KIDNAP.org

by Peg Herring

  If the two strangers kept their promise, she could retire with no blots on her reputation. The only thing she’d really miss was the chance of having a dark-haired hunk appear before her, a chance to toy with him for a few months and move on to the next. Bev sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the silky coverlet absently. What made her angriest about the intruders was the destruction of her fragile fantasies. The memories of blissful times with her boys were ruined. She was an old fool, willing to let—no, require—young men to pretend they were infatuated with her. The truth was disgusting—pitiful: Her “boys” chose her only as an alternative to prison and a felony record. Behind her back, they’d compared notes, mocking her for their own amusement.

  “Not all of them.” She said it aloud as a memory arose. One young convict had been sad to leave, even hurt by her eagerness to move on to the next candidate. What was his name? Robert? No. Rafe? Rafael. He’d been so admiring, so convinced that she was strong and admirable. Rising, Bev went to the mirror and touched the face of the haggard woman who peered back at her. Rafael might enjoy a reunion, maybe a trip to Cabo, even without a prison sentence as the alternative.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I can’t imagine how Wyman found us,” Robin said when she called to tell Em what had happened in Montrose. “And who sent the warning?”

  Em thought about it. “Who has your phone number?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked Hua. He doesn’t know.”

  “If the message helped, then whoever sent it isn’t your enemy. Could it have been Wyman?”

  “No way! That creep can’t wait to lock Cam and me up.”

  “Well, someone’s on your side. If Cam had been in that hotel room, and if they’d found your disguises when they searched, you’d both have been arrested in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  That didn’t make Robin feel better. It seemed every day or so the circle of people who knew about their crimes became wider. Though she trusted Em, Hua, and Mink, she believed the old saying, “Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.” In addition to those who knew exactly what she was up to, there was Shelly, who knew Robin wasn’t where she claimed to be, and Chris, who knew she was doing things he wasn’t supposed to ask about. She had no idea how much Wyman had reported to Abrams.

  If we had a brain among us, we’d forget KNPs, start new lives, and hope no one connects us to Abrams, Buckram, or Comdon.

  But Chris had already mentioned a possibility for their next target, and what he’d said piqued her interest.

  As Mark used to say, In for a penny, in for a pound.

  They got a motel room fifty miles north. The draining away of adrenalin left Cam and Robin in need of rest, and Hua wanted to assure that no statewide alarm had been raised before they crossed the state line. When they reached their room, Cam fell across the innermost bed and almost immediately went to sleep. Hua spent a few minutes on the computer, reported no alerts for them, and then curled up in a chair and slept, leaving the second bed for her.

  It took Robin longer to settle down. She’d managed to hide it, but her post-KNP wooziness had kicked in on the way north. Though it was less severe than before, she’d been careful as they entered the motel, stepping cautiously and using handholds to keep herself steady. Lying on the overly-soft bed, she imagined some CSI tech finding a single hair or a partial fingerprint in Comdon’s room that would identify Cam and set the FBI on their trail. Listening to the even breathing of the other two, she wondered how they managed peaceful slumber. Em contended the rest of them didn’t have to worry about anything: Robin did enough of it for all of them.

  Fear of the future was part of her nature, and though Em scoffed, Robin thought it wasn’t such a bad thing. Unsuccessful criminals are the ones who can’t imagine what might go wrong, Mink had warned.

  It’s true I’m a worrier, but that’s a positive thing. I’m really good at dreaming up worst-possible-case scenarios so we can be ready for them.

  ***

  The charity for their third donation was a drive to build a no-kill animal shelter, which pleased Robin’s animal-loving heart. Hua made an anonymous bundle of cash and wrapped it for delivery, including a note that said an elderly resident of the parish wanted to save “kitties” and “doggies” in the area. Depositing the box at a FedEx drop-off, Robin imagined with satisfaction how far fifty thousand dollars would take the shelter toward its goal.

  The same day, Beverly Comdon announced she would retire at the end of her term. Happy pets and better justice for the people. It was the result Robin had imagined when she started this craziness.

  Their half of the money wouldn’t last long with a house that needed major work and four people who needed to eat regularly. Once they got home, Robin went to work on a budget, using pencil and paper. Having seen Hua operate, she would never again believe in private computer files.

  Their costs thus far were high, but most of their spending had resulted in tangible property. The house had been a steal at $92,500, but making it livable was proving as expensive as she’d feared. Doing much of the work themselves was a savings, but they’d paid for experts when necessary, including a contractor to install the furnace she dreamed of on cold mornings. The dining and living rooms were completely empty. Robin worried sometimes about what the workmen who came and went told others about the new residents on Bobby Road, who had very little furniture and not much in the way of personal possessions.

  Most evenings they met in Em’s sitting room. Furnishing it had been Robin’s job, since Em refused to shop. “Just get me things that are useful,” she ordered. “Too many people these days spend money they haven’t got to buy things they don’t want to impress people they don’t like.” Robin had found a futon, a recliner, a rocking chair, and two end tables that made Em’s main room cozy and inviting for an hour’s chat before bedtime.

