Goes down easy: Roped into romance

by Alison Kent

  He wasn’t wearing anything over his face, which meant any second he was going to snap to the fact he’d just been made. And if there hadn’t been a Browning automatic stuck barrel-down in his waistband, Jack wouldn’t have hesitated asking him the same.

  “Just doing my job,” he finally said, and when he did, Della smiled.

  “What the hell is your job? Who the hell are you?”

  Obviously a brighter bulb than you, kid. Might be a good idea to get the players straight in whatever game you’re playing. Jack opened his mouth to answer, to talk the kid out of his gun and his hostage, but Della stopped him.

  “He’s the one who holds your fate in his hands.”

  Her voice came from that low, calm and soothing, but totally spooky place, the one she’d reached into when she’d spoken during Jack’s reading. And he could see trepidation in the kid’s eyes.

  “Yeah, sure,” the slacker boy sneered, gesturing with the gun he’d tugged from his pants. “You. Sit. And tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “I’m here for her,” Jack said, glancing at the eating nook’s cushioned bench, then pulling out a second chair from under the table. “What else?”

  “How did you know she was here?” He’d moved to stand behind Della, his free hand gripping the lattice back of her chair.

  Jack’s gaze followed the slow rise of Della’s chin, the cock of her head to the side as if she was taking measure of her captor and how close he was to the edge.

  And then she said, “He’s the one who found the finger. He’s the one who brought me to the warehouse.”

  “Nuh-uh. I don’t believe it. Kel said…shit.” The kid looked ready to bite off his tongue. “I was told it was the other way around, you see. That you’ve been the one seeing…stuff.”

  A lackey. That’s all this kid was. Left to stand guard over a female psychic half his size, twice his age and with a bandaged foot to boot—a thought that had Jack wondering what the boy would do if he realized how easily Della could reduce a grown man to a sniveling idiot.

  Then he wondered how to get her to do just that, to see if between them they could get Slacker Boy to hightail it out of here in a panic, and lead them to the rest of the crew and to Eckhardt.

  But it seemed she was one step ahead of him—else she’d picked the idea straight out of his brain—because she said, “All I can see is that you’re wrong about the reasons Kelly left you here.”

  The kid shook his head, stared down at the top of Della’s, his gun hand hanging at his side, his trigger finger twitching too much for Jack’s comfort. “She left me here because she knew I could keep you out of the way while she and Pauly and Chris finished up with…shit. Shut up. Just shut up.”

  Dim, dim, dim, and about to sputter right out. Whoever Kelly was, Jack mused, Slacker Boy here was definitely her weakest link. And though he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the way the kid’s gun hand was wiggling like a worm on hot concrete, Della wasn’t deterred by his orders.

  She twisted on the seat, trying to face him. “It’s not about keeping me out of the way. It’s about not wanting you around anymore.”

  The kid was shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. What’re you saying?”

  Della took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, let her head fall forward in a slow, bouncing nod. “Kelly wants to be with Chris now. They’re loading his Jeep to leave. She’s done with you. She’s set it up so Mrs. Taylor thinks her house has been burglarized. So she’s going to be showing up here soon, with the police, who will discover you here holding me.”

  Slacker Boy shook his head, his eyes wide as he waved the gun around. “I don’t believe you. Kelly wouldn’t do that to me. She said they’ll swing by and get me and leave you tied up here. Kelly said no one will believe Taylor when she says she has nothing to do with all this. That she didn’t arrange it all for revenge. If the psychic’s here, tied up so she can’t shoot her mouth off to the police about where Eckhardt is, until it’s too late for that dude. Shit. Just stop talking already.”

  Jack had no idea how much of what Della was telling the kid was true, but it was working. He backed across the kitchen, his soles squeaking on the floor, and placed the gun on the kitchen counter to pull a Sidekick unit from his pocket and frantically type out a message with his thumbs.

  “I wouldn’t send that if I were you,” Jack said, hoping it wasn’t too late.

