Abducted

by David R Lewis

  “She loves you, Crockett. She and I filled a need or two, but I ain’t got no illusions. It was a casual thing. She was just markin’ time ‘til she figured a way to straighten all this out. The worst thing she is guilty of is procrastination. I never could really reach her. You’re the only one who can do that.”

  “Yeah, and every time I do, she runs away. Goddam woman. I gotta be honest, Clete. I’m tired of it. I’m beginning to think that casual is all Ruby can handle. Don’t get me wrong. It totally screws me up that she’s been taken and I will do anything in my power to get her back. I’m just not sure I want the relationship back, ya know? I’m a little tired of the lack of consistency in her approach to a partnership.”

  Clete smiled. “No shit?”

  “The problem is, I love her. But I’m not sure that’s enough to keep me in a relationship where I’m a second-class participant. Ruby is a control freak. Things move or occur at her will and on her schedule. It’s getting old, Texican. Sometimes I think it would be a lot easier just to love her for the rest of my life without being near the woman.”

  “What about that little gal you had with you when we ran into each other at that steakhouse?”

  “Mazy. You’ll meet her tomorrow. We’re gonna go down to the lake and pick up the bus.”

  “You an’ her get along okay?”

  “I like it down at the lake,” Crockett said.

  “Crockett, I ain’t no philosopher. I ain’t no deep thinker. But look at it this way. ‘Spose you decided to get a dog an’ down the road a piece this ol’ boy has got a dog that’s up for sale. A Doberman. You’ve always wanted a Doberman. As a matter of fact, you’ve admired this particular one for years. You’ve even petted it from time to time. You take the Dobie home. This is a great dog. Very devoted and all that stuff except, evertime you take that dog out on a leash it drags you pretty much wherever it wants to go. The minute you take the leash off and don’t let that dog drag you around, the dog gets pissed. An’ not because you ain’t controllin’ it, but ‘cause it ain’t controllin’ you no more. A time or two that Doberman even runs plumb off. Eventually it comes back, but there’s always that big issue about the leash. The dog, who hates it, can’t seem to do without it.

  “Then there’s this other dog that comes up for sale. Kind of a Fox Terrier and Australian Shepard mix. Cute as a button. The Doberman has run off again, so you take the little cross-bred home. Not too big, fast, good head on its shoulders, hard worker. Don’t even need a leash. Little sumbitch stays right with ya if ya want it to, or goes off and works for a livin’ if there’s a job that needs done. Fight a chainsaw to protect you an’ never leave unless you throw it out. But there’s a couple of drawbacks. It ain’t no city dog. Gotta stay in the country. Ain’t no Doberman either. It ain’t big an’ long legged and sleek. Ain’t whatcha always wanted. But it ain’t gonna get pissed off, bite ya, an’ run away neither. A little understanding from you will get a lot of loyalty from it. Question is, will that be enough to offset that basic fact that it ain’t the Doberman?”

  Crockett shook his head. “Oh, Hell,” he said.

  “Ain’t no self interest here,” Clete went on. “I’ve always been partial to mongrels myself. Lower maintenance requirements. Easy keepers.”

  The two of them stared out across the lawn for a few moments. Light rain began to spatter on the glass before Crockett spoke up.

  “Tangle, clutter, weave, cluster,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Those are various names given to bunches of spiders.”

  Clete shivered. “Man, ain’t you got nothin’ else to think about? I walked into that room as innocent as a fuckin’ lamb and those creepy-crawly sonsabitches were everwhere. I got a better name than that for a passel of them sonabitches.”

  “What?”

  “Fuckin’ shitload.”

  When the helicopter landed in the boat ramp parking area a little before one the next afternoon, Zebulon walked up from the bait shop. After he was introduced to Cletus he looked around the general area.

  “Where’s that big-assed cat?”

  “Left him with friends for a while,” Crockett replied. “Mazy around?”

  “She’s around Clinton right now. Should be back in a little bit. Went in to Wally-World to pick up some stuff. Kitchen’s open if ya want somethin’ to eat. C’mon down to the shop.”

