About an hour and a half later, he asked Tony to sing.
“Dude,” Tony said.
“Keep it low, nothing that will wake anyone above.”
Tony began to sing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me ha-pee when skies are gray.”
That was not quite what he’d expected. Frank said, “Is this what you and your buddies listen to? No wonder you haven’t got a woman.”
“It’s all I could think of. It’s what Mom used to sing to me when I was little.”
Kim. Holy cow, if she knew what was happening . . .
Frank said, “Sing away, Romeo. Maybe next you can favor us with a medley from Blue’s Clues.”
“I’m the map,” Tony said. Then he started back up again.
Frank stood ever so slowly in the pitch black. He felt forward with one foot, and when he was sure he wasn’t going to step on anything, he slowly moved away from the bench.
He moved like he was in extreme slow-motion, like he was some kind of tree sloth. Like a chameleon stalking prey, one ancient leg at a time. It took him ten minutes to get to the stairs. Tony finished “You Are My Sunshine” and began with “The Ants Go Marching One By One Hurrah.”
Frank used the edges of the steps. He used the hand rail. On the third step he creaked, but the rest of the stairs were solid. By the twelfth chorus of ants Frank was at the door. He’d seen through the crack at the bottom of the door on his way up. The light was off in the kitchen, which is where this door led. The TV was in the other room.
It was still running, but it had been some time since Frank had heard any conversation or footsteps from above.
He grabbed the doorknob. It twisted. It hadn’t been locked! This might end up being easier than he thought.
He set himself and prepared to open the door as slowly as he’d crept up here. He pushed, but the door didn’t budge. He pushed harder, but it wasn’t moving. He felt along the door and about six inches above the knob ran across a circular metal plate. The back end of a dead bolt. One without a key slot.
He paused. Dead-bolted doors weren’t impossible. A lot were installed improperly. They needed at least an inch long mortise into the door frame to allow the bolt to lock. If the bolt wasn’t fully extended and locked, you could slip a putty knife in and push the bolt back. Frank didn’t have a putty knife, and he hadn’t seen any tools down in that basement. He could try to kick or ram it in, but he was in no kind of good position to do that. His first attempt would wake the house. If it took more than one try, he’d open the door to find the men upstairs waiting with their guns.
No key hole to pick. No putty knife. No good angle of attack.
He could wait right here until morning. The moment they opened the door he could rush them. But there was a good chance they’d bottle up, and he wouldn’t get the door fully open. If it was him alone, he might risk it. But he couldn’t risk getting shot and leaving Tony downstairs to their devices. He needed something with a lot better odds.
He immediately thought of the bathroom he’d seen and got an idea.
Tony finished the seventeenth chorus of marching ants and started up with “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Frank was pretty sure Kim hadn’t sung that one to him.
He did his tree sloth crawl back down the stairs. He carefully felt his way across the darkness of the basement to the bathroom. He quietly and painstakingly felt around the counter and then in the drawers by the sink until he found what he was looking for.
The fact was that the human body was soft. Eye material was soft. And just about anything could be made into a shank strong enough to penetrate. He’d seen a great variety in Pleasant Valley—melted plastic coffee lids, a long screw, the nub of a pencil. Anything that could be fashioned into a hard, sharp point. He wrapped his fingers around a standard-sized toothbrush, then slipped it in his pocket.
In the main room, Tony was down to thirty-five beers.
Frank exited the bathroom as slowly as he’d entered and slow-walked back toward the bench. About ten feet away, his toe struck an aluminum can. Frank froze, but the can rolled and rolled. The loudest sound in the world.
It finally came to a stop. He paused, waited, and just as he was about to resume his journey, the older girl turned on a small LED flashlight, the kind you might find on a key chain, and shined it across the room. It wasn’t much light, but it was more than enough. She found Frank in a second and lit him up for everyone to see.
So much for operational security.
