Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  “Neither was I.”

  He said nothing, just sat gazing at the waves rolling onto the sand. Judith hugged herself tighter and told herself to shut up. Told herself there was nothing to be gained, and everything to be lost, by pursuing this particular conversational thread.

  But she was tired. Good Lord, she was so tired, her secret a lead-filled backpack she hauled with her everywhere. And it only got heavier with time, a burden she could share with no one. She closed her eyes and fought for composure. So go spill your guts to a shrink, she told herself for the hundredth time. Psychiatrists were legally bound to keep their patients’ secrets, weren’t they? She could heave that lead pack off her back, let someone else support some of the weight for a change.

  She couldn’t say why she’d never made an appointment. Perhaps because she’d grown accustomed to the weight of the guilt and to the psychic exhaustion that went hand-in-hand with it. Perhaps because, when it came right down to it, the guilt and exhaustion were scant punishment for the terrible thing she’d done, and she didn’t deserve to talk-therapy her way out of one iota of that punishment.

  She opened her eyes to find Fergus still gazing at the water. Discreetly she swiped moisture from the corners of her eyes. She cleared her throat and asked, “What’s so fascinating out there?”

  He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. She let him pull her down, let him tuck her into the cradle of his bent legs, both of them facing out to sea now, his arms encircling her.

  Judith searched the horizon for whatever had captured his attention. She saw nothing, no ship, no sailboat, just turquoise water stretching without end. Her chin lowered. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent. Fergus said nothing, only continued to hold her. Her lapse in control didn’t last long. Within seconds she was wiping her face and mumbling a lame apology.

  He brought his mouth close to her ear. His arms tightened around her. “I’m going to tell you something, Judith. I’ll not be sayin’ this but once, so mind my words. You are a fine, strong woman.”

  She groaned. “Shut up.” He placed a big palm over her mouth, lightly. She pulled it away. “I mean it, Fergus. I know you’re just trying to cheer—”

  “Something’s crushin’ you from the inside, and has been for a long time, I’ll wager. It’s destroying you. You don’t have to let it.”

  Judith patted his arm, soothingly. “It’s not your problem.”

  “There you’re wrong, lass. The problems of the people I care about are my problems.”

  A little smile tugged at Judith’s mouth. Just being included in that rarefied class of humanity—the people Fergus Dowd cared about—made that lead backpack just a tad lighter.

  “I would never betray your confidence,” he added, and she didn’t doubt he believed that. If she were to confess to, well, to almost anything, he would keep his word. But as much as he professed to care for her, his first priority would be to his best friend and employer.

  He read her mind. “What we talk about here is between you, me, and the seagulls. Unless your brother grew wings and a beak, he’s not part of this conversation.”

  She failed to restrain a mirthless chuckle. Will couldn’t be more a part of this conversation.

  Fergus gave her a comforting pat on the arm. “It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me.” Judith started to sigh with relief until he added, “I’ll find out on my own.”

  Chapter 20

  HAL CINCHED THE last restraining strap, stood back, and appraised the young genius who’d paid dearly to be trussed up à la The Silence of the Lambs, complete with blue coveralls, straitjacket, and leather-and-steel faceguard. A case of too much bread and too little imagination.

  He moved behind the man-sized handcart, tipped it back—a little gasp from beneath the faceguard—and wheeled his conveniently mobile client, a physics grad student named Justin Wornak, into a corner, facing solid black walls. It was late Sunday morning, nearly noon. Judith’s flight was due in at three-forty, and Hal had made zero progress in sniffing out his two mil. More than once during the past week he’d questioned his sanity for willingly placing himself in close proximity to people who could, if he slipped up by one iota, send him straight back to prison. Hal knew if those big gates clanged shut on him again—a possibility not to be discounted, there being no statute of limitations on first-degree kidnapping in New York—he’d likely die behind bars.

  He’d launched conversational feelers during the past few days, trying to determine if Will had managed to sneak a peak through the tour-bus windows at just the right moment, but his “cousin” made it clear that the subject of his long-ago kidnapping was off limits.

