by Peg Herring
Mission Impossible—or at best, Mission Improbable.
Robin’s unit was in the row farthest from the road, #121. Opening the roll-up door all the way, she moved the few things still inside to the back corners, except for her mother’s cheapie plastic lawn chair. She had plans for that. Calling Carter, she gave him directions to the lot. While she waited, she duct-taped the four trouble lights to the door frame, making sure they didn’t interfere with the door’s operation.
Fifteen minutes later Carter arrived in Abrams’ car. Directing him to pull the car inside the unit, she closed the door, shutting out the daylight. Setting the lawn chair near the trunk of the car, she focused the lights on it. In whispered tones, she told Carter what they were going to do and switched the lights on one by one. As they hummed to life, the rest of the 10x20 space became so dark she couldn’t see Carter’s face. That was good. She didn’t want to know if he approved of her plan or thought she’d completely lost her mind.
When all was ready, Carter pressed the button on Abrams’ key chain that opened the trunk. Robin’s hands shook as she set the voice-changing device she’d bought against her neck. Planning this had been one thing; actually doing it was much scarier. She wondered if it was too late to back out, but of course it was. She had to do it—she wanted to do it. They were striking a blow for anyone ever mistreated by crooks and charlatans.
A few seconds after the trunk clicked open, a wilted Commissioner Abrams sat up. Short on shoulders but amply supplied in the waistline, he looked like a garden gnome peering over the edge. His expression was unpleasant, but she couldn’t fault him for that. Three hours in a car trunk would make anyone testy.
When no one said anything, Abrams slowly put one foot onto the floor of the unit, then the other. Grasping the car’s frame while his legs got used to holding him upright again, he squinted into the bright lights. When he spoke, his voice was raspy from shouting. “You are going to be sorry for this, Halkias.”
Robin called up the anger that had brought her this far. She couldn’t let Carter down. She couldn’t let this guy off the hook. Taking a deep breath, she let it all out, something her speech teacher had claimed calmed tonal tremors. Her voice came out low and growly. “He’s the least of your concerns right now.”
Abrams turned toward her with a glowering scowl, and she noted signs of dissolution: puffiness along the cheekbones, broken blood vessels on the nose, and red-rimmed eyes. They must use a lot of makeup when they film those Vote for Honest Abrams ads.
“Sit down in the chair, please.”
He looked at it briefly before returning his glare in her general direction. “No.”
The refusal surprised her. If she’d been kidnapped, held in a trunk for hours, then ordered to sit, she’d have done it.
“Who are you?” Abrams demanded.
She forced a commanding tone. “Sit down.”
He thought about it for a moment then, with exaggerated slowness that signaled disdain, moved to the chair. Testing the seat, then the arms, he pulled it across the floor a few inches as if choosing the most comfortable spot. The scrape both irritated and discomfited Robin, which was no doubt what he intended. Turning toward her with a smirk, Abrams sat. “Happy now?”
“Satisfied,” she responded.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about a county commissioner who cheated an old woman out of her land.”
Abrams made a tent of his hands and rested his chin on it. “Which commissioner would that be?”
“You.”
He waved a hand. “I assume you can prove this allegation? An old, sick woman with a morphine pump says I came to her home to personally persuade her to sell her run-down farm?” He waggled a hand to indicate instability. “Poor thing probably thought she spoke to the President in her final days too.”
Then how did you know she had a morphine pump? She chose not to argue that point. “You took her land and paid her almost nothing for it.”
“Did I?” His round face creased in a smile he no doubt practiced before a mirror. “You won’t find my name on any paperwork associated with that particular transaction.”
Of course he hid his involvement in the deal. I should have done some research.
Robin was starting to doubt her plan, but she tried to regroup. “We know you’re behind it, no matter whose name is on the deed. Mrs. Halkias recognized you from the news.”
