this time like Father Fucking Knows Best and tell me you stuffed two million bucks in a piggybank somewhere, but oops! it walked away. Tell me another one.”

  “Do you know what happened to your uncle Ricky when he was a kid?”

  “I don’t have any uncle Ricky,” Mick said. “Are you talking about Ricky Baines? My mom’s half brother? Used to be on that old TV show In No Time?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He changed him name—to Will Kitchen. It was my great-grandpa’s name. I don’t remember him, but the two of them were kinda close until the old man croaked, like, twenty years ago. What’s this got to do with two million bucks?”

  “Answer me. Do you know about what happened to your uncle?” Hal asked. “When he was nine?”

  “Sure. Everyone knows. He was kidnapped. Held for ransom. Fucker chopped off his finger. So what?”

  “So I’m the fucker who chopped off his finger.”

  ______

  LUCY’S DRAMATIC ENTRANCE went unnoticed by the two men playing Foosball in a cavernous room that appeared to be some kind of private amusement arcade. The modernistic stained-glass windows along one wall were an intriguing touch. The men’s attention was riveted to the game, their bodies tense as they hovered over their respective sides of the table, wrists jerking on the handles that made the tiny painted soccer players kick the little white ball toward the end goals. Thwack. Thwack. Thwackthwackthwack.

  Here were her captors, unmasked at last. There was no mistaking Fergus, he of the lofty stature and flowing locks. Fergus exuded a kind of manic idiosyncrasy that made the kilt he wore seem like the most natural thing to throw on.

  But the other man. Lucy could only stare. She knew it was Will, though she’d never before seen him without the mask and sweatshirt hood. She’d come to know those intense blue eyes. Those beefy shoulders. But who would have guessed the man was a redhead! His hair was a pleasing dark copper hue, not some garish orange, but still. Not at all what she’d imagined.

  Get a grip, Lucy commanded herself. What difference does it make what color his hair is? She raised the gun in two quaking hands. Will and Fergus had yet to glance her way. She cleared her throat loudly.

  The little ball slid past Will’s defense into the goal pocket. Fergus roared in triumph.

  “Next time,” Will grumbled, “don’t spin the rods.”

  Something about Will was disturbingly familiar, but Lucy couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Cheer up, lad,” Fergus said. “Nobody likes a sore loser.”

  “Hey,” Lucy croaked. She eased a little farther into the room. She raised her voice. “Hey.”

  “What?” Will said distractedly, never taking his eyes from the Foosball table as he served the next ball.

  “Dad, who’s that lady?”

  The child’s voice startled Lucy. She swung the gun toward the far corner, where a young boy and a well-padded old Asian man sat at a hobby table, wielding tiny paintbrushes on what appeared to be a miniature water tower. They’d paused in their work to stare at her.

  It took her a moment to realize she was pointing a gun at a child. Shaken, she pivoted once more, taking aim at Will, who’d noticed her at last. He did not share Fergus’s gleeful chuckle.

  “This lady is one of our guests, son,” Will informed the boy.

  The gun wobbled in Lucy’s two-fisted grip. “This guest has enjoyed as much of your hospitality as she can stand.” She jerked her head toward the doorway. “Get the keys. You’re letting us out of here. Now.”

  “Us?”

  “Me, that guy hanging upside-down, and the other woman.”

  The men looked at each other. Fergus asked, “What other woman, lass?”

  Lucy glanced around the huge space. She saw commercial pinball and video games, a Ping-Pong table, an inlaid game table set with chess pieces in the shapes of Simpsons characters, a sprawling model train layout, shelves crammed with books and board games, and—elevated altarlike on some sort of platform at the far end of the room—a Ping-Pong table. But no keening torture victim.

  Will gave her a long, assessing look. “How did you get out of that room?”

  “Who cares?” Ridiculously, she didn’t want to squeal on Cuba. She gestured with the gun. “Let’s go. The rest of you, stay here.” She was about to warn them she’d shoot Will if they attempted to intervene, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the threat in front of his son.

  Not that any of them appeared concerned. Clearly Fergus was enjoying the show. The boy and old man watched her curiously but without alarm.

  From directly behind her came an earsplitting scream. She screamed, too. Whirling around, she spied the source of the noise.

  A parrot. All green, except for red tail feathers and a splash of yellow on the back of the neck. It was about the size of a pigeon, a gorgeous animal, its only flaw a misshapen left wing. It perched on the limb of a small bare tree rising from a wooden platform, some sort of avian jungle gym adorned with birdie play-pretties: a length of braided rope, a string of chew toys, assorted shiny objects. The bird paced back and forth on its perch and, with faultless diction, announced, “You’ll put your eye out!” It underscored this dire warning with another hair-raising shriek.