  It was true, what he’d told Mick. Not a day had gone by during his long incarceration that he hadn’t pictured those trim stacks of C-notes in their subterranean hidey-hole, mentally counted and re-counted them, always coming up with the same figure. He’d fixated on that buried suitcase, secure in the knowledge it would be waiting for him when he got out.

  That cash had preserved his sanity, kept him impersonating a damn choirboy for the past two and a half decades. He’d sucked up to the COs, shunned the Aryan Brotherhood, racked up the college credits, and welcomed Jesus into his heart. Every action, every word, had been geared toward acing his first parole hearing. Besides turning himself into the model reformed felon, Hal had cultivated contacts outside the joint, anyone and everyone with the juice to influence the three individuals who would one day interview him, examine the pertinent reports, and say yea or nay to early release. And it had worked.

  Bottom line: As implausible as this lead was, it was the only one he had. One way or the other, he was going to walk away from this place with two million dollars. Failure was unacceptable.

  Justin called out from the corner, “Yo. How long you planning to keep me in this thing?” Hal ignored him. He unlocked the cabinet set into one wall and hurriedly began searching the top shelf, tossing aside CDs, DVDs, restraining hardware—the accumulated detritus of all the fake unlawful imprisonments that had taken place in this room. He pulled out a rubber chicken dressed in doll clothes. He pondered it for a while, then decided he didn’t want to know. Ditto for the set of dental instruments.

  Flashlight. Deflated exercise ball. Spray bottle. Earplugs. Three-year-old issue of The Economist magazine. A snake’s nest of neckties. It all sailed to the floor. Hal knew he was getting careless—he paused for a moment and listened for movement outside the closed door—but the clock was ticking and every second counted.

  He’d had high hopes for Gabby at first. Who better to pump for info than the onetime nanny? Not only had she been solidly in the picture back then, but her role in Will Kitchen’s strange little universe had expanded to include employee, business manager, and confidante, not to mention surrogate mother and French tutor to Will’s son and to his ward, if that was what Cuba could rightly be called. If anyone had knowledge of a sudden infusion of cash, it would be Gabrielle Fonteneau. Plus she was an irrepressible blabbermouth, and female to boot. Hal was an expert at manipulating the ladies, a skill he’d only refined during those long years inside, thanks to the murder groupies. Early on, he’d ID’d Gabby as the weak link in Will’s inner circle, and as a result had wasted far too much time chatting her up.

  The nanny freely and cheerfully blabbed about everything except money. Apparently she’d been raised with a strict code of ethics regarding thrift, savings, and keeping mum about one’s financial affairs. A search of her room, as well as everyone else’s, had turned up nothing.

  Hal had—he glanced at his watch—just under four hours to see what tidbits he could unearth before the wheels of Judith’s jet kissed the tarmac at JFK. Once she was around, the long-lost cousin would have to get lost for good. She’d recognize him in an instant.

  The cabinet was deep. Stretching to reach the far end, he pulled out the last few items: a ball gag, a catcher’s mitt, and a can of WD-40.

  “Yo. Didja hear
me?” Justin strained to look over his shoulder. “I think I’ve had enough of this thing. Get me out of it.”

  Hal had conducted two thorough inspections of both the Goo and the house, including the basement, which he knew belonged to Will’s pal Fergus Dowd. He’d never met this Fergus, but after an exhaustive inspection of the bizarrely appointed warren of rooms the man called home, he had to admit to a certain curiosity about him.

  Hal had returned to Will’s office on the second floor of the house repeatedly, usually in the middle of the night, flashlight in hand. He’d jimmied the locks on the desk and filing cabinet so many times, he could probably do it faster with a pick than with a key. He’d turned up client records, personal correspondence and memorabilia, your basic little black address book, issues of Model Railroader that stretched back fifteen years, and a lot of other crap he couldn’t care less about.

  He’d tried to get into Will’s laptop computer, but it was password-protected, and Hacking 101 hadn’t been on the list of courses available at Attica. Tom and Cuba shared another laptop, unsecured, but that contained only the kinds of files you’d expect for kids of their ages and interests.