Abrams shrugged. “Everybody in Cedar County recognizes me from the news. That doesn’t mean I visited some crummy apartment to offer a real estate deal to a drugged-out old woman.” Perhaps sensing that came out too harsh, he softened his tone. “The lady was mistaken, but she’s no longer with us, so we can’t explain it to her, can we?” His sigh was unconvincing. “I guess we’ll never know who talked her into selling.”
In the scenario Robin had imagined, they’d accuse Abrams to his face and he’d admit to his crime, maybe even show remorse. It wasn’t working out that way. Behind her Carter’s feet shifted nervously, and she almost turned to snap at him to keep still.
How do the cops on TV make it look so easy to get someone to confess?
Sensing his advantage, Abrams went on the offensive. “Who are you, anyway?” His glance went to the floor, and Robin looked down to see that her shoes were lit in the glow of the lights. “Well, what do you know? The retard’s got a girlfriend.”
She tried to keep her voice calm. “We’re a group of citizens that has had it with crooks like you.”
Abrams’ piggy eyes squinted even more. “Tell you what. Why don’t we go to the police? You can tell them how a perfectly legal land sale was made to someone who isn’t me, and I’ll tell them how your special friend assaulted and kidnapped a county official with your assistance.”
At his mocking tone, the heat rose again in Robin’s neck. He was supposed to admit what he’d done, but instead he was almost amused. If he won the debate, she and Carter had put their futures at risk for nothing.
It isn’t a debate, her mind whispered. You’re no longer playing by his rules.
Standing straighter, Robin firmed her voice. “We’re not presenting evidence in court, Dirt-bag. We want justice, and we’re going to get it.”
Something in her changed demeanor caused Abrams to lick his lips. “What does that mean?”
“You’re going to explain exactly how you cheated Mrs. Halkias.”
After a moment he went back on the offensive. “I don’t think so.”
If it had been a Bruce Willis movie, they’d have come to the part where the stressed-to-the-max good guy beat a confession out of the rotten-to-the-core bad guy. There was no way Robin could do that, physically or emotionally, nor could she order Carter to.
But you can convince Abrams you’re capable of it. “Do as we say and we let you go. Say no and you die.”
The man’s lip rose in a sneer. “You’re a couple of amateurs who’ve made the biggest mistake of your lives. You’re nuts, but I don’t think you’re capable of murder.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen!” Abrams stamped a foot, and the chair back clanged against the bumper of the car. “I’m an elected official of this county, not some punk you can scare with lights and a creepy voice. I intend to see that Halkias spends the rest of his life in an institution for retards with violent tendencies.” He stared into the darkness, and it felt as if he could see Robin there simply because he wanted to. “You’ll get a long stretch of jail time too, Missy. That’s how the real world works.”
The real world is exactly why we’re here.
Again Carter moved nervously in the shadows, but Robin made a calming gesture. Abrams’ comment had reminded her how men like him operated, cowing others with their willingness to lie to get what they wanted.
“You’re going to tell us the truth about the land deal. Then you’ll pay a fine for what you’ve done.”
“Fine?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“To ensure that
we don’t expose your crimes to the public.”
Abrams made a dismissive gesture. “Your so-called proof is the ravings of a terminally ill old woman. I, on the other hand, can prove I was kidnapped and held against my will.”
Her stomach churned. With a crook’s sense of crookedness, he’d concluded they wouldn’t follow through on the threat she’d made.
Robin chewed on her thumbnail, trying to see a way forward. Should they give up and let Abrams go? Should they call the police and hope someone would at least investigate the land deal? If they were lucky enough to get that far, would the investigation turn up evidence to support Carter’s story? Even if it did, would kidnapping a prominent citizen be excused? Did one crime justify another?
She shook her head, impatient with her own doubts. The man was scum, but that didn’t mean a thing if she couldn’t make him admit it. If only I believed in waterboarding!
That brought to mind something she’d once read in a novel, a trick that made an innocent act seem like torture. Could she trick Abrams into doing as she demanded?
