Throughout the day, Scott had checked in with her. She knew that he was as worried about her as he was about all three of their daughters. She was ashamed that her emotional instability had not only damaged Jackie, but she knew that it had also not been fair to Scott. He desperately needed her strength, as she did his. She wanted him with her, but she encouraged him to stay to help to identify the elusive white woman, and to try to solve the Yankee-related ransom demand. So far, no breakthroughs. At their insistence, FBI agents were guiding Scott through the money drop-off tomorrow morning, eleven a.m.
When Scott had asked about Jackie, Katie couldn’t stop the tears gathering in her eyes when she said, “No change.”
She and Scott had always insisted that they did not have a favorite among the triplets, but it was true that Jackie and Scott had a special relationship. What about her? Which of the three was her favorite? Alex, so sweet and loving and innocent. What about Sammie? That made Sammie neither of their favorites.
Balancing the food on the tray, Marge descended the steps. She pulled back the bolt, clicked open the lock, and walked into the basement. Nudging the tray against her ample hip, she balanced it with one hand.
She almost dropped it when Jessica said, “Let me help you.” The child hopped off the couch, and Marge handed her the tray.
Marge carefully locked the basement door behind her then went to pour them water from the faucet. Why so nice? she thought, and wasn’t it about time? After all, she had been good to the girls. It wasn’t her fault that she’d had to gag them and tie them and hide them in the bathroom when that nosy guy delivered the twin beds. Then when they’d trashed the place, she hit them, and if they tried that in the future, she’d do so again. She was a kind person and it wasn’t her nature to beat on kids, but they were her charges, a responsibility that she did not take lightly.
Jessica took a bite of her sandwich, then asked, “Are you married?”
Marge didn’t know what to say. “Yes” that she was married. Or “no” that Evan had divorced her. But whatever God has joined, let no man put asunder. At least that’s what she remembered from the Bible.
“Yes, I am,” she decided, clenching her fists. She would have Evan back as soon as things settled down. And they would. There’s no way that distorted picture of her face would be in the papers as far away as Toronto.
“Where’s your husband?” Jennifer asked.
“Just eat.” Marge said.
“We heard a man’s voice today,” Jessica said. “Was that him?”
“What?” Marge jerked her head toward the locked door. “Uh, no.” Had they seen Spanky? Or just heard him?
Good thing she had a plan to get them out tonight. She’d do it after dark. After Spanky left to go out to the bars. She’d probably have to tie them up again, but maybe not if they stayed nice like this.
Marge watched Jessica and Jennifer exchange one of those twin looks. Like they were reading each other’s mind. “What?” she asked. They’d tell her if they’d seen Spanky, wouldn’t they? And what would he be doing in the basement? He kept all his stuff in the garage.
Marge headed for the door to let herself out, when Jessica asked, “Can we go with you? We always help our Mom. We can dust. Do the dishes. Lots of things.”
“We need fresh air,” Jennifer added. “It smells funny down here.”
“I have a surprise for you later.” Marge pushed back the bolt. It did smell moldy. She’d planned to spray the basement with Lysol, but now there was no point. Right now she had to gas up the car and make a stop at the pharmacy. And she had to do it quickly before Spanky got back from his buddy’s garage. No way could she risk Spanky wandering into the basement. She had been worried that she’d have to gag the girls and tie them up with those rags, but they were behaving so well, she judged it not necessary. “You girls have to be real quiet. You’re gonna love the surprise I promised you later, but you have to behave. Okay?”
“I just want to go home.” Marge didn’t like Jennifer’s whiny tone.
“Is it a television?” Jessica sounded excited. The first positive reaction from her and it warmed Marge’s heart.
“We’ll see,” Marge said. “Now quiet as mice. Promise?”
The twins exchanged another look, which Marge interpreted to be a promise.
CHAPTER 39
Sammie and Alex Monroe — Still No Clue. Jackie Remains Hospitalized.
