“Hello, this is Linda Keller. Thanks for calling, but Buster and I are indisposed this week. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.”
I took a deep breath, thinking when she heard what I had to say she might never speak to me again. After the beep, I said, “Mrs. Keller, it’s Dixie. Listen, I may have some bad news. Could you please call me right away? Everything’s totally fine with Barney Feldman. He’s doing great and Lizette has been a big help too, but…”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say anything that might get Mrs. Keller in trouble with her husband, but he’d have to find out sooner or later and I didn’t think I had a choice.
“Mrs. Keller, I know about the urn of cornmeal you bought. I’m really sorry, but I had to open that box—it’s a long story, but I needed to know what was inside it. The thing is … did you also buy an ancient figurine? Because I think somebody may have attacked me with it in your house, and now I think it’s gone. I’m calling the police now, but I need you to call me as soon as you get this.”
I hung up and dialed the sheriff’s office. It probably would have been smarter and faster to just dial 911, but I knew it would’ve been next to impossible to explain the whole thing to an emergency operator. I needed to speak to Deputy Morgan directly.
As it was ringing, I heard a soft crunching, which at first I thought was static on the line, but then I realized it wasn’t coming from the phone at all. It was behind me. There was someone walking by, and just as their shadow passed, I heard a loud crack!—like the sound of a baseball bat hitting a long ball right out of the park.
And then everything went dark.
32
I woke up to a pulsing red blur in the corner of my eyes, fading in and out to the rhythm of my heart. My head throbbed, and my whole body felt like mush, as if it had taken a spin in a blender set to pulverize. I heard a voice in my head whisper, You’re dead … but somehow, in my loopy state of mind, the fact that my ears were ringing seemed proof enough that the voice was wrong.
I could smell bleach and something else, like fresh dirt or clay. I took a few deep breaths to slow my heart down a little, and then the ringing in my ears subsided enough that I could hear muffled voices coming from somewhere nearby. There were men, at least two of them, arguing, and then I heard a woman’s voice.
She said, “And then what? Leave her here?”
I had no idea where “here” was. All I knew was that it was dark and really, really cramped. I was enclosed in some kind of box. My knees were folded up against my chest with my shoulders scrunched up around my ears, and my hands were lying limply on top of my knees. All around me were faint circles of light, like blurry stars coming out at dusk. At first I thought I was just seeing things, but then I reached up with one finger and carefully touched one of the stars. It was a hole, about the size of a penny, and the sides of whatever I was locked in were rigid, not cardboard, but metal or hard plastic.
Of course, my first instinct was to scream like a banshee, but I figured whoever it was that had put me here wouldn’t be too happy if I started making a bunch of noise, so I kept quiet. I figured as long as they thought I was unconscious—or dead—I had an advantage. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
My arms and legs were stone-cold, and as I wiggled my fingers and toes to try to get the blood flowing again, pain shot through my body. I didn’t mind, though. It was just further proof that I was in fact alive.
As slowly as possible, I maneuvered my left shoulder out of the way so I could lean my face closer to one of the holes. It wasn’t easy, but by pushing my shoulder down and craning my neck to one side I was able to get a view to what was beyond my little cell.
About ten feet away was a cinder-block wall, lined floor-to-ceiling with stacks of dusty cardboard boxes and old cans of paint. I moved my eye to another hole and saw a rolling bucket with a mop sticking out of it, and next to that was a big black duffel bag, about six feet long. In the middle of the wall right in front of me was a wide metal door with a frosted square window in the middle, which I realized was where the light was coming from. I could see the silhouette of someone pacing back and forth beyond it.
Just then the wide metal door swung open and I froze.
Two men walked in. I couldn’t see much above their waists, but one was wide and bowlegged, with black loafers and faded jeans pulled halfway over his belly, held up with a braided black belt. The other was taller and thin, in a dark pin-striped suit. He stepped up and knocked the front of my enclosure with the tip of his shoe two times. I smelled something acrid, like kerosene or motor oil.
He said, “Hey…”
I held perfectly still, praying with all my might for the loud pounding of my heart to stop.
He knocked again, this time louder. “Hey!”
It might have been the blood churning past my eardrums or perhaps a fan in the other room, but in the few moments that followed I thought I could hear the steady thrum of passing cars in the distance.
The voice said, “Okay. She’s still out.”
“Now what?”
“Now we search the Kellers’ house.” The man’s voice was low and growly, with a slight British accent. “But first things first.”
There was a pause, and then I heard a light tapping just over my head.
“Our little cat sitter here. I think perhaps she’s hiding something. If Paxton was telling the truth and really didn’t know where that statue is, it might be worth our while to search Miss Hemingway’s home.”
The bowlegged man said, “But Mr. Fiori, what if she don’t live alone?”
“You’ll think of something. The more important problem is we have no idea where she lives.”
A woman’s voice said, “Yes, we do.”
It came from the other room, and then I heard the tapping of heels on the floor. The whole time the two men had been talking, I’d had my eyes shut and my jaw slack just in case one of them happened to squat down and look through one of the holes, but now I squinted one eye open and peered out.