Squaring her shoulders, Robin wiped her soggy thumbnail on the back of her jeans. “Hold Mr. Abrams’ head still and cover his eyes,” she said to Carter. “Let’s show him we mean business.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Carter stepped toward the chair. Taking off the knit hat he wore, he pulled it over Abrams’ eyes then took hold of the man’s head, one hand under his chin and the other on the top. Once Abrams was immobilized, Robin located the duct tape she’d used to secure the lights and tore off several strips. As the tape coming off the roll made its unmistakable sound Abrams stiffened, but Carter held him tightly while she taped his arms to the chair.
When she finished Robin glanced at Carter, who seemed concerned. Me too, dude. Me too.
Returning to where she’d set her drink, Robin fished out the only remaining chunk of ice. “You will talk, Mr. Abrams,” she said, making her mechanical voice slow and ominous. “Here’s a taste of what’s in store.” Though her stomach heaved in objection, she set the ice against the skin of Barney Abrams’ plump neck.
His body tensed as he tried to pull away from what felt like cold steel. “Hey, don’t do this! Don’t!”
“Are you ready to tell us how you got Mrs. Halkias to sell her farm?”
In a last bit of resistance, Abrams hesitated. Pressing her lips under her teeth, Robin drew the ice a couple of inches along his skin. On contact with his warm body the ice melted, creating the feeling he was bleeding.
Abrams screamed in perceived pain. “All right, all right—I’ll tell!”
Robin backed away, aghast, but her other half asked: Which is worse—scaring a creep or lying to terminally ill old ladies?
She felt like a creep herself, but Abrams’ arrogant confidence had deserted him. Carter surprised her by displaying a grin and an awkward thumbs up.
It’s role-playing for him, like his games. She took a deep breath to relax her shoulders. That’s how I need to look at it. We aren’t hurting the guy, even if he doesn’t know that.
Abrams panted, “You cut me!”
“I warned you. We’re not joking, and we’re not all that patient, either.” Robin hoped one scare was enough, because she wasn’t sure she could repeat the move without throwing up. Besides, the piece of ice was rapidly turning to water in her hand.
“What do you want to know?”
Pressing the record button on her phone she said, “Tell us how you got Mrs. Halkias to sell her property and how you benefited.”
When Abrams said nothing she hesitated, unwilling to repeat the terrible thing she’d done. Her father’s favorite saying came to mind: In for a penny, in for a pound.
She laid the ice against his cheek. “Spit it out.”
He slumped in the chair like a deflated balloon. “Because of my work on the county board, I sometimes hear about future events before they’re general knowledge.”
“Like the mall they’re going to build in Westfield.”
“Yes. My cousin Donnie buys the land and we split the profits.”
“Your part was to convince Mrs. Halkias to sell.”
Again he hesitated, and Robin set the last bit of the “knife” at his Adam’s apple, near the jugular vein. She’d just have to throw up later.
“Old people worry about medical bills,” Abrams said in a rush. “She had no idea what her land was worth. I looked up what her father paid for it in 1965 and doubled it.”
No doubt he’d also played on Mrs. Halkias’ fear that her son couldn’t handle the responsibility of owning a farm. Robin didn’t want Carter to hear that part. Drying her hand on her jeans, she ended the recording. “Okay. That was step one.”
Carter released Abrams’ head and at a nod from Robin, cut the tape that held his arms. Putting a hand to his damp neck, Abrams frowned. “What the—?”
She ignored his confusion. “Now that you’ve confessed, you’re going to pay us to keep it quiet.”
“What?”
“We all know Mr. Halkias deserves more than the ten thousand dollars you paid his mother.”
He squinted into the lights. “How much are we talking?”
Again Robin wished she’d had time to research the amount, but she chose a low-end figure, hoping Abrams would absorb it and keep quiet rather than going to the cops and taking the chance his misdeeds might come to light. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Abrams’ expression went from disbelief to relief. “Fifty thousand?” The word only was clearly implied.