  Lucy’s jaw sagged. This was what she’d been hearing since she’d arrived. It was this stupid parrot all along, screaming itself silly, not some fellow captive being treated to a bamboo manicure. The parrot bobbed its empty little head. She couldn’t almost hear it thinking, Gotcha!

  Will took advantage of her dumbfounded stupor to pluck the gun from her hands. She roused long enough to put up a brief struggle and pull the trigger.

  Click
.

  The gun had been unloaded all along. No doubt the others had all known that.

  The parrot stood on one foot and wagged the other—like a toddler demanding attention. Fergus offered his arm. “Well done, Quint. You foiled the vixen’s dastardly plans.” Not content with the forearm, the bird tugged at Fergus’s sleeve with beak and talons until he let him relocate to the shoulder. “He likes to be the tallest one in the room. You happy now?”

  Quint settled himself with a satisfied fluff of the feathers and squawked, “I’m having conniptions!”

  Will pocketed the pistol. With a long-suffering sigh he asked again, “How did you get out of the room, Lucy?”

  A little gasp drew her gaze to the doorway. Cuba stood there, her eyes wide with the realization that she’d neglected to lock Lucy’s door. She looked so vulnerable, the mother in Lucy couldn’t bring herself to narc out the poor kid.

  “I picked the lock,” Lucy said.

  Will stared at her a long moment. He didn’t buy it. Good. He scowled at each of the others in turn, a mute interrogation that yielded no confessions. Cuba had managed to school her expression. Fergus must have caught on, though. Lucy caught him giving the girl a conspiratorial wink. She suspected not much got past the big Irishman.

  “I hope you enjoyed your little adventure.” Will’s fingers circled Lucy’s upper arm like an iron band. “Because you’re about to pay for it.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “Whatcha gonna do to her, Dad?”

  Good grief, even the kid was in on it.

  Will refrained from answering his son, which Lucy considered an inauspicious sign.

  So. Her captor was a daddy. Did Cuba belong to him, too? Could Gabby be their mother? The Frenchwoman was a good deal older than Will, but she wasn’t that old. A mom-and-pop kidnapping ring. How positively quaint.

  The Asian guy addressed Lucy. “Did you really break Mick’s nose?”

  Mick. One more name to add to her growing roster of ne’er-do-wells. Not that she had any use for it. Lucy doubted she’d get a second chance at escape.

  “You broke his nose?” the boy asked. “What did it look like? When you punched him. Was there lots of blood?”

  “She didn’t punch him, lad,” Fergus said, “she kicked him. See, the thing we didn’t know goin’ in, this lady’s a kung fu grandmaster. Ninth-degree black belt. Took all three of us to truss her up.”

  “Wow!” The kid jumped out of his seat and tried a couple of experimental jabs and kicks. He turned to Lucy. “Can you teach me?”

  “Sorry, son.” Will started to march Lucy out of the room. “The grandmaster will be otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future.”

  Cuba slid her a surreptitious look: Sorry.

  For what? Leaving the cookie jar within reach? Lucy was the one who’d opened the lid and taken a great big bite of double-stuff Now I’ve Done It.

  She couldn’t bring herself to regret it, though. Whatever happened to her from this point forward, at least she hadn’t given up without a fight.

  Still perched on Fergus’s shoulder, Quint busied himself with the feathers under his bad wing, pausing in his grooming just long enough to squawk out a little melody.

  Deep in the recesses of Lucy’s brain, a mental switch flipped. She knew that tune. She stopped in her tracks, even as Will tried to bully her out of the room. The bird returned her goggle-eyed stare. What had it said earlier? You’ll put your eye out. I’m having conniptions. She’d seen this parrot before. She’d heard it spout those same mommy’s-had-it-up-to-here phrases. She used to hum that same catchy theme song as a kid.

  Savannah had rejected all trappings of modern industrialized society—except for television. Lucy’s mother was hooked on the reruns of the shows that had been her favorites as a child. She’d hauled their geriatric thirteen-inch black-and-white RCA from commune to commune all during Lucy’s youth.

  “I hope you’re not planning to beg for mercy.” Will yanked on her arm. “I’m not in a particularly merciful mood.”

  She gaped at him. No wonder he looked familiar. It came back in a rush. All those adolescent Wednesday evenings planted in front of the tube, watching a time-traveling, carrot-topped kid and his loquacious parrot in a goofy sitcom called In No Time.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “I’ve been kidnapped by Ricky Baines!”

  Chapter 7

  WESLEY HAD GIVEN Frank directions to the place where he said they were keeping Lucy. It was a sizable spread with a couple of buildings—a massive relic of a house and a one-story tan-brick structure. Fairly isolated for this part of the Island. Frank drove slowly past the place, scoping it out. He continued about two hundred yards before parking his Mercedes S500 off the deserted road. He was so jazzed on adrenaline, he was practically vibrating.