The girl looked at him for a moment more, then turned off the light. Tony had stopped singing when Frank kicked the damn can. There was nothing now but the TV.
Frank walked over to the wall, felt his way to the bench, and sat down.
“Dude,” Tony said.
Frank didn’t know the woman or the girl. He didn’t trust either of them. There are a lot of things you’d do to curry favor with your captors. Narking on the big ugly guy who had broken free of his restraints was a no-brainer.
The woman and girl were both silent as the grave.
Probably wondering what he truly was. Was Frank a victim like them? If so, they could score points with the men upstairs by giving him up. Was he a plant sent to cozy up and get the woman to talk? If so, she might say something as soon as someone came down to show she knew their bluff. Or did Ed and Jesus have these kids terrified, telling them they’d send people to test their loyalty? They might think Frank was just such a test and decide the way to pass was to reveal he’d been walking about.
Hell’s bells.
Nothing to do about that now. He was just going to have to improvise.
“I’m going to take first watch,” Frank said to Tony. “Get some shut-eye.”
Tony said, “I can’t believe the cops didn’t respond. How do we drive hours on Wyoming roads and not run into one single officer?”
“I put them off your trail,” Frank said.
“Why?”
“What would you have told any cop that pulled you over when Ed told you he knew where your mother lived and had friends in the area?”
A beat passed.
“He knows where we live?”
“You willing to risk that he doesn’t?”
“That twelver. If I’d had a gun . . .”
Which is why Frank wasn’t going to free Tony from his bonds any time soon. The last thing he needed was Tony popping up into the fray.
“What are we going to do?” Tony asked. “You’ve got to get me out of these ties.”
“We’re going to sit,” Frank said. “We’re going to be good little prisoners.”
Tony sighed.
“Get some rest; you’re going to need it.”
It took Tony a while to calm down, but he eventually succumbed to sleep.
A moment later Frank pulled the toothbrush out of his pocket, took the end, and began to slowly grind the handle on the rough concrete wall.
It was around two a.m. when he finished. He felt the end of the toothbrush, which came to a nice hard point. It wasn’t going to win any wars, but it just might turn the odds of a fist fight. Outside, a vehicle drove into the yard. Someone crunched over the gravel to the back door. The screen door opened. Slammed. Two people stomped around upstairs, got something out of the fridge then went to another part of the house. Everything fell quiet again except for the TV that was running an infomercial.
Frank reattached the zip ties around his ankles, except did them up backward, which meant they wouldn’t hold at all against any amount of pressure. He did up his wrists the same way and used the tie he’d broken to look like he was still fastened to the bench. Then he set his internal clock for three hours, two REM cycles, and made himself as comfortable as possible and fell asleep.
13
Bang Bang
FRANK WOKE UP sometime before his two cycles had ended. Tony was slumped against him. The woman looked like she was sleeping too. Then he realized the basement was not as dark as it had been before. He l
ooked up at the boarded windows; there was no daylight coming in around the edges. He looked around.
Over in the corner, the older girl was on her knees, rocking back and forth, speaking with a hushed voice. She had turned her little flashlight on and placed it on the cement floor so it shone upon what looked liked a small greeting card that had been set against the wall.
Frank peered closer.
The image on the card was of a person. No, not of a person—a skeleton clothed in a robe of stars with roses and skulls at her feet.
Santísima Muerte, the Most Holy Saint Death, whom Jesus had tattooed on his shoulder, with that vine of skulls and roses curling up beneath her feet. The saint to whom those in drug trafficking, kidnapping, and crime set up shrines and made offerings, rubbing their candles over their limbs and face and hair and then setting them alight at her feet. Of course, Frank had been told that many in both police and military in Mexico were counted among the faithful as well and asked for blessings on their weapons and ammunition. The Catholic church had officially denounced her, calling it all a devil-worshipping cult. But it’s hard to argue with the narco prosperity. To those who believed, Santa Muerte was a powerful saint, able to grant favors no other saint could.