  Clete scanned the surroundings as they walked toward the dock.

  “Nice setup,” he said. “Looks like everthing floats around here.”

  “The bait shop, the restaurant, the bunkhouse and some of the rental boats,” Zeb said, stepping out onto the gangway.

  When they neared the bait shop the vibration of their steps on the dock had the carp alerted and ready. Clete looked down into the throng as the fish shouldered into one another, swimming across each other’s backs, gaping mouths upturned and begging.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Them damn things are huge!”

  Zeb grinned. “Shoulda seen ol’ Crockett dive into the middle a them sonsabitches after that woman fell over the railing.”

  “God. How the hell did ya even make it to the water? Looks like you’d just kinda lay on top of ‘em. Like jumpin’ into a pen a hogs. Whatcha feed ‘em?”

  “Dinner leftovers during the season,” Zeb replied. “Bread, corn, peas, potatoes. We sell stuff for the tourists to toss in. Little plastic bags of cheap cat food. Make two or three hundred a week offa them damn things.”

  “Betcha some of ‘em go twenty or thirty pounds,” Clete went on. “Got any of that cat food around?”

  Zeb grinned. “Yeah, in the bait shop. I’ll git ya a bag or two, on the house.”

  While Clete tossed food to the carp and Stitch flopped into a lawn chair on the dock, Crockett took a stool by the cash register.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on, boy?” Zeb asked, moving to his customary place behind the counter.

  “What makes you think something is going on?”

  “Stop that. You ain’t in good shape, yer scared, you tore outa here like yer hair was on fire, an’ now yer tryin’ to hide somethin’. Answer my damn question.”

  Crockett did. For the next ten minutes he gave Zebulon an encapsulated version of what had transpired.

  “Somebody took her, an’ you don’t even know why?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Good God, boy! That’s a mess. An’ then them damn bugs. I seen them spiders a time ‘er two down in the Ozarks when I was a kid stayin’ with my aunt an’ uncle. Big fuckers. Wakin’ up with a venom a them things in yer bedroom would purty much mess up yer whole day!”

  “Venom?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Aunt Myrna always called a mess a spiders. A venom. So, you an this Ruby woman purty thick are ya?”

  “We’ve been friends for years. For a while now we’ve been living together. A while back she bailed out after she’d agreed to marry me. I don’t know where we stand. Might be over. Regardless, I gotta find her.”

  “Shore ya do.”

  “We’ve got local law, FBI, and all that kinda thing, but I’ll bet on Clete and me.”

  “That Clete’s a tough bird, ain’t he?”

  Crockett smiled. “Zeb, you have no idea.”

  The old man looked over Crockett’s shoulder and up the walkway. He reached under the counter and handed Crockett a key attached to a belt line and a small float.

  “What this for?” Crockett asked.

  “The little pontoon boat. Yonder comes Mazy. Take her for a ride and let her know what’s goin’ on. One way or another, she’ll be a help to ya.”

  “Jesus, Zeb, this is such a mess. I’ve gotta leave. Don’t know when, or even if, I’ll ever be back. I hate putting Mazy in this kind of spot.”

  “Mazy ain’t doin’ nothin’ at gunpoint, ya know. She’s with you the way she lives her life, boy. One day at a time. Don’t sell her short.”

  Crockett sighed and headed out onto the dock where Stitch w
as introducing Mazy to Clete. God he felt tired.

  “You’ll find her,” Mazy said.

  They were on the pontoon boat sheltered from the waves of the lake in a small cove about a half-mile northeast of the marina.

  “This has got to be horrible for you,” Mazy went on. “Needing to know so much and knowing so little. The fear and the worry have got to be awful. You love this woman, Crockett. I know you do and you know you do. Whether or not a relationship continues, love just doesn’t stop.”

  Crockett looked at his hands for a moment. The boat moved slowly back and forth on the bowline he’d tied to a weathered stick-up.

  “Can you understand that I really don’t want to leave you right now?”