The woman was slim, in a dark skirt and high-heeled boots, and as she walked up to the taller man I heard a rustle of paper. “Her address is on Levi’s newspaper delivery list. Right here—Dixie Hemingway, Midnight Pass Road.”
“Brilliant. That bloody list is worth something after all. You stay here and wait. If she wakes up, try to convince her to tell you where it is. And if we find it, we’ll call you.”
The woman said, “Mr. Fiori, then what?”
There was a brief silence. “We’ll load her in the van with Paxton and dump them both in the bay tonight. That’s the only way out of this mess. And if we still haven’t found that statue, we’ll have to schedule a little homecoming party for the Kellers.”
The two men walked out, leaving the woman standing next to me in silence, and then I heard a door slam shut. The woman just stood there, not moving, but in a few seconds there was the sound of an engine starting and then a car rolled by outside.
The woman hurried into the other room. Now I had a clear view of her through the open doorway. I wasn’t sure at first, but I thought I recognized the long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Then she turned toward me and I saw her black horn-rimmed glasses …
It was Daniela. I was sure of it. She was wearing the same kind of elegant clothing she’d worn in the elevator at Tom Hale’s and the Paxton gallery: a long-sleeved silk blouse with a narrow skirt and knee-high boots. She knelt down and pulled a pair of jeans, black sneakers, and a T-shirt out of a bag—the same leather bag she’d had at the gallery—and then pulled off her boots one by one and stepped out of her skirt.
Even at this distance, I could see long red lines running up and down her legs, almost as if a manic child had attacked her with a felt-tipped marker. She pulled on the jeans and then took her blouse off, and there were the same angry red lines on her forearms. I can’t say exactly how long it took me to add it all up, but by the time she’d changed her clothes com
pletely, something clicked.
Barney Feldman …
Just then, as if to confirm what I was thinking, she reached into her bag and pulled out something about the size of a softball, wrapped in a dark red cloth, like velvet, and tied with what looked like a braided rope of long straplike leaves. I already knew what it was, but still, when she gently pulled the rope away and unfolded the cloth, my eyes opened wide as saucers.
It was Pachamama.
And not just any Pachamama. She was made of white stone, her head as smooth as an egg, her plump legs folded one over the other, her exaggerated bosom completely out of proportion with her tiny feet, which were painted a bright crimson red …
I had to hold my hands over my mouth to stop whatever noise my throat was trying to make, and the pressure made my ears pop. It felt like they’d both been loaded with tiny firecrackers, and my eyes filled with water from the pain of it.
Daniela gazed at Pachamama with such calm that I was reminded of a young mother looking into the eyes of a newborn child. She whispered something that sounded like a prayer, holding it out in front of her with both hands as if offering it up to the sky. After a moment, she folded it back together and secreted it back down in her bag. Before she zipped it closed, she crossed herself, and then hoisted it over her shoulder.
She walked back into the room, and then I heard the sound of a number being dialed on a cell phone. After a pause, she said, “It’s me. Fiori left to search the cat sitter’s place.”
I could hear a man’s frantic voice come over the line as Daniela crossed to the big duffel bag and then back to me. She said, “It doesn’t matter. Paxton will never know I was working for Fiori … because he’s dead.”
The voice rose on the phone. “What?”
“Fiori got to the gallery right after the cat sitter left. Mr. Paxton had already opened up the box, and when he showed me there was nothing inside but a jar of cornmeal, I pretended to be just as shocked as he was. But when Fiori found out, he was furious. Mr. Paxton pleaded with him, saying there must have been a misunderstanding, that Mrs. Keller must have accidentally sent the wrong box.”
She knelt down, her face inches from mine.
“But Fiori wasn’t buying it. He said, ‘I know a rat when I see one,’ and then he pulled a pistol out of his vest. Mr. Paxton tried to get away but it was too late. He shot him. And when Fiori figures out who the real rat is, he’ll try to kill me, too.”
There was a pause, and then she whispered, “But by then I’ll be home. And soon Pachamama will be back where she belongs … with her true people.”
I heard the sound of something metal, like a high-pitched shimmering, and instinctively my eyes shot open. She was still crouched next to me, and through the holes I could see she was holding a long gleaming knife. She grasped its base with both hands, and then there was a ripping sound, like tearing flesh. It started down near my left foot and flew all the way up past my head.
I gasped, but whatever sound the knife made must have covered it, because then there was the clattering of metal as it slid across the floor away from me, and then nothing but the sound of Daniela’s footsteps receding into the other room.
My heart was racing, and I wondered if now was the time to start screaming. If this woman was about to kill me, my only hope was there might be someone nearby … but then I heard the door in the other room slam shut again, and then the sound of a car starting. In a moment, it rolled past and disappeared in the distance.
I waited, counting to ten over and over again and praying I was actually alone. I knew I needed to act fast, but I wasn’t sure what my options were. Finally, when I didn’t think I could wait any longer, I pressed my legs against the wall in front of me, and to my utter surprise it swung away with ease.
I rolled out in a heap on the hard concrete floor and looked back.