The girl picked up a book of matches and tore one off. She held it between the strike strip and front flap and pulled. The little flame burned into the darkness.
One of the little girls said, “No creo que nos puede oír.” I don’t think she can hear us.
“Why would she listen?” The little boy asked in Spanish. “We don’t have candles or wine. We don’t even have apples. We have nothing to offer.”
“Shush,” the older girl said. She held the little flame in front of the card and rocked. “Doña Bella,” she said in hushed tones. “You are beautiful and kind. We believe in your powers. We have no candles. We have no cigarettes to light and share with you. Please do not forget us, sweet mother. Please help little Rosa to heal. Do not forget us, please.”
By this time the match had burned down close to her fingers. She laid the remnant on the cement floor at the foot of the card and waved the smoke of the match toward the image on the card.
“She helps the Gorozas,” the little boy whispered. “She’s not going to help us.”
“Do not let her hear you say such things,” the older girl reprimanded.
The flame flickered and then burned out.
One of the little girls sniffled.
“It’s okay,” the older girl said in soothing tones.
“It still hurts,” the littlest girl whispered.
“I think he might be too injured to ask for you tomorrow,” the older girl whispered. “Did you see his face? He went to the hospital. Maybe he’ll be in too much pain to want to touch you. Even if he takes Viagra.”
Viagra?
A small point of rage filled Frank’s heart. Was that Jesus’s game—a transportation racket with a continual supply of victims to prey upon en route?
The little girl sniffled again.
Frank’s mind went back to a warlord they’d made contact with in Colombia. A man who their contacts had said could lead them to one of the carnales, one of the cartel big shots. His mind went back to tin hut at the edge of a camp in the Colombian jungle. The warlord had led them to the hut; he’d removed the chains that held the door closed, then pulled the door back. Sunlight had streamed in to illuminate five little girls huddled on the dirt floor. “Pick one, Gringo,” he had said with a smile. “They are fresh. No disease. I think you’ll like the one there with the big eyes.”
Frank and the other Special Forces men with him had turned down his offer. But they did not forget him. A week later a cartel hit squad came in and decimated the place. They’d received a strange anonymous tip that the warlord had been working with the Gringos.
“It won’t be forever,” the older girl said. “We only have to work off our debt. And then you can be an American.”
“I don’t want to be an American,” the little girl said in the darkness. “I just want to go home.”
“It’s only for a little while,” the older girl said.
“I can never go back home,” the little boy said. “Not now. If my father found out, he would kill me. The other boys would stone me like a diseased dog.”
The cold rage inside Frank rose and settled along his jaw. It ran down his neck, across his shoulders, and wrapped his chest. It wrapped him from head to toe.
He shifted his position, and the bench squeaked.
The children froze, their faces full of alarm.
“Qué onda?” Frank asked. What’s going on?
The alarm gave way to fear.
A beat passed. Then another. Finally, the older girl replied in an even tone, “Sometimes, Rosa, she has nightmares.”
“She’s hurt?”
None of them moved.
“She’s fine,” the older girl said.
They didn’t know who he was. And every trafficker who had anything to do with them would have told them they couldn’t trust anyone. They would have told them that other prisoners, the police—they’d all be in cahoots with the captors. And if they were clean, the traffickers would have told them the good cops would figure the kids were in cahoots with the traffickers. Either way, they’d sell them out, kill them, or worse.
Frank said, “I had dreams as well, niños.” The image of Jesus and that little girl in her pink pajamas rose in his mind and made his blood boil. “I believe Santa Muerte has spoken to me.”
He settled back against the wall. Santa Muerte had spoken loud and clear.
The woman at the end of the bench was awake and watching. She gave Frank a fierce look he couldn’t read.
“What’s your name?” Frank asked.
She said, “You can call me Carmen.”
But it wasn’t. That was clear. Why would she give him a false name?