  To hide a bowling-ball-sized hole in her wall, Em crocheted an afghan in red and pink blocks and set it into a vintage picture frame. Once she had her new furniture Em delighted in playing hostess, offering aromatic coffees from the Keurig she’d brought with her from Georgia. Hua was the only one interested, but the two of them took an inordinate amount of time choosing their flavor of the evening.

  Em had also brought a selection of old board games with her, and they often played cards, Rack-O, and Aggravation, cheering or groaning as they won or lost ground. As the fire crackled, banishing the evening chill, they learned each other’s ways and came to enjoy each other’s company. Even the shadow of her father’s abuse faded as Robin laughed and joked with the others. It was what growing up should have been like for all of them.

  Once he’d obtained the necessary paper and printing equipment, Hua proudly showed them the identities he had created for himself. The documents looked authentic to Robin’s untrained eye, and he assured them most computer searches would affirm that they were. One set listed his real name and country of origin—the only false claim being he’d become a United States citizen at eighteen. The other identity presented Hua as Ci Vu, the descendant of Hmong parents from Manitowoc, Wisconsin. “I hope no one expects me to speak Hmong,” he said cheerfully. “I could perhaps manage, ‘Yes,’ ‘No,’ and ‘Where is the train station?’ but nothing more.”

  Hua also made them a website. Though Robin thought it was dangerous to identify themselves online, he insisted it would be useful if they became separated and had to communicate using an unprotected server. KNP.org appeared to be a site for a children’s charity that hadn’t yet received 501(c)(3) status. The splash page promised further information in the future, but visitors found little else of interest. Hua explained that the pages of a website under construction could be accessed only by administrators, so they could communicate in private.

  Often when they met in Hua’s wing, Robin listed in her head the cost of each printer, scanner, modem, and disk drive. When the cost of the supplies the machines required was added, it was scary. Monthly bills concerned her too. “This p
lace consumes electricity like a couch potato eats chips,” Em had once commented as she watched the meter tick steadily upward. Internet access was expensive, as were groceries. Cam had an appetite to match his size, and Hua rivaled him in eating, despite being half his weight.

  And then there were Em’s liquor bills.

  “I feel bad for people who don’t drink,” she commented one evening as she splashed some Dewar’s into a glass. “When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” Behind the old Sinatra quote was an admission of Em’s constant pain and the knowledge that prescription painkillers did little to ease it.

  But Medicare doesn’t pay for Scotch.

  Travel was expensive too. So far they’d driven to their KNP’s, which was cheap and fairly anonymous, but the target Chris offered next was in California. Robin shuddered at the thought of listening to Cam and Hua discuss A-Team reruns for the hours that trip would entail. Flying would be fast and less nerve-wracking, but there was the money worry again.

  Before leaving Cedar, Robin had closed her bank account and used the $730 in it to clear her bills. They’d drained Cam’s savings by visiting several ATMs in the dead of night, gleaning $6,000, which included what was left of the money Abrams’ crooked cousin had paid Mrs. Halkias for her property. They’d taken $50,000 from Abrams and kept $25,000, almost all of which had been spent on false identities and their second KNP. From Buckram they’d gotten $75,000. Their $37,500 portion had provided the down payment on the house. The $100,000 from Bev Comdon, split with the animal shelter, left them $50,000 to use on repairs and house payments. She figured and re-figured, stretching what they had, but they’d need another cash infusion soon. Whatever Chris had found in California had better be good.

  One night after the game boards had been put away and the men had gone, Em broached the subject of money. “I haven’t wanted to be nosy,” she said. Robin had to hide a smile, since Em generally asked anybody anything. “How are we set financially?”

  She shrugged. “We’re managing. I’ve set up a schedule for repairs and renovations on the house, so it will take a while to get a downstairs bathroom big enough for a tub. I know it would help your hip, but—”

  She waved the apology away. “It’ll come when it comes. Money’s tight, isn’t it?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “Those boys of ours can eat.”

  Em shifted in her chair. “I told Hua to funnel my retirement payments to your bank account. He’ll work his magic so it’s hard to trace the connections.”

  “Em, you shouldn’t—”

  A raised palm stopped her. “I’m having more fun with you three than I’ve had since I left the Bureau. I don’t mind tossing into the communal kitty.”

  “Well, I appreciate—”

  Em’s second interruption was even gruffer. “Don’t thank me. Money’s like butter, no good unless it’s spread around.” Jutting her chin she added, “I mean to have my say in exchange for my contribution though.”

  Robin swallowed. “Okay.”

  A crooked finger jabbed in her direction. “You’re a young woman. You should be having lunch with that girlfriend of yours in Green Bay, sipping alcoholic drinks that taste like soda pop, and shopping for crazy-expensive purses. You gave all that up to hang around with an old woman, an escaped alien, and a mental defective. I want you to promise that anytime you feel the need, you’ll walk away, whether it’s for a day, a week, or a month. Go have some fun.” She folded her arms. “Don’t ever think we can’t manage by ourselves for a while.”

  Neither Cam nor Hua ever questioned that Robin would make decisions for the group indefinitely. Em understood that Robin’s normal life had been swept away by a single event, and she still hadn’t found her footing.

