Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  “You don’t call me that.” Hal’s voice was a controlled growl.

  “Don’t call you what? Lemme go.”

  “I’m not old and I’m not interested in being anyone’s old man, especially yours.” Hal tightened his grip. “You got that?”

  “Yeah. I got it. Fuck.”

  Hal released him. Mick tried to shrug off the humiliating encounter. His expression and his little cough of laughter said, What’s his problem? He avoided Hal’s gaze as he hurled the last of the mess into the cabinet. “What about that?” Mick nodded toward the suitcase on the mattress.

  “Nothing. Junk. Put it with the rest.”

  Mick kicked open the lid of the suitcase. “What’s all this shit?” He plucked a newspaper clipping that was lying on top. “‘Ricky Baines Recovering in Hospital. Acting Community Expresses Relief.’ The New York Times.” He peered more closely at the faded newsprint. “The network put up a reward for information leading to the conviction, blah blah blah. A hundred grand. Sweet.” He dropped the clipping and lifted another, this one featuring a full-page headline. “‘Ricky Maimed! Parents Receive Grisly Present.’” Mick cackled. “The Daily News.”

  “Close that thing.”

  “Check it out. It’s all stuff about the kidnapping.” Mick picked up a supermarket tabloid. “‘The Severed Finger! Exclusive Photos!’” He flipped to the next page. “Whoa. Awesome.”

  “Those pictures aren’t real, you idiot.” Hal snatched the tabloid from Mick and tossed it back into the suitcase.

  “How do you know?”

  Hal gave him the look. How do you think I know?

  “Oh. Yeah.” Mick giggled until Hal closed the case and latched it. “Hey! I wanted to check out that issue of Parrot World. ‘Courageous Quint—You Should See the Other Guy!’ What other guy? Oh yeah, didn’t he take a chunk out of y—” Mick flinched as Hal signaled him to shut the hell up. “But no one knows it was you,” Mick whispered, “so how come it says ‘you should see the other—’”

  “It’s an expression, you idiot. Get that back in there.” Hal nodded toward the cabinet.

  Mick dragged the case off the mattress, grunting. “Give me a hand with this thing, will ya?”

  If Mick weren’t the spitting image, Hal never would believe he’d sired him. He grabbed the suitcase from his son and hurled it deep into the cabinet.

  “Who’s gonna let me out of this thing?” Justin griped. “How many times do I have to say it?”

  Mick’s head swiveled. His malignant gaze narrowed on their client with the precision of a raptor homing in on a hapless chipmunk. This kid must never have had a mutt to kick around the yard. Hal watched him advance on Justin Wornak, still facing the corner, now struggling to make eye contact.

  “Hey, how’s it goin’, man?” Justin offered Mick an affable smile; they were about the same age. Mick said nothing. “Yeah, okay, listen, I’m ready to get outta this thing.” He jiggled his arms, to the extent they were jiggleable within the straitjacket. Mick remained mute. Justin’s smile failed him. “Like, now?”

  Mick turned to Hal, who’d joined them in the corner. “What’s the deal with this guy?”

  “Hannibal the Cannibal. Can’t you tell?”

  “How long’s he been like this?”

  Hal looked at his watch. “Ten, twelve minutes, tops.”

  Mick turned back to Justin. “You pussy.”

  “I’d like to see you tied up like this, see how long you’d last.” Justin was getting shrill. “Listen, asshole, I’m the client. I paid for this shit. I say when it’s over, okay? It’s over. Take off these straps. Unbuckle this thing. Now.”

  “Unfortunately, Justin,” Hal said, “that’s not how it works. You met with our boss. You insisted on a specific brand of treatment for two full days. He got it all in writing. You signed on the dotted line.”

  Justin’s elaborate eye-roll said he was dealing with simpletons. “Yes, yes, I signed on the dotted line and all that. Now I’m unsigning. Your boss said I could quit this anytime.”

  “Of course you can,” Hal assured him.

  “No prob, man.” Mick gave him a couple of friendly thumps on the shoulder. “You’re still a pussy, but hey, you’re the one’s gotta live with that, right?”

  “So do it already. I’m waiting.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something,” Hal said.

  “Huh?”

  “The safe word?”