Plenty of reasons, but finding out why wasn’t the mission. Frank looked down at Tony. Tony was the mission. But how could he leave these children?
* * *
It was sometime after seven a.m. when the first folks upstairs began to move about—Ed and one other guy from the sound of their footsteps and voices. They turned on the TV, ate something, ran the kitchen sink, then left the house. Moments later a vehicle started and drove away. Another hour went by, and then someone else got up, went to the bathroom, ran the sink. The water whooshed down the pipes in the basement. Others awoke. Someone else made a phone call. Someone else started up the microwave. It dinged loud and clear as a bell.
Frank checked his zip ties, picked up the one supposedly securing him to the bench and re-attached it. He rolled his shoulders and arched his back for a stretch.
By this time Tony was awake. He said he had to pee something mighty. Frank told him to hold it. Tony groaned as a few of the girls used the bathroom and got drinks of water straight from the tap at the sink.
Things settled down for a while, and then someone approached the door at the top of the stairs and worked the lock. It slid open with a loud click. The one naked light bulb in the ceiling flipped on. The door to the basement swung open.
“Buenas días,” Shotgun said.
He came down first, holding his weapon. He was bright-eyed. Bug-eyed, actually. He was definitely riding something in his veins. Not very smart of them to use what they sold, especially not meth. The best drug organizations had a bit more discipline. Maybe a little weed and coke now and again, but never meth.
Jesus came next, his face all bandaged up. The bruising around his eyes was nice and purple. Behind him came a third man Frank hadn’t seen before. He too was Hispanic. A real stumpy guy full of hard muscle. He wore a white tank top shirt with a pair of dark sunglasses hanging from the scoop of the neckline. He wore a gold bracelet and khaki pants. His dark hair was short and tidy.
Frank looked over at the older girl. He glanced at the woman at the end of the bench. If they were going to give him up, now was probably the time. S
hotgun was about ten feet away. If Frank was fast, he might be able to get to him before he got his gun up. But by then Jesus and Stumpy would have pulled their weapons.
Jesus said, “Take her upstairs. I’ll have some of that after I finish down here.”
Stumpy walked over to the kids on the mattresses. They all looked up at him with apprehension, but the little one hung her head, her face blank.
Stumpy snapped his fingers and pointed at her.
She looked at Frank, her face flat, her eyes full of death.
Stumpy turned, Mr. Sunglasses, and walked toward the stairs. The little girl rose and followed, a slight child in pink pajamas, brightly colored elastics holding her dark hair in two braids that had come a bit loose during the night. Stumpy’s steps were heavy on the stairs. The light tap of her step could barely be heard.
When she got to the top, she stopped. “Por favor,” she said. Please.
Stumpy raised his hand as if to strike her. “Shut up. You have debts. Go wipe yourself down with the lotion and get ready.”
The two of them moved into another room up above, his big steps following her little ones.
Shotgun turned to Frank, “Sleep well, dick job?”
Frank said, “No, I had nightmares about your teeth.”
Shotgun smiled.
“Agh,” Frank groaned. “Of course, you aren’t half as ugly as Jesus. I think his mother must have been one of those donkeys they use in the Tijuana sex shows.”
“You are not very smart, are you,” Jesus said and pulled on his leather gloves.
“No, I’m real dumb,” Frank said. “But I know you’re going to let me out of here. I want to talk to Ed.”
“Ed went out,” Jesus said.
Frank had to make the sale, so he widened his eyes just a bit.
“That’s right,” Jesus said and pulled his Benchmade knife out of his pocket. He flipped the lever, and the four-inch, razor-sharp spear blade shot out and locked into place.
Frank decided a charge with the toothbrush really wasn’t the right tactic in this situation. The old maxim that no plan survives contact with the enemy had been proven true yet again. There was another maxim that said: when in stress, men don’t rise to the occasion—they fall back to their level of training. He wondered what level of training Shotgun and Jesus had.
Bad Penny Page 15