  Mazy smiled. “Of course you don’t. We’re new. The two times that best cement a relationship are when it’s new or old. It’s the middle years when they go to hell.”

  Crockett got up and walked to the stern of the boat.

  “Christ, I’m sorry,” Mazy said. “That was a flippant answer. I love you as much as I ever loved any man, more mostly, but there ain’t no strings, Crockett. Not one.”

  He turned and looked at her. She appeared small as she sat on the front bench. “What if I wanted strings?” he asked.

  “Then you’d have to tie ‘em.”

  “Damn. You are an independent little shit.”

  Smiling, Mazy got up and moved to where Crockett stood. She leaned her back into his front and he wrapped his arms around her. The boat canted a bit from the weight transfer.

  “Yes, I am. But I didn’t say there couldn’t be any strings, did I? Whatever you tied, I’d double knot, Crockett. But now ain’t the time to fuss about that kind of thing. Now is the time to get back to the marina, fire up the grill in the pavilion, cook out, get a little drunk, and go to bed. Tomorrow you go back home and get to work on finding Ruby. Tomorrow I go back to getting along without Crockett. When all this is settled, when Ruby is back and you’re out from under the pressure that’s all over you right now, then we’ll figure this out. There’s no hurry. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You are a hell of a woman, Watkins,” Crockett murmured into the top of her head.

  “Damn right,” Mazy replied, pulling his arms more tightly around her. “If I wasn’t, you’d never have even noticed me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Stitch, promising to be on twenty-four hour call, took the helo back to Ivy’s. After rather clipped and nearly furtive goodbyes, Crockett and Clete were on the road in the coach by mid-morning. They dropped it off in the dealer’s storage lot in Grain Valley and took a cab to Crockett’s. At Clete’s insistence, they went to D’Bronx on Bell, ordered at the counter and took seats in the corner of the front dining area. Clete looked at Crockett.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “What makes you ask?” Crockett replied.

  “You been too quiet. Normally, quiet ain’t one a your big assets.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Clete smiled. “How’s Mazy?”

  “Amazing. Talk about an unselfish, take it as it comes, woman. Jesus.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  “What makes you say that?” Clete asked.

  Crockett looked at him for a beat. “Quit it,” he said.

  Clete’s eyebrows went up, completing the picture of innocence. “Quit what?”

  “Quit trying to draw me out.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Clete inspected his potato knish as if it were a new lifeform. “Why do you think I’m trying to draw you out?”

  Crockett shook his head and took a bite of a turkey sandwich he didn’t want.

  “So,” Clete went on, “what did Marta have to say when she told your fortune?”

  Crockett grimaced. “She didn’t tell my fortune, you ignorant hay shaker. She did a reading.”

  “Same difference. What’d she say?”

  Crockett finished another bite before he spoke. “She said,” he replied with great patience, “that Ruby was alive, that murder was not the reason for the kidnapping, that she was in a place much different than anywhere she’d ever been before, that she was injured but not in mortal danger, and that the answers we needed would come if we made ourselves available to them, or something like that.”

  “Made ourselves available to them? What the hell does that hocus-pocus mean?”

  Crockett glared at him. Clete flashed a toothy grin.

  “Honey,” he said, “this relationship of ours will work out a lot better if you can learn to be more open with me. Communication is the key, sweetheart.”

  Crockett slumped in his chair.

  “That Mazy,” Clete said, “she like it caveman style?”

  Crockett flinched. “What?”

  “She a screamer?”

  Crockett grinned. “Jesus Christ, Marshal.”

  “Gotcha, pard. Now eat your sandwich and let’s get over to your place. I wanna go through the scene, starting with your basement. We might find something those CSI weenies missed.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  Clete nodded. “That’s anal orifice to you, motherfucker.”

  Clete sneezed. “Dusty down here,” he said.

  They were in the half-basement storage area of Crockett’s building.

  “This would have been the window he used,” Crockett said, looking out through soiled glass into the rear parking area. “In through here, then unlock the basement door from the inside. Take Ruby right out through the basement and into the parking lot. Almost no chance of being seen. Christ, he could have been in and out of here a dozen times and she never would have known it.”