  Their client frowned in puzzlement, then a spark of comprehension glimmered to life. “Safe word. Right. That guy Kitchen talked about a safe word.”

  “He made you choose a word,” Hal prompted. “Told you not to forget it.”

  “I didn’t forget it.” Justin was perspiring now, reflexively jerking his limbs. Long moments passed as he sweated and twitched. “It’s just not, like, on the tip of my tongue, that’s all.”

  “You forgot your safe word?” Mick was clearly delighted by this turn of events.

  “Wait, wait, gimme a chance to think. Oh yeah.” Justin perked up. “I wrote it on my left wrist.” Both arms were fully enrobed in the straightjacket. “Just loosen this thing, let me get a look at it.”

  Mick said, “Sorry, Hannibal, that’s against the rules.”

  Which was bullshit, of course, but what did Hal care?

  “Oh, come one, man . . .” Justin squirmed in his bindings. “Just one little peek. I’ve gotta get out of this thing.”

  “No can do, Hannibal.” Mick shook his head sadly. “If we drop our guard even for a second, you might eat our livers with limas beans and Chianti.”

  “Fava beans,” Justin said.

  “What?”

  “It’s fava beans, not limas. ‘I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.’” He punctuated this quote with that creepy tongue-flapping thing from the movie.

  “See?” Mick jabbed a stiff finger into his ribs, eliciting a wince. “That’s why we can’t loosen these straps, even a little.”

  “You people are nuts. Haven’t you ever heard the customer is always right?”

  Mick appeared to ponder that. “I don’t think I ever heard that one. Have you, Ha—”

  “Nope,” Hal said. The moron had been about to say his real name. “Don’t recall that one. I think Hannibal here’s making it up.”

  “Oh God . . .” Justin blinked sweat out of his eyes. “Where’s your boss? The one who signed me up? He won’t be such a hard-ass.”

  “You mean Jack Crawford?” Mick poked him again, harder.

  “Stop that. I mean your real boss. You know, Kitchen. The redhead. Get him in here.”

  “I don’t think so.” Poke, poke, poke.

  This was getting old. “There is another way you can free yourself,” Hal said. “You chose a gesture, too.”

  “I did?”

  Was this guy really a Ph.D. candidate in physics? “You know, some kind of body movement to signal you’re serious about getting free. Because as far as we’re concerned, right now you’re just pretending you want to be released. Understand? We let you go now and you could sue us for breach of contract.”

  Justin shrieked in frustration. “I don’t know anything about any goddamn gesture. Get me out of this thing.”

  Mick turned to Hal. “So what was that mess over there all about?”

  “I was looking for something?” Hal prompted.

  Mick looked blank.

  “Remember?”

  A second passed, then, “Oh . . . right. Listen, that reminds me. Mom’s not coming home today.”

  Hal stared at him, not daring to believe. “Why? What happened? Wait a minute.” He crossed the room, shuffled through the hodgepodge of stuff in the cabinet, and produced the earplugs and ball gag. “Here we go, sport.” He jammed the earplugs home, then unstrapped the faceguard.

  “If you don’t let me go,” Justin screamed, “I’ll sue your asses for every penny you’re worth. Illegal imprisonment! Torture!”

  Hal took advantage of their clien
t’s ranting to cork his mouth with the ball and secure the straps behind his head. Justin was crimson with rage. He bucked so hard, the handcart came close to toppling. Hal turned him around to face them, propping the cart into the corner for support. He pulled Mick aside. “What happened?”

  “Look at him. Fuckin’ loser. Hannibal Lechter my ass—”

  Hal whacked the side of his son’s head, then grabbed a fistful of the kid’s T-shirt and yanked hard enough to secure his undivided attention. Justin had gone still, staring wide-eyed at his captors. “Your mother?” Hal growled.

  “Oh yeah. She’s not coming home today.”

  “Yeah, I got that part.” He scooped the air in a gesture that said, Let’s have it.

  “Okay, well, uh, I think she’s shacked up there in Barbados.”

  “Bermuda.”

  “Whatever. Some island.”

  “Shacked up with who?” Hal asked.

  “She won’t say, but it’s Fergus, it’s gotta be.”