— News Talk Shows, Friday, June 19
Alex didn’t think that Sammie’s escape plan would work. But all she could think about was getting back to Mom and Dad. Before he left, the man they heard upstairs yelled that he would be back for dinner. But would he help them or not?”
She’d posed the question to Sammie, the bravest one of all three of them.
“If he won’t, we’ll use these to knock him out.” Sammie pointed to a shovel and a hoe that they’d found over by the washing machine and dryer. “And we can throw these at their heads.”
Alex and Sammie each had a good arm. Better than any of the boys on their baseball team, but could they bean a man hard enough with the baseballs they’d found in a rotting athletic bag? The woman maybe, because she was fat and if they surprised her, maybe.
“First we try to knock them down so we can get out the door and then we run like crazy. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll have the baseballs in our pockets and the extras in this bucket by the door. See?” Sammie pointed to a plastic pail.
“Maybe the man will just let us go. Just because he’s with her doesn’t make him bad, too.”
“Right. And maybe our fairy godmother will fly by to take us home. Alex, you’re such a goody-goody.”
“I just wanta see Mom and Dad.”
“You do exactly what I tell you. I mean it. We’re gonna escape from that bitch.”
Alex felt her body shudder. If Mom ever heard Sammie use that word —
Marge had lingered too long and she was behind schedule. She’d packed both of her big suitcases. They’d fit in the trunk as well as some of the girls’ things. But maybe not the two doll clothes wardrobes. If they didn’t, should she take one or leave them both behind? She’d have to wait until the last minute to make that decision. In the meantime, what to do about gassing up the car? She did have half a tank. She’d planned to get some hair dye to make herself a dark brunette, but it was now six thirty p.m., too late. She had the chicken partially baked, ready to fry. Potatoes ready to mash. String beans ready to steam.
“Ma.” Marge hadn’t heard the crunch of gravel coming up the drive or the loud motor sound. He must have got his truck engine fixed.
Home already. Maybe that was good. They could eat earlier, he’d leave, and she could finish packing and wait until it was dark enough.
“In the kitchen, Spanky.”
“Hey, Ma. I’m gonna take your junker. Where you got the keys?”
Marge went out into the hall. “What?”
“I wanta get an appraisal. For a trade-in. I’m gettin’ you new wheels. Maybe one of those Porsches.”
“You come in here.” She didn’t want him lingering by the stairs leading to the basement.
“Your Escort’s a junker.”
“Just a little rusted,” Marge said. Crap. She couldn’t have him driving around in her car. Thank goodness she hadn’t started to put her suitcases inside.
“Rusted so bad you can’t tell what the fuck color it is.”
“Come on, Spanky, you know I don’t like you talking like that. I don’t care how you talk to your truck-driving buddies, but I didn’t raise you like that. Another thing,” she said, looking him up and down, “I wish you’d get rid of that moustache and that dinky beard.” She especially didn’t like the scraggly beard. It didn’t look good with his completely shaved head. A big head, like his big body, six feet three, bulky muscles, and the start of a beer belly.
“Yeah, yeah. I need the keys.”
“No, not tonight. Look, I got dinner about ready.” Marge pointed t
o the chicken parts she’d spread out on the counter to dip into flour.
“Hmm, chicken. Guess I can wait until tomorrow. I got a buddy who’s got a deal on an Impala.”
“No way, Spanky. I’m only driving Ford cars. Chrysler and General Motors are both bankrupt. I’ve gotta show my loyalty. Besides, I can get a discount.”
“You can’t afford no new car. This one I got in mind’s a beauty. Only got twenty thousand miles, a shiny red. Like you owe them any loyalty. What a crock of shit.”
Just feed him. Let him go out. Tomorrow I’ll have left on vacation.
Marge had the oil in the frying pan ready and when she began to drop in chicken legs, Spanky sniffed. “Guess, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“You’re all sweaty. You go take a shower while I fry this up. Now, go along.”