  That morning Wesley had given him a .38 and shown him how to point and fire the thing. Frank had wanted a semiautomatic—he savored a mental image of himself aiming a 9-millimeter in that cool sideways slant like he’d seen in the movies—but that fat fag had insisted on a revolver. A simpler mechanism, he’d said; less chance of it jamming. Frank had pleaded his case, but Wesley refused to budge.

  The guy owned a mini arsenal, as it turned out, at least a dozen assorted guns, some registered, others sans pedigree, like this well-worn Smith & Wesson. If the police found it on Frank, it couldn’t be traced back to the PI. For a man who didn’t like to carry a weapon, Wesley sure had a lot of them. At least give me a silencer for this thing, Frank had said, I may have to shoot out some locks. Turns out you can’t silence a revolver. Who knew?

  Frank had again tried to get Wesley to accompany him, but the PI had to go out of town that day. Tracking someone down for one of his matrimonial cases, he’d said. Well, a fellow had to make a living. And anyway, Lucy would be a lot more impressed when Frank rescued her all by his lonesome.

  It was close to three a.m. Frank cursed the bright full moon. Not that he’d be that easy to spot. He’d found a military surplus store with a back room that catered to demanding customers with deep pockets. He was dressed in green and black night camos, head to toe. He flipped open the little camo face paint kit and smeared matching greasepaint onto his cheeks and chin.

  Next came the night-vision goggles. He adjusted the straps, turned them on, and saw his surroundings materialize in shades of luminescent green, almost as clear as day. He could have gotten ordinary NVGs for a couple of hundred bucks; instead he’d shelled out five grand for a state-of-the-art fourth-generation model. Hey, wasn’t his Lucy worth it? Plus, these things were just so cool; he’d always wanted an excuse to buy a pair.

  In addition to the .38, Frank carried a big-ass British army pig-sticker knife. The final touch was a night camo helmet.

  He imagined Lucy’s reaction when he came for her, the weepy gratitude, the awe and excitement she’d be helpless to conceal. Hell, look at him. He was goddamn Rambo.

  Frank started back toward the kidnappers’ lair, slinking through the woods, keeping out of sight of the road. The air was frosty, but he was too wound up to feel the cold. The buildings came into view. His heart banged. Which one was she in? Security lights illuminated the two entrances to the tan building. He’d be too exposed. The house was dark except for a lone porch light. He’d start there.

  He darted from tree to tree, commando style. Wesley had firmly instructed him to keep the gun in his pocket. Don’t take it out unless you’re forced to, he’d said. And if you do, keep your finger off the trigger. He showed him how to hold it the “safe” way. Frank didn’t see the point to all that. Cops and soldiers didn’t keep their weapons tucked in their pockets. They remained alert and ready to respond, and so would he. This was a kind of police action, after all. He was a one-man SWAT team.

  Frank relinquished the shelter of the last tree and sprinted low toward the side of the house. He flattened himself against the brickwork and listened hard for sounds of movement from inside. Nothing, just the trill of insects. He scooted to the nea
rest window. It was locked, with curtains drawn.

  He made his way to the back of the house, where there was a screened porch. Part of the large backyard had been turned into a vegetable garden, not yet planted this early in the season. In the distance was a fenced playground. An elevated wood-and-wire animal hutch sat closer to the house. Frank peered through the wire mesh and saw a lop-eared bunny. The thing thumped its hind legs and gave him a spooky green-eyed stare.

  What if they had dogs? he thought. A surly rabbit was one thing. All he needed was a couple of snarling Dobermans lunging for his jugular. Take it easy, he told himself. If there were dogs on the premises, they’d have made their presence known by now.

  Then he remembered: He was armed. Release the hounds! He could dispatch the beasts swiftly enough with the help of his faithful friends, Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.

  Lights were on in the back room. He took a careful peek. It was the kitchen; no one was in there. He slunk to the porch door. It squealed slightly when he opened it, and he paused, listening, before crossing to the kitchen door and trying it. Locked. The door had glass panes in it, though. He supposed he could try to gain entry by breaking one, but it would make a lot of noise, and he hadn’t thought to bring tape and a glass cutter. Wasn’t that how they did it in the movies?

  Frank slipped around the other side of the house, hoping to find a window that had been left open. No such luck, and the side door was also locked. His best bet was that kitchen door. He retraced his steps, rounding the back of the house, and came face-to-face with a fat old Chinese woman in a zippered fleece bathrobe.

  She raised a humongous meat cleaver over her head. “You go away.”

  Frank jumped back. “Holy shit!”

  “Go away, schmuck.” She advanced on him, wagging the cleaver. “You go rob someone else. Irving!” she cried.

  Frank backed up, hands raised placatingly. Nervous tension tightened his trigger finger, and the gun erupted with a kick, firing a round into the night sky. “Christ!” He dropped the .38.