  “And why not?” the kid shot back, still typing, not even looking up. “Kelly will prove the psychic’s wrong.”

  “What if she proves that she’s right?”

  He stopped typing, one thumb shaking over the keypad. “How’s she going to do that?”

  “Say Kelly doesn’t answer.” Jack nodded toward the messaging unit in the boy’s hands, gauging his chances of getting to the gun before the kid snapped. “You’ve just let her know that you’re onto her. You’ve given her and Chris time to skip out and dump on you and Pauly.”

  Slacker Boy stared at what he’d typed for several seconds, then turned and stared out the window that faced Taylor’s side garden. “This is all so bogus. Kelly’s been with me since eighth grade. She only met Chris when we were working at Eckton.”

  Eckton. Glory freakin’ hallelujah. The connection Jack had been looking for. This kid and his cronies knew the man, knew the company. Had no doubt been caught up in the layoffs, same as Bob Taylor. But instead of jumping off the closest bridge, they’d cooked up their own special payback for their ex-boss.

  Jack would give the kid a couple of minutes. Let him mull over his choices. Wait for him to figure out that his cohorts were the ones in the driver’s seat, that he’d been left behind and was about to be roadkill.

  Once he got that far, then it would be time to explain that saving his own hide meant making a deal—and he’d do it while working to part the kid from his gun.

  “You know that it’s genuine,” Della said softly, and even Jack glanced over at hearing that voice that chilled blood. “You were wondering about Kelly and Chris long before all of you lost your jobs. They started coming in to work earlier than you. You saw them sitting close in the employee cafeteria. The nights when you left early and Kelly stayed, Chris stayed, too. You know that. And in your heart, you know they weren’t working.”

  Jack waited, watched the kid squirm, the color drain from his face, the soft echo of Della’s voice settling like a friendly noose around his neck.

  “That bastard.” Slacker Boy tossed the messaging unit across the countertop and picked up the gun. “He swore they were just friends. I am so going to rip his face off.”

  He paced the width of the kitchen, his long gangly arms swinging, his shoes screeching on the floor. And then he stopped and said to Jack, “Get up. Untie her. We’re outta here.”

  “All of us?” Jack asked cautiously, pushing to his feet.

  “Yeah. What, you think I’m going to leave you here to rat me out to the cops?”

  “You can’t get out of here with both of us,” Jack said, working at Della’s bonds. “Two against one?”

  The kid snorted. “Two against me and the Browning, you mean.”

  Jack indicated Della with a nod. “She’s blindfolded. She hasn’t seen you. Can’t I.D. you. So just take me. Leave her here. She’s not a threat.”

  “I don’t know that. She pretty much seems to know everything about Chris and Kel.”

  Sweat broke out on Jack’s nape. “She doesn’t know half of what I do.”

  The kid looked over, his eyes wide and red. “What do you think you know?”

  “She can tell you what’s going on with your people.” Steady, ol’ boy. Steady.

  “Bullshit.”

  The kid appeared more bewildered than ever. And so Jack pressed. “You don’t need both of us, dude. You take on two more hostages, you’re really screwing with your odds of making it out of this thing in one piece. Not to mention screwing things up even worse with Kelly.”

  “All right, all right. The psychic stays he
re. Stand in front of her and let her tie your hands. And leave the blindfold on, lady. But first, you—” he started jerking open kitchen drawers, finding an apron and tossing it to Jack “—tie this around your eyes.”

  Jack took the apron and folded it into a long thick strip, slipping his keys from his pocket into Della’s hand when he turned. She squeezed his fingers in understanding, and once he was trussed to Slacker Boy’s satisfaction, he let the kid guide him toward the door.

  “You, lady. Keep the blindfold on and don’t move until we’re out of the garage and gone. Wait thirty minutes. I swear, if I see a single cop before then, your hero here gets a bullet in the head.”

  PERRY SAT at the table in her aunt’s kitchen, her head down on her crossed arms. She couldn’t bring herself to move. She didn’t think she could answer another single question. She would, of course, if anyone could come up with anything new and useful to ask.