Marge breathed a sigh of relief as he went clomping up the stairs. She remembered how she’d always made him take off his shoes in the house when he was a little boy.
Marge didn’t like to dwell on it, but Spanky had not been a very nice little boy. Even as a toddler back when they lived with her parents in that cramped house. Back before she’d married Evan. But hadn’t it been all her fault? Getting pregnant when she was only seventeen by that no-good, pimply neighborhood kid. She’d brought shame on her family. Her mother, bless her soul, taking care of the illegitimate baby while Marge got a job on the production line at Ford.
Most kids were cuddly and cute, but Samuel had been mean tempered from the beginning, or at least that’s how Marge remembered it.
Even when Marge’s life changed so dramatically for the better, her son had been a constant worry. That’s when Marge married Evan Spansky, a lovely man, who worked at the Ford plant. She met him when she worked the second shift and found out that he was going to college during the day to be an accountant. He was shy, but smart, and good looking with wavy dark brown hair and eyes the color of copper. From the first time he asked her out for coffee after work, she could tell he really fell for her. Samuel was then five years old, and once they were married, Evan had been eager to adopt him. Samuel had been called “Spanky” ever since then, after trying to explain his new last name to his kindergarten class. Once Evan graduated from Eastern Michigan University, Marge quit her job, and the Spansky family moved to Evan’s place in Holly.
As always, when Marge thought of Evan, her mind jumped two years ahead to the birth of the twins. Identical, darling little girls with dark curly hair and copper-colored eyes just like their father’s. Evan doted on them, as did she. Later, too much later, Marge realized that she and Evan had been so absorbed by the beautiful, delightful babies that maybe they did neglect Spanky just a bit.
Marge’s last vision of the twins was as vivid today as it was twenty-one years ago, the two of them babbling away in their double stroller, dressed in matching fuchsia outfits with cute little visors. She’d parked the stroller in the sand along the shore of Elk Lake, where Evan’s family had a log cabin.
Now, as Marge stood mashing her potatoes, she had to set down the masher to clutch her heart.
“You okay, Ma?” Spanky was at her side, shaking her. “You havin’ one of those headaches again? Nothin’ wrong with your heart, is there?”
Sometimes Spanky could be so sweet and caring. Like wanting to get her a new car. Like now, leaning over her to show that he cared.
All of a sudden Marge heard a loud clanging. It was coming from the basement. Not now, her mind screamed. Not now. But Spanky had heard it.
“What the fuck’s that?” Spanky spun around. “Somebody at the door?”
“I’ll take care of it, Spanky. Quickly Marge jerked open the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Take this. Go in the living room. Watch TV.”
Marge hesitated a moment to make sure that Spanky would not follow her. The noise below was louder now. What were the twins doing?
Spanky opened the door and poked his head out. “Nobody out there,” he said, reaching for the beer then turning. “Hey Ma, it’s coming from —”
Marge held out both arms to stop Spanky as he bolted for the basement steps.
CHAPTER 40
Norman Watkins, Suspect in Monroe Kidnappings, to be Buried in Tampa.
— Tampa News, Friday, June 19
“So if Cutty set up the abduction, he’s gone to his grave with their whereabouts.” Streeter ran a hand through his lengthening crew cut, wrapping up a detailed conference call summarizing the Monroe case. When the others hung up, Rusk stayed on.
“Same goes for Norman Watkins,” Rusk added. “I don’t think he’s our man. Unless he had a streak of revenge that he’d hidden from everybody. Everybody we interviewed was all hero worship. It’s like the joint turned the guy into a saint. The rumor is that his wife has a case against the feds? Like your agents up there provoked a police suicide?”
“The way this case is going, who knows? Watkins panicked, I guess. Either that or he did snatch the kids and — any way about it, it happened in Detroit, so I’m taking the heat. I’ve got three daughters in Michigan. They try to transfer me to a remote outpost, I’m out of the bureau.”
“You divorced?”