  Looking for a distraction to change Crockett’s focus, Clete pointed to a narrow rickety cabinet leaning against the wall. “What’s that?”

  Crockett blinked. “Used to be built-in storage in my living room wall. The guy tore it out when he made the doorway between our apartments. I used the shelves but I never could get the drawer open. Warped shut I guess.”

  Clete grabbed the handle to the center drawer and gave it a mighty yank. The drawer flew out of the cabinet and his hands, narrowly missed Crockett, and crashed into the far wall. A folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor in its wake.

  “Damn!” Clete said. “Guess it ain’t stuck no more. Sorry ‘bout that.”

  Crockett barely heard him. His attention was completely on the piece of paper. When he picked it up, gooseflesh rose on his arms. It was old and yellowed, brittle with age. Carefully he opened an ancient flyer for the Kit Kat Club proclaiming the nightly appearance of the lovely Vonda Gold and the Kit Kat Kittens, the best floorshow in Kansas City. The photo in the center of the page was badly degraded, shapeless figures on a grainy field of black. Crocket’s head spun and he leaned against the wall for support, holding out the flyer for Clete’s inspection. Clete took the paper and looked at it.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  “The Amazing Disappearing Woman,” Crockett whispered.

  “Aw, man. I hate this spooky shit.”

  “Marta said what we needed would come,” Crockett went on. “This has gotta be part of that.”

  Carefully Clete laid the paper down on a stack of drywall scraps and backed away from it. “So what are you gonna do?” he asked.

  “Eighteenth and Vine,” Crockett said. “I gotta go to the Jazz Museum. I gotta go to where Vonda Gold worked.”

  The instant the words left his mouth, Crockett smelled it. Avon’s To a Wild Rose. There could have been no better confirmation. Clete sniffed the air.

  “You smell that?” he asked, his eyes darting around the basement.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well I don’t!” Clete said, and bolted out the door and up the steps into the parking lot.

  It was nearing dusk and Crockett was using his cane as he approached the Jazz Museum at Eighteenth and Vine. Clete had declined his offer to come along citing a lack o
f desire to be exposed to a bunch of spooky shit. He stopped in front of the building and looked around. A few pedestrians moved about, some from the Jazz Museum, some from the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. His gaze was pulled across the street to the Gem Theater, where a young black woman wearing a long-skirted green dress leaned against the wall behind crossed arms and stared at him. Crockett felt unusual warmth in his chest as he caught her eye for a moment, then went inside the Jazz Museum. He loitered around for a while looking at the old photos, including one with Vonda Gold fronting a line of chorus girls, but could not get over the need to see the woman across the street again. When he walked back outside, she was still there. They locked eyes for a moment, and his ears began to feel thick and overloaded, as if they were full of water. Rejecting the sensation, Crockett wandered through the Negro Leagues museum and back out to the sidewalk. She had not moved. As he watched, she raised one eyebrow. Butterflies in his stomach, Crockett crossed the road, the sounds of the street fading and becoming hollow, as if he had a bucket on his head. His mouth went dry.

  When he was about ten feet from the woman she did a sensuous back roll and thrust herself away from the wall. Her café-au-lait complexion was highlighted by nearly oriental eyes, arched brows, natural hair about an inch long, and a large gold hoop in her left ear. She was barefoot with a heavy gold bracelet on one ankle. Crockett stopped three feet distant and looked at her. She returned his gaze without a hint of shyness or challenge. The scene about him seemed to fade, and there was only her, crisp and distinct in the blur the world had become. He resisted the urge to shake his head.

  “Call me Crockett,” he said.

  “I am Calamity.” Her voice was a rich contralto that reverberated in his chest, making breathing an effort. “Crockett man, you are he who looks for the one that put a shriek of spiders in the lady’s bedroom.”

  A lump hit Crockett’s throat like a golf ball. He fought to keep his knees locked and stay on his feet.

  “I am,” he said, and heard his voice as if from a distance.