  “That makes sense.” Will and Gabby were of the opinion their friend had followed her to Bermuda. Like a dog sniffing around after a bitch, Hal thought. Guy couldn’t get laid on the mainland? He released Mick, who stumbled back a step, smoothing his shirt.

  Hal had been granted a reprieve: Judith would not be returning today. He felt energized, oxygenated, as if he’d just run wind sprints. She still didn’t know he was a free man, much less that he was in cahoots with her son—their son—and that her brother had taken him in. He didn’t know how much time he’d been granted, but it was more than he’d had just a minute ago. This was an offering from the gods, one he had no intention of squandering.

  No more hide and seek. The presence of that suitcase was all the proof Hal needed. Will Kitchen had stolen two million dollars from him, and the time had come to get it back.

  “My mom and that big mick.” Mick sniggered, clearly tickled by this alternate use of his own name. “I was wondering when they were finally gonna hook up.”

  A soft whistling sound brought their heads around. Justin’s eyes were closed, his nose piping a tune with every gentle exhalation. He’d fallen asleep. Mick started toward him—to kick him awake and inflict more torment, no doubt. Hal grabbed his son and hauled him back. He shot a glance at the open doorway. Cuba could return at any moment. “Where’ve you been the past few days? You didn’t answer your cell.”

  Mick shrugged. “Battery died. I was with this girl in the city. Didn’t have my charger.” A greasy grin split his face. “This girl? She had a big can, but it was—”

  “Your friend Joe paid us a visit.”

  “Joe who? I know lots of Joes.”

  “The Joe you blabbed to about our plans. Or does that still not narrow it down enough? Joe Silver.”

  Mick thought about it. “Don’t know him.”

  “How about Archie Esterhaus? Big guy? You know who I’m talking about.” Hal gave Mick a hard shove and advanced steadily as the kid backed up. “What the hell were you thinking? And giving him my real name?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mick squeaked. He’d backed up to the wooden straight chair, which he gripped like a lifeline. “I didn’t talk to anyone. I told you, I’ve been—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your latest fuck-mate, I want to know exactly how much you told this guy.” Hal’s voice was low and controlled, his enunciation precise. “And do not even think about hosing me, Mick, because I will carve you like a grapefruit.”

  Mick’s eyes were huge. “I didn’t do anything,” he blubbered. “I told you, I don’t know any Joe Silver.”

  “I verified the name through his license plate. Did a little more checking. He’s a school guidance counselor, like he says. Lives in Rockville Centre. Unlisted number. He knows about the two million, Mick.”

  “So?”

  “He has your phone number.”

  Mick’s brow creased as he tried to recall this Joe Silver. He was probably wasted when he ran his mouth to the man.

  “I’ll bet he tried to get through to you when your phone was dead,” Hal said. “Did you charge it yet?”

  Mick scratched his armpit. “Not yet.”

  “Do it. Immediately. When Silver calls, set up a meeting.”

  “Why? What’s he want?”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  After a moment of deep cogitation, Mick’s eyes widened. “No way. No fucking way is he getting a penny of that two mil. It belongs to you and me. An even split, like we agreed.”

  Dream on, kid. “You’re the reason Silver came snooping around. He knows too much to just blow him off. I’ll take care of him if I have to, but for now we’ll play along, make him think he’s riding the gravy train. Keep him quiet—you understand?”

  Mick’s eyes glittered. “What do you mean, ‘take care of him’?”

  “I mean a foot rub and a pedicure, what do you think?” Did this asinine kid really share his genes? “Tell him to go to that little park in Soundhaven. The one on Grove Street with the duck pond. Tell him to meet us behind the band shell.”

  “When?”

  “Later in the week,” Hal said. “Thursday or Friday. Make it Friday, two p.m. Then when Silver calls and says I’m here at the park, where the hell are you, tell him something came up and reschedule for a few days later. String him along. With any luck, I’ll be long gone before he gets pissed enough to blow the whistle.”

  “We’ll be long gone, you mean.”

  “You remember what to tell Silver?” Hal asked. “Where to meet us?”

  “Yeah, yeah, the grove in the park. The park on, um . . .”

  If he says, “Band Shell Street,” I’ll break all his teeth. Hal repeated the instructions several times, making Mick spit them back until it was branded into whatever passed for the kid’s cerebrum.

