No Gun Intended

by Zoe Burke

  “Remember when we used fold-up maps?” I was watching us, the blue dot on my screen, move across the Burnside Bridge. “I could never refold them right.”

  “Damn it.” Mickey got to the other side of the bridge and slowed down.

  “What?”

  “Police. Behind us. Pulling me over.”

  Luis and I turned around to see the blinking lights of a police car. “AGAIN? What the…?”

  “Ssshh, amiga. Stay cool.”

  “How many beers did you have, Mickey?”

  “Two. I’m fine.” He got us across the bridge, pulled over, and put the car in park. We waited for the cop to approach, and Mickey rolled down his window. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “License and registration, please.”

  I dug the registration out of the glove compartment while Mickey dug in his wallet for his license. The policeman shined his flashlight in the car at all of us. I handed the registration to Mickey, and he passed it along to the cop with his license.

  “Mr. Paxton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that you were driving erratically back there?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Two beers in two hours.”

  “Would you get out of the car, please?”

  Mickey paused, patted my knee, and got out. I turned to Luis. “What the fuck, Luis?”

  He held his finger to his lips to shush me again, then rolled down his window so that we could hear better what was going on.

  The policeman asked why Mickey was driving a car registered to Jeffrey Starkey, and then put him through the drunk driving test moves: following the officer’s pen with his eyes, standing on one leg, walking in a straight line heel to toe. Mickey did just fine. The cop handed the documents back to him and said, “Drive carefully.”

  “Can you tell me what I did wrong?”

  “Started to make a turn a couple of times, and then didn’t.”

  “I’m visiting Portland. I wasn’t sure which way to go.”

  “Sorry for the bother, Mr. Paxton. You and Beatrice have a good night.”

  Mickey froze. I knew because he had started to get into the car, but his hand stopped on the door handle. He let go and turned to face the policeman. “Beatrice? You know that’s her name because…?”

  The cop took a moment before answering. “The registration is listed under Starkey.”

  “And?”

  “Listen, Mr. Paxton, I think it’s best if you move along now. If you have any questions about this traffic stop, don’t hesitate to contact my superiors.” And with that, he turned and walked back to his squad car.

  Mickey got in and pulled the door shut. “They’re watching you.”

  “They think I’m involved.”

  “Or they think someone else is watching you, and they’re protecting you.”

  “Which do you think?”

  He turned the key in the ignition. “We’ll meet with Dawson and Monroe tomorrow and find out.”

  Luis leaned forward between our front seats. “We do not want the police to be against us. We are police, we understand police. We knew two disreputable police in San Francisco and Las Vegas. But we cannot make assumptions that the new ones we meet, here or anywhere, are crooked.”

  I shrugged. “Either way, I don’t like being followed.”

  Mickey pulled out onto the street to head home. I twisted around and watched the lights of the police car follow us for a block and then turn off.

  “Babe, back there at the bar?”

  “What?”

  “Too much information, what you were telling Greta.”

  I took a breath and told myself that I had to learn to take criticism. “What, exactly?”

  “I cut you off before you said any more about the gun. All she knows now is that you were in a mix-up with it. That alone might be too much. We know she was in a relationship with Hanks. We need to be careful about sharing information.”

  “So you want me to hold things closer to my chest.”

  Mickey smiled. “Sometimes, yes. Me included.”

  “Like Señor Julius said, get a room, you two,” piped up Luis from the backseat.

  ***

  Mickey and I were sitting up in bed together, rehashing the week’s events. This much we knew: Claudia was supposed to be the recipient of the backpack with the gun in it. The gun was used to murder Hank Howard. I mean Howard Hanks. Whatever. Greta used to be his girlfriend. Claudia had a boyfriend named Wesley Young. Claudia’s father is a jerk. Loren Scranton may or may not be involved. Police have put some sort of APB out to keep track of me.

  “We really need to talk to Claudia. I wish she would wake up.”