  There was actually a big, old-fashioned floor safe in Will’s office, probably original to the house, and that had been the toughest to get into. It contained property deeds, passports, a gold watch inscribed with the initials WSK, Grandpa Will’s handwritten diary, a box of ammo for the SIG, and a thick string-tie envelope, the sight of which boosted Hal’s spirits until he shook out the contents: a dozen snapshots. All were taken in Will’s bedroom, and all featured the same woman, a blonde cutie with full, high tits and—he aimed the flashlight and brought one of the pictures close to his nose—a tawny landing strip down there. More topiary pubeage. Hal figured if he was ever going to fondle a full bush again, he’d have to plant an azalea.

  So Will didn’t keep his cash or bank records or investment statements or any of that in the most logical places, which left Hal no choice but to explore the least logical places. He’d started outside with the garage and tool shed, and even given the bunny hutch a cursory inspection, before moving on to the laundry and furnace rooms, kitchen pantry, and crawl spaces. He’d given the same treatment to every corner of the Goo: game room, kitchen, supply closets, everything. He’d already checked the cabinets in the two unoccupied client rooms. What was left after this—digging up the yard?

  Hal turned his attention to the cabinet’s next shelf, set below eye level. He swept items off it with manic intensity until something blocked his way, something large and boxy. Bending slightly, he peered inside, then jerked upright, struggling to process what he’d just seen.

  “I know you’re there.” Justin was growing impatient. “Get me out of this thing, man. Let’s go.”

  Hal’s heart leapt so hard and so suddenly, he wondered if he’d given himself a coronary. It wasn’t until Justin demanded he speak up that he realized he’d been whispering a string of incredulous curses. He bent again and took a second, longer look. The suitcase he’d buried the money in had been constructed of olive green vinyl embossed with a paisley design. He’d swiped it from his mother’s attic twenty-five years earlier, stripped it of all identifying tags, and crammed it full of stacks of hundreds. The money had barely fit.

  He reached inside with both hands and pulled out the suitcase. It was heavy, just as heavy as it had been that rain-soaked day in the woods. This was the same piece of luggage, no doubts on that score. It was worn in the exact same places. There was the corner that had split and been restitched by the shoe-repair man. The last time he’d seen this thing, it had been triple-sealed in trash bags and strapping tape, and he’d been tossing dirt onto it in the pouring rain. He heaved the case onto the bare mattress and squatted in front of it.

  Even if the lock hadn’t been busted, he’d have had no trouble getting into the suitcase. The combination was burned into his memory: three, zero, and eight, representing Mom’s most lucrative night at Holy Resurrection, where she spent every Thursday evening playing twenty cards at a time without a bingo marker, surrounded by her cheering section of lucky troll dolls.

  God Almighty, his fingers were shaking. The cheap latches flipped open with a satisfying snap.

  “What was that?” Justin demanded from his corner. “What are you going to do to me? Why won’t you say anything?”

  Hal lifted the lid of the suitcase. It took a moment to register the fact that he wasn’t looking at stacks of hundreds.

  “Yo, Keith, whatcha up to?”

  Hal slammed the lid shut. Cuba stood in the doorway, frowning in puzzlement as she took in the mess. The contents of the cabinet were strewn everywhere.

  “I . . .” He gave a short laugh, thinking fast. “I was looking for something.”

  She came into the room. Glanced at the empty cabinet. Looked at the rubber chicken in its cute little outfit. “Looking for what?”

  “Who’s that?” Justin demanded. “Clarice? Is that you?”

  Cuba didn’t spare their client so much as a glance; she was staring at the closed suitcase. Hal came to his feet, feeling the joint-popping burden of his fifty years for the first time. He gave her a disarming smile and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not so sure myself what I hoped to find. Something to make his stay with us a little more memorable.” He nodded toward Justin.

  Cuba didn’t return his smile. There was too much going on behind those big blue eyes. Whatever problems this kid had, stupidity wasn’t among them.