Too late to raise the amount. “Now.”
Abrams’ smirk was back in place. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Here.” She tossed him his phone and watched as he pressed a few buttons. “I need fifty thousand in cash. Put it in a bag and bring it to—” He put the phone to his chest. “Where?”
“Leave it in the bushes at the west gate of Veterans’ Park, near the sign about picking up after your dog.” With a little more confidence she added, “Within the next hour.”
Abrams nodded, repeating the order into the phone. “Move your ass.” Ending the call, he ran his tongue over his teeth. “Shouldn’t take long.”
In seventeen minutes less than the allotted hour, his phone rang. “Put it on speaker,” Robin ordered.
With a grimace of irritation, he complied. “Abrams.”
“It’s done, Mr. Abrams,” a young woman said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you Monday.” He set the phone in Carter’s outstretched hand. “Go get your money.”
“Thank you.” That didn’t sound very tough. “Now here’s the last of our demands. You will not tell anyone about this—ever. You won’t mention Mr. Halkias to anyone, and you’ll hide where the 50K went.”
Abrams shrugged. “My people know better than to ask. And Halkias?” He leaned in Carter’s general direction. “If I ever lay eyes on you again, you’re going to wish I didn’t.”
Swallowing the fear that clawed at her chest, Robin said with as much confidence as she could muster. “If anything happens to him, recordings of the confession go to the state police and the media.”
Abrams touched his neck where the cut should have been. “Tricky, aren’t you?”
“Get back in the trunk.” When he seemed about to object, she barked, “Do it!”
Muttering under his breath, Abrams obeyed, his short legs making it an almost comical effort. Robin stood in the shadows while Carter stepped forward and closed the lid. She should have worn a ski mask, she thought, but at best Abrams got an impression of height and body shape. He couldn’t identify her.
She was surprised when she opened the unit door and realized it was still daytime. The sky wasn’t exactly sunny, but it was much brighter than her mood. She had the distinct impression it should be four o’clock in the morning instead of four in the afternoon.
Before leaving she warned Carter, “Don’t say a word to him, and stay inside the unit so nobody sees you.”
Carter nodded, his expression serious. As she drove toward the park, Robin wondered how he was taking all this. He’d seemed at various moments scared, confused, fascinated, and even pleased. Did he comprehend what they’d done? It occurred to her that while she was gone, Abrams might try to trick Carter into revealing their location or her name. She pressed a little harder on the gas pedal.
By the time she reached the park, the anger that had carried her through had dissipated. She was weak and shaky; in fact it felt as if someone had strung an electrical wire up one of her arms, through her chest, and down the other. Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Robin calmed her overstressed nerves. First she scouted the area, doing warm-up stretches as if she were going for a run. Nothing unusual. In fact, she saw only two teenagers so wrapped up in each other—literally and figuratively—that she could have been wearing a bomb strapped to her chest and they wouldn’t have noticed.
Once she was fairly sure there were no cops hiding in the azalea bushes, she jogged along the path that circled the park’s exterior. The first time she passed the spot where the money should be, she didn’t slow her pace, though her gaze darted everywhere. Making a complete circle, she stopped to retie her shoes and check again. There was no one. She made one more circuit, feeling better as fresh air and movement calmed her nerves and loosened her tense muscles. The last time around she paused near the spot, leaning against a tree trunk and stretching her calves. Again she scanned for trouble. The park was deserted. Four-thirty was early for after-work runners and late for moms with kids. On the final circuit, she reached into the clump of greenery behind a sign that said Clean Up After Your Pet, pulled out a black gym bag, and sprinted for her car.
The calm she’d almost achieved from running turned quickly back to fear with the presence of fifty thousand ill-gotten dollars in her back seat. Her heart pumped overtime all the way back to the storage unit, and she was once again a mess. Under the fear, however, was a tiny gleam of exhilaration. She and Carter had made a crook pay. They’d pulled it off.