  But the repetition and circles weren’t getting them any closer to locating Della or finding out who took her and why. She hadn’t heard from Jack since he’d left to check out Dawn Taylor’s house, and since he still hadn’t given her his cell number, Perry couldn’t call.

  Book had returned and was talking to the federal agents who’d arrived twenty minutes ago. His visit to the Times-Picayune offices had turned up the reporter in the middle of the interview she’d claimed to have scheduled when she’d flown out of Sugar Blues earlier in the day.

  Her visit this morning was now looking more like an elaborate setup in which she hadn’t been aware she was playing a part. She was willing to go to jail to protect the name of the informant who’d pointed her in Della’s direction, but why she’d been pointed that way, she hadn’t a clue.

  Her own history with Eckhardt was simple enough. After her husband’s layoff and subsequent suicide, she’d sued the firm for the couple’s emotional distress. She’d never expected to win the case.

  The gesture had been all about making a statement—or so she’d said to Detective Franklin. She’d wanted to go public with details of the way the Eckton employees in New Orleans had been left high and dry when Eckhardt had pulled up his Big Easy roots.

  Book, however, had learned the whole story after wrangling a few legal strings—that having the money to do so and preferring to salvage what remained of Eckton’s good name, Eckhardt had silenced her with a settlement. And, as part of the agreement, had the court records sealed.

  Dawn Taylor would want for nothing the rest of her life. Didn’t say much about her convictions, Perry mused. But then, seeing the reporter this morning, it didn’t take a big stretch of her imagination to picture the woman finding comfort in all that cash.

  Unfortunately, they were back to a big fat square one, and Jack was out wasting his time. He needed to be here. She needed him here. She needed to feel his arms around her, to absorb his strength.

  She needed to lean on him while he reminded her that as small and fragile as Della appeared, she was nothing of the kind. She was strong. She could make it through anything. And Perry knew he was right—as long as anything didn’t include whoever had her deciding she was too much of a threat to keep around.

  Seconds after the thought crossed her mind, she heard a vehicle drive up and a door slam in the alley. She glanced out the open back door and saw Jack’s SUV. Relief surged through her.

  She got to her feet in a whirlwind, shouts rising outside, and Book looking out the kitchen window behind her saying, “Della.”

  He ran out with Perry on his heels. Della had only made it halfway to the fountain before they reached her. And then their questions fell one on top of the other. “What happened? How did you get free? Who took you? What’re you doing with Jack’s keys? Where’s Jack?”

  All Della could do was shake her head. Swearing under his breath, Book finally swept her up in his arms and headed for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder for an officer to radio for a medic.

  Perry rushed to keep up, holding her aunt’s hand until they reached the door. Once inside, Book set Della in one of the chairs while Perry hovered, feeling useless, finally putting on water for tea.

  Book didn’t even give the federal agents a chance to get close. He knelt in front of Della, holding both of her hands in his, his voice breaking when he asked, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. But you need to find Jack.”

  Perry caught back a sharp choking sound, as Book asked, “What’s Montgomery got to do with this?”

  “He found me. At the reporter’s house. They were holding me there.”

  “Dawn Taylor’s?”

  Della took a deep breath and nodded again. “The group behind Eckhardt’s kidnapping are trying to set her up as the one responsible.”

  Book snorted. “They’re not doing a very good job. We just cleared her.”

  “Wait.” Perry placed her aunt’s cup of tea on the table. Liquid sloshed over the side. “What about Jack? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Perry. I’m sorry.” Della held out a hand. “I haven’t been able to see anything yet. I had to get back here, and there’s still too much noise, too much energy. I can’t focus.”

  “Let’s take this one step at a time,” Book said, boosting up from his knee and pulling a chair close to face Della’s. “Anything you know, anything you learned. We need to know.”

  “I didn’t learn anything. Not until Jack arrived and the man holding me started to talk.” She twisted her fingers together. “I say man, but he’s so much of a child.”