  The door opened. “I’m here to see Dr. Lechter.” It was Cuba, making her wobbly entrance in low-heeled pumps a couple of sizes too large for her dainty feet. Her Clarice getup included a shoulder-length brown wig, charcoal-gray skirt suit, prim blouse buttoned to the throat, and leather attaché case. Plus a fake FBI badge clipped to her lapel. She’d completely transformed herself, right down to the subtle hill-country accent, which was spot-on. If you closed your eyes, you could convince yourself Jodie Foster was in the room. Boy, when this girl applied herself to something . . .

  Hal gave her a reassuring thumbs-up. He liked Cuba. She reminded him a little of himself at that age.

  Mick said, “You got decent legs, Cuba. Should let ’em out to play more often.”

  She addressed him coolly. “My name is Clarice Starling—Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI.”

  “Dr. Lechter’s with the Sandman at present,” Hal said, “but he’ll see you shortly.” He plucked out Justin’s earplugs and shouted, “Wakey, wakey, Hannibal. Look who’s come to chat.”

  Justin jerked awake with a snort. He blinked at his surroundings until he spotted Cuba, standing straight and dignified before him. His eyes bulged. He tried to speak, but there was the little matter of the ball gag.

  Cuba turned to Hal. Her accent never faltered. “Please remove Dr. Lechter’s gag, Dr. Chilton.”

  “This is a very dangerous man, Miss Starling. He’s already eaten a former patient, a policeman, a nurse, and, uh . . .” Hal had only seen the film once, in an overcrowded dayroom with raucous cons contributing knowledgeable commentary from start to finish. “And a few other people. I must insist he remain gagged.”

  Justin offered a garbled plea from behind the ball.

  “I understand your concerns, Dr. Chilton, but I’m here on official FBI business,” she said. “A serial killer is on the loose, and I need to get some advice from Dr. Lechter. I take full responsibility for my safety.”

  “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Hal removed the gag.

  Justin gazed adoringly at Cuba. “I’ve been waiting for you, Clarice.” He tried to do Hannibal Lechter as rendered by An
thony Hopkins, tried for that velvet voice and basilisk stare, but in the end he came across more Thurston Howell the Third.

  Mick sneered, “Hey, Clarice, I can smell your—oof!” He doubled over from the accidental contact of Hal’s fist to his solar plexus.

  Cuba didn’t miss a beat. “Dr. Lechter, the FBI needs your help.”

  “Why should I help the FBI, Clarice?” Justin asked. “What’s in it for me?”

  “I’m authorized to make you an offer. You must get awful tired of being cooped up in this cell all the time.” She pulled a travel brochure out of her attaché case: Disney World and Epcot Center. “One week every year. All expenses paid.”

  Mick rubbed his sore midsection. “You look cute in that outfit, Cub—uh, Clarice.” He wagged his brows. “Real strict.”

  She turned to Hal. “Dr. Chilton, it would be helpful if prisoner Miggs were confined to his cell during my discussion with Dr. Lechter.”

  “Mick.” Hal jerked his head toward the door.

  “Oh, come on . . .” Mick placed his hand on Cuba’s waist, laughing when she threw it off.

  Justin said, “Why don’t you go swallow your tongue, man?”

  “Just can’t seem to tear myself away from Agent Starling here.” Mick returned his hand to the small of her back, then slid it lower. With lightning speed Cuba spun, seized his index finger, and snapped it sideways.

  Mick howled in pain. “You bitch!” He did a little rain dance, clutching the hand to his chest. “You broke it. Fuck!” He stomped in circles, eyes squeezed shut as if the agony were more than he could bear, and managed to hurl himself face-first into the wall. Hard. Another, shriller scream. “My doze!” Fresh blood poured from his snout.

  “You know what they say, kid.” Hal opened the door and booted Mick into the hallway. “Old enough to bleed, old enough to get your ass kicked by a girl.”

  Chapter 21

  25 years earlier

  THE NOISE COAXED Ricky out of his stupor. He was in some kind of box, and a million hammers were banging on the outside of it. The sound reverberated, echoed. And something else—someone was pounding a bass drum in a steady, thumping beat. Behind his closed eyelids was a glowing orange ball, which pulsated in time with the drumbeats. Those eyelids were indescribably heavy, but after a long while he managed to pry them open.