  “Guess I got kind of carried away.” He nudged a Chinese folding fan with the toe of his work boot. “Maybe I’ll make Hannibal there pick it up.”

  “Hannibal?”

  Still whispering, Hal said, “Guy thinks he’s Hannibal Lechter. You know, from the movie?”

  “That’s, like, pitiful.”

  “I heard that,” Justin chanted. “You’re not Clarice. Where is she?”

  “Who’s gonna do Clarice?” Cuba asked, sotto voce.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Gabby’s too old. I mean, no offense, but Clarice is supposed to be, like, in her twenties. And she’s not French.”

  “Nice try, but you know what Will says. When you’re eighteen.”

  She hissed, “That is such bullshit and you know it. I could do Clarice. I could do her a lot better than Gabby.”

  Cuba’s color was high, her eyes bright. Her attention had shifted from Hal’s obvious snooping, and he wanted to keep it from shifting back. He scratched his chin. “Well . . .”

  “What the fuck happened here?” Mick sauntered into the room, surveying the clutter.

  At the sound of his voice, Cuba pulled a longsuffering face.

  He sidled up to her. “What are you looking for? Your vibrator?” He grabbed his crotch. “I think I found it.”

  “What’s that about a vibrator?” Justin’s voice was tight. “I did not agree to anything weird.”

  Cuba gave the client a withering look. “I’m sure.” Her voice oozed the kind of corrosive sarcasm only a teenage girl could master. “He only paid, like, a million bucks to get tied to a handcart. So about Clarice.” She shoved Mick’s hand off her shoulder and turned back to Hal. “You’re here. It’s not like I’ll be alone with the client or anything.”

  Hal made a show of puffing his cheeks, mulling it over. “You sure you can handle it?”

  Her little face lit up. “I’ve seen the movie, like, a dozen times. I can so do Clarice. Where’s the costume? With the others?” She was already halfway out the door.

  Hal shook his head with a little smile, as if she’d worn him down. “Remember, this is between us.”

  Cuba emitted an earsplitting squeal and rushed back in to give him a bear hug. “You are so cool, Keith. I’ll be, like, two minutes.”

  Mick watched her sprint out of the room. “Wish she’d grope me like that.”

  “Pick up all this stuff.” Hal kicked the pile of clutter.

  “Why me? I didn’t do it.”r />
  “And make it fast.” Lowering his voice again as he closed the door, he added, “I don’t want your uncle to start asking questions.”

  Mick tried to stare him down, but in the end he averted his gaze and began tossing items helter-skelter back into the cabinet. “I’ve been outta the loop a few days. You fuck her yet?”

  Hal shook his head. “She’s playing hard to get. Anyway, that turned into a dead end. If she knows about the money, she’s not sharing.” The suitcase lay right there in full view, but he had no intention of mentioning its significance.

  Mick made a face. “I wasn’t talking about Gabby.”

  “I don’t fuck kids, Mick. Keep your voice down.”

  “You make it sound like she’s in diapers.” Mick spun the DVDs like Frisbees toward the back of the cabinet. “She’s fourteen.”

  Cuba was fifteen. Hal didn’t correct him.

  “You telling me you never fucked a fourteen-year-old?” Mick sneered. “You are so full of shit.”

  “I like grown-up women who know the score.”

  “What, you think Cuba’s some kinda innocent young thing? She was living on the streets when Gabby found her.” He offered a leering grin. “On the streets, Hal. What do you think she was doing to feed herself, huh? Selling flowers? And you know, once they’ve gotten popped, they gotta have more, I don’t care how young they are. It’s like this addiction.”

  Hal’s boneheaded son was lecturing him about the fairer sex. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Mick said, “she wants it.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.”

  “The young ones are nice. You don’t know what you’re missing. And tight?” Mick pumped his closed fist. “Like a milking machine, I swear. I’m talking twelve, thirteen years old.”

  Justin spoke up from his corner. “That’s messed up, man.”

  Mick laughed. “You know what they say, ‘Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.’ I’ll have to introduce you to some fresh meat, old man.” He found himself slammed against the wall before he could draw his next breath. “What? What?”