  “A child?” Perry asked, moving to a third chair and leaning into the table, her arms outstretched on top as she reached toward her aunt. “What do you mean, a child. How old?”

  “Early twenties I imagine. But he seemed to be no more than a teen. There are four of them. They worked at Eckton Computing. Chris, Kelly, Pauly.” She closed her eyes for a moment, her hands wrapped around her teacup. “And I believe this one’s name was Kevin.”

  Book’s pen scratched across his notepad. “They have Eckhardt—”

  “And Jack,” Perry put in, flexing her fingers and trying not to claw a hole through the table. “Eckhardt and Jack.”

  “Right.” More notes. “Is Eckhardt—”

  “Alive? Yes. But that’s all I can tell you. I don’t know where they’re holding him.”

  “What about the kid who took you?”

  “Very thin. Six feet tall. Blue eyes. A narrow face. Blond hair that’s a bit long. He wore a knit ski cap, so it was hard to tell, but at least over his ears.”

  “What was he driving?” Book asked, his pen flying.

  “A very small foreign car. It was white, two doors with a hatch in the back. And a logo of some sort across the rear window.” She paused a moment, then said, “A surfboard. Or perhaps a skateboard. I can’t see it clearly.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  She nodded. “A handgun, yes. He held it on me while I tied a scarf around my head as a blindfold.”

  Perry could see the color rise on Book’s face as he made his notes. It hit her then how very much he cared for her aunt, how anxious he must have been waiting for news on Della.

  The way Perry was anxious now, knowing nothing of what had happened to Jack.

  “What happens now?” she asked, fearing the answer, waiting to hear that Eckhardt came first—after all, weren’t the federal agents here for him?—and that Jack was a back burner item.

  “The medic will check Della over,” Book said, silencing Della’s protests before she did more than open her mouth. “We hit Eckton’s personnel files, connect one of the four to the car Della described, put out an APB—”

  The ringing of the phone cut him off. Perry glanced over, glanced back. Della hadn’t been gone long enough for tracing equipment to be put on the line. “Do you want me to answer that?”

  Book nodded solemnly, got to his feet. Perry did the same and crossed to the counter where the handset sat cradled in its base. She took a deep breat
h and picked it up, her heart in her throat as she said, “Hello?”

  Both Book’s and Della’s anxious faces looked on as she waited, expecting the muffled or distorted voice of Jack’s kidnapper making demands.

  But all she heard was background noise. The sort that usually meant a cell phone had mistakenly—and randomly—dialed a number from the bottom of a pocket or a purse.

  Book listened in, waited, then shrugged. She hung up, wishing not for the first time that Della had caller ID. “There’s no one there.”

  “Do a call back,” Book said. “Star sixty-nine. See what you get.”

  She picked up the phone, frowned when she heard no dial tone, pressed the receiver down and tried again. Nothing. She shook her head, held out the handset. “I can’t get a dial tone. Whoever called is still connected.”

  15

  SLACKER BOY may have been a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but the rest of the crew was prime Kobe beef. Jack felt like he’d been shuffled straight from the steam table into the Sorbonne.

  His only saving grace was that they hadn’t yet discovered his cell phone in his pants. Then again, if the connection had timed out before anyone figured out who was calling, his goose was undoubtedly cooked. So much for all his intensive, specialized training.

  After he’d blindfolded himself and Della had tied his hands behind him, Slacker Boy had stuffed Jack in the back floorboard of a tiny import and covered him with a tarp. And stuffed had been the truth of it. The car was the size of a lunchbox, and Jack was a full course meal.

  He’d tried not to breathe in the mold spores and cat hair, or more than one layer of the dirt ground into the carpet, and had managed to tuck his chin to his chest and use his sweatshirt as an air filter—not that the fabric had done much to help with the smell.

  He’d also managed to twist his hips in one direction, his arms in the other, and grab his cell phone off his belt. It had taken a furious amount of concentration to not only remember Della’s number, but to blindly dial it when he was facedown on his knees and the keypad was upended behind him.