  It wasn’t that she blamed Cam. What they were doing felt right. But she did sometimes miss the days when she could go to a movie on a whim or take a drive without watching to see who might be following. There were moments when she thought longingly of heading to the nearest Steak ’n Shake to get a sundae without telling a soul where she was going or why.

  Overwhelmed with gratitude, Robin stepped toward Em with her arms outstretched. The glare she got stopped her cold, and she dropped her arms. “Someday I might do that.”

  “And spend a little money on yourself,” Em finished. “Those Salvation Army sweat pants you wear every single day are starting to get on my nerves.”

  ***

  “This one could be a double,” Chris said to introduce the target for their next KNP. Robin had placed their orders at the counter of a gourmet sandwich shop while he chose a table where his wheelchair was out of the traffic pattern. “You can decide if you want to approach one guy, the other guy, or both of them.”

  Robin had fetched drinks—a Coke for him and a mix of tea and lemonade for her—and she sipped as she nodded her understanding. He was getting used to the idea of KNPs, though he still wasn’t sure what they involved. At first he’d claimed what they were doing was dangerous and refused to give her information. “That’s too bad,” she’d told him, “but we have someone who’s very good with technology. He doesn’t have your experience, but at least he’s willing to help.”

  “Rob, I spent three years developing sources that ensure my privacy. Someone who’s just starting out could get you into trouble poking around.”

  “Then point us in a direction,” she argued. “We’ll use what you tell us to make things better.” In the end he’d agreed. Today’s lunch was the launch of a new KNP target.

  It was easy to see that the idea of taking overt action appealed to Chris, though he still worried for Robin’s safety. Mink had voiced some of the same concerns when she’d called to report successful completion of the latest chapter of her “book.” When speaking with either of them, Robin was careful to minimize any possible dangers and stress the good they were accomplishing. In fact, Robin’s references to her “team” made them sound more like Delta Force than the haphazard amateurs they actually were.

  Once Chris accepted their mission, Robin sensed he buried his dread under something more positive, anticipation. Chris’s desire to stop the bad guys was every bit as strong as hers. Our way of making up for Mark’s dirty tricks.

  The guy behind the counter called out, “Robin!” and she went to pick up sandwiches served on tin plates and accompanied by deliciously dill-y pickles. As they ate, Chris handed over what looked like a photo album. Robin scooted close to make it appear they were looking at family photos.

  “Do you remember Mark’s charity bit?” Chris asked, his hand tapping the album cover.

  “No. What was it?”

  “He used to go to churches, small ones where the pastor wasn’t likely to be tuned in to the outside world, and tell them he was heading to Africa on a mission. He’d say he had all the money he needed except for a few hundred dollars, and he just couldn’t stand to cancel the trip for such a small amount.” Chris rubbed his forehead. “I got to take up the collection in my ball cap. He made me smile and thank everyone who donated.”

  “I missed out on that one.”

  “I think the word got around and he had to stop.” Opening the photo album, Chris pointed to a picture of a handsome man in a sharp suit. “This is Yardley Niven, pastor of the Deep and Wide World Church of Our Triumphant God.”

  Robin dipped her veggie wrap in the spicy sauce, took a bite, and swallowed. “I always wonder why that last part gets tacked on. Isn’t it a given that churches are about God?”

  Chris grimaced. “That point is debatable with Pastor Niven. This church is all about him.”

  Pointing to the man next to Niven she asked, “Isn’t that Uncle Bill, from the old sitcom?”

  “His name is Dennis Parks, but he’s so well known as Uncle Bill that he pretty much goes by that now.”

  “He’s still acting?”

  Chris grimaced. “Depends on what you call acting. He travels with the pastor and supports the Deep and Wide
Church. Uncle Bill has that folksy, down-home air about him, and when he tells how Pastor Niven is changing the lives of people around the world, believers can’t wait to drop money into the collection plates or mail a check to headquarters.”

  Frowning at the pastor’s expensive haircut and massive diamond pinky ring she asked, “This guy does good works?”

  “That’s his story.” Chris leaned back in his wheelchair. “Turn the page and take a look at Niven’s home.”

  It was an aerial shot of a house that covered the space of a football field. There were swimming pools at either end, a terraced garden, and stables with a fenced paddock out back. “Wow.”

  “The pastor also has a private jet, a fleet of very nice cars, and a second home in Spain.”

  Robin turned to the next page, where another aerial picture showed a run-down building set in a packed-dirt yard. “That’s the orphanage Niven operates in Haiti.”

  “That’s an orphanage?” Anger rose in her chest, but Em’s voice sounded in her mind: Stay cool. She needed to learn the facts, consider them dispassionately, and then act with courage.

  “How many people actually research the places they give money to?” Chris said. “All Niven needs is a registered address in Haiti.” He jabbed an accusing finger at the photo. “That’s it.”

  The long, low building looked more like a shed than a benevolent institution. “How many kids live there?”

  “Fifty, though it doesn’t look like there’s room for twenty. A journalist friend of mine stumbled across this place when she went down there to report on a hurricane. It wasn’t the story she was sent to get, but it made her furious. She pitched it to her editor but something else came along and he decided to move on.”