I’d been inside a small refrigerator. It was riddled with what I now recognized were bullet holes. There were three thick stripes running around the exterior, one at the bottom, one at the top, and one in the middle, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I realized with a shudder they were bands of gray duct tape. Whoever had put me in that refrigerator … they hadn’t planned on ever taking me out again. The tape was wrapped layer upon layer all the way around, except where Daniela had sliced it open along the door’s edge.
I felt completely paralyzed, but I knew there was no time to waste. It took practically every ounce of willpower I had to crawl toward the door, but as the blood started flowing through my body I started feeling a little stronger and pushed myself up on wobbly legs.
The other room was empty except for an old metal desk against one wall, with piles of bills and newspapers littering the floor around it, and there was an old water-damaged calendar on the wall with a bikini-clad girl firing a big machine gun and flashing a toothy smile at the camera.
Right underneath her, flung up against the wall next to the desk, was my backpack. I practically lunged for it, and then I looked down to find my cell phone and my car keys sitting in the middle of the desk, right on top of a short stack of wrinkled computer printouts. Right next to that was the picture of Pachamama I’d had in my back pocket.
I picked the whole pile up and went to the door, which was just beyond the desk in the far corner. It was painted shiny black, with three commercial-sized dead bolts down the right side. In quick succession, I flipped all three bolts open, hoping with all my might there weren’t other locks on the outside, and also that Daniela or some goon wasn’t standing guard somewhere, waiting for me to show myself.
With a deep breath, I whispered a silent prayer. If ever I needed a guardian angel on my side—somebody up there in the clouds watching over me—this was it.
I closed my eyes, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, and pulled.
33
The door swung open, and right in front of it, facing me in a blaze of blinding sunlight, was my Bronco.
If there’d been a choir of angels singing I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised—I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited by the sight of a car in my life. I didn’t even stop to see where I was or if anybody else was there. I just stumbled out into the hot light, guiding myself with one arm along the hood as I made my way around to the driver’s side, and then once I was in, I started it up and backed away from the door.
Only then did I realize I was in the middle of some kind of storage compound. There were long cinder-block buildings on either side, stretching almost as far as the eye could see in both directions, with low-slung roofs painted bright brick-red and black metal doors spaced every twenty feet or so. Each of the doors was painted with a big number in bright yellow. I glanced at the door of the cell I’d been locked in, and as I threw the car in gear, I whispered to myself, “Remember that number.”
Then I drove like a bat out of hell.
It didn’t take me long to find the exit. It was around the corner at the end of one of the buildings, blocked with a tall chain-link gate, and just as I was thinking I might have to crash right through it, there was a high-pitched whine as the gate automatically rolled open.
Beyond that was a busy four-lane thoroughfare. I pulled to a stop and slowly shook my head back and forth. I think I’d just assumed my kidnappers would have taken me to some creepy remote hideout in the middle of nowhere, but as soon as I saw the hodgepodge collection of fruit stands and thrift stores on the other side of the street, I immediately knew where I was.
It was Tamiami Trail, the main road through the middle of Sarasota, and I was standing at the entrance to Happy Time Self Storage, not five minutes past Grand Pelican Commons.
As soon as I merged into traffic, I had to consciously will myself not to slam the gas pedal through the floor. I wanted to get as far away as possible before anybody saw me, but I didn’t want to kill myself or somebody else in the process. At that point I realized I’d been operating on pure adrenaline, because the moment it dawned on me that I was going to be okay, every ce
ll in my body exploded. My muscles must have been in a state of atrophy after being crammed in that refrigerator for God knows how long, and the blood pushing its way back into all the nooks and crannies felt like a thousand stinging needles.
I ignored it, concentrating instead on the road in front of me. My instinct had been to head home, but I knew I couldn’t do that, so I headed south out of town. Once I felt it was safe, I pulled into a parking lot off the road and cut the engine. My backpack and the computer printouts I’d taken were sitting on the passenger seat next to my cell phone. I reached over and flipped it open.
It was off, of course. They’d shut it down so it couldn’t be tracked, so while I waited for it to power up, I tried to organize the jumble of thoughts and images that were swimming around in my head.
The first thing I saw, looming over me with those intense aquamarine eyes, was Barney Feldman … and then I saw the long red scratches on Daniela’s arms and legs. Mr. Fiori and his goon may not have known it yet, but she was clearly double-crossing them. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t fully capable of murder, but for whatever reason, she had decided to cut me loose from that refrigerator. I couldn’t say for sure if she’d felt so generous after she’d knocked me unconscious in the Kellers’ laundry room, or what her plans had been for me as I lay there on the floor after, but I knew who it was that had stopped her.
It was Barney Feldman.
He had attacked her. He must have sensed I was in danger and put those sharp claws to good use—It was entirely possible that Barney Feldman had saved my life that morning.
I also had a very strong feeling that Daniela was the woman McKenzie had talked to, the woman who’d gone home with Levi the night he died. She’d tricked him into taking her home, and then she’d probably gotten him drunk so she could get her hands on that delivery list. And since she couldn’t very well tell the truth about where she’d gotten those scratches, she’d lied and said Levi had tried to rape her—knowing full well he wasn’t around to defend himself.
The Cat Sitter's Whiskers Page 21