“Yeah,” Streeter said. “They live with their mom. Classic FBI. She couldn’t take the job. I couldn’t give it up. But if I don’t break this case, I just don’t know —”
“About the ransom tomorrow —”
“It’s bullshit, but we have to go through the paces. So far we’ve kept it out of the press, but who knows what’ll blow tomorrow. Chances are we’ll snatch the guy and be no more the smarter as to what happened to those girls.”
When Streeter terminated the conference, he took a call from Clarence Plummer at the Hills Mall. The two had kept in touch on a daily basis since this all started last Sunday, and Plummer was doing all in his power to find that middle-aged white woman who’d taken the Monroe girls out of his mall.
“There was a guy in the mall today who heard that I was still asking questions about the kidnapping,” Plummer reported. “He stopped by my office and told my assistant that he had delivered a couple of twin beds on Monday. To a woman who lives out near Pontiac. Didn’t give the address. He said that she looked a lot like the lady in the police drawing and that he saw a brownish Escort parked on the property and he remembered a couple of numbers from the license plate. He said that his wife had called the FBI hotline before, but that was before the picture of the woman was on the wire.”
Streeter vaguely remembered the report. Thousands of callers, suspicious of something ridiculous. Something about twin beds. Nothing relevant, of that he was sure.
“I was off-site,” Plummer went on. “This guy told my assistant that he remembered seeing me on TV and he wanted to talk only to me so the information wouldn’t get ignored. He refused to identify himself, but said he’d call back in the morning. You can bet that I reamed out my staff for letting an informant leave without contact information. Of all things, dropping the ball — Streeter, you know how bad I want to find those little girls.”
“I’ll check into our database for that report,” Streeter said. “We should be able to locate it and pinpoint the source. Sounds like a long shot, but we’ll jump on it. And thanks, Plummer. If this guy gets back, give me a call, direct.”
“You got it,” Plummer said. “My wife and I are still praying that you find those little girls.”
CHAPTER 41
Mystery Woman Who Left with Monroe Children Still at Large.
— Evening News, Friday, June 19
Sammie couldn’t tell by the light coming in from the small rectangular windows up by the ceiling whether it was getting late or whether it was just a cloudy day.
“Wish we had a Hershey Bar. Remember the first day down here, she brought us one.”
If only Alex would stop talking about food. But what else was there to talk about? They didn’t know anything about what was going on. Were their parents still looking for them? Was Jackie okay, or was she really
vomiting blood like Maggie said? And what did Maggie want with them?
“Sammie,” Alex interrupted. “I hear something.”
Sammie jumped up. They were ready. They rehearsed like they were going to be in a school play. If only Alex didn’t lose her nerve.
“Put your shoes on,” Sammie said, leaning into the door. “I hear a man’s voice.”
“Okay.”
Alex was at Sammie’s side, sneakers tied, clutching the spade. Or was it a hoe? Sammie grabbed the shovel.
They both waited.
“It’s that same man’s voice.” Sammie took a deep breath. Another look at Alex, and with her nod, they began. They’d figured hitting the shovel and the other garden thing on the pipes would make the loudest clamor.
They started to scream, “Help! Help Us!” That’s what they’d decided. “Help!” over and over.
Beyond their shouts and the clunking of the iron, they heard Maggie’s voice. Much louder than she’d ever talked to them. She yelled, “No, Spanky, don’t go down there.”
Sammie flashed Alex a hopeful look. Somebody was coming to help them.
Loud footsteps on the stairs and the girls stopped clunking the shovel and hoe. They kept calling for help. “Down here,” Alex screamed. “We’re in the basement.”
Alex started to put the spade down, but Sammie shook her head, “No, remember, like we planned.”
Before Alex could respond, the chain on the door clanked and they heard the bolt slide.
Standing on each side of the door, holding their implement, they waited for only an instant before a big man pushed though the door. Right behind him was Maggie. She had a scared look on her face, but the man looked surprised.
And Then There Was One Page 20