  Mickey yawned. “That would be good. In the meantime, like I said, let’s meet with the police, see where things stand with you, and then try to find this Wesley Young kid.”

  I leaned over and kissed him. “Go to sleep. I’m going downstairs to have some herbal tea. I’m all wound up like a pitcher in a batting cage.”

  Mickey snorted. “You and your convoluted sports metaphors.”

  I got out of bed. “Just throwing some curve balls to see if you can catch them.”

  “Stop it, please.”

  I slipped into my sweats. “Well, all right, but don’t blame me if I make it around second while you’re covering first.”

  Mickey hurled a pillow at me as I hustled out of the room.

  ***

  I was sitting at the dining room table, leafing through a restaurant supply catalog and noting which pages had their corners turned down. Mom and Dad must have been shopping for stuff for the bakery. I saw cute little bistro tables and chairs circled with red ink. There was another page with flatware and one with dishes. This bakery thing was real. It still felt surreal to me.

  The house was so quiet. I felt comfortable and at ease, now that both Mickey and Luis were with me. I was confident that together we’d find our way out of this quagmire. I washed my mug in the sink and cleaned Dusty’s dish. Dusty. She was a good protector, too, sound asleep in my parents’ bedroom.

  I stretched and turned to head upstairs, when I stopped short.

  I heard the back door open quietly behind me.

  In the split second it took me to formulate the thought that the door wasn’t locked, someone clapped a hand over my mouth and wrapped an arm around my chest and started dragging me to the door.

  I struggled, but I couldn’t release the grip.

  Whoever it was held me so tightly I couldn’t make enough noise to wake even Luis in the den.

  In the backyard, another pair of hands grabbed my feet from behind and I was carried to the street and into the back of a van. They tossed me stomach-first onto a smelly mattress. One abductor positioned a blindfold over my eyes and duct-taped my hands behind my back.

  I remembered to cross my wrists.

  Then he rolled me over and held me while his partner slapped a strip of tape over my mouth, and bound my ankles together.

  I saw no faces.

  My kidnappers spoke not a word.

  They drove the van east, while I tried to control my breathing.

  I concentrated on Mickey, bringing his face clearly to my mind. He would find me, I thought. Mickey and Luis. Liam Neeson has nothing on them in those Taken movies. Except a Roman nose.

  I was trying to fake myself out with false bravery. In reality, I was more frightened than a shortstop without a helmet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mattress kept me from rolling too far from side to side when the van turned corners, or from sliding toward the front when it came to a stop. I tried to concentrate on the direction of the turns and the number of stops. I started counting off seconds in my head, too, so t
hat when we got to wherever we got, I could estimate how long it took to get there. Plus I was trying to worm my way out of the blindfold and the tape.

  The blindfold was easier. I was able to roll onto my side and rub my face against the mattress, easing the cloth down my nose enough to see.

  Pitch black. No windows. That had to mean the back of the van was a separate compartment from the front.

  I couldn’t see the kidnappers, but they couldn’t see me either.

  I gave up on the directions, but kept counting, probably too fast. I started working on freeing my hands. Because I had crossed my wrists, I could maneuver them into a looser position. I twisted and turned them back and forth, trying to wrench one hand free, all the while counting. Seven hundred twenty-two. Seven hundred twenty-three. Seven hundred twenty…

  I yanked my right hand out from behind me. “Take that, Houdini,” I muttered, grateful for the self-defense class I took in New York where I learned that tip. I pulled the blindfold off and freed my left hand, ripped the tape off my mouth in one quick move without screaming, and unwrapped my ankles. I rubbed my wrists, red and scraped from the tape, and huddled on the floor.

  Now what?

  Seven hundred forty-seven. Seven hundred forty-eight.

  The van exited the freeway. I had no idea of the direction it was heading anymore. Several turns later, it slowed down considerably and made a hard left. I figured we had reached our destination.

  I crouched by the side of the two back doors, feeling for the hinges on each. They opened outward. I had two things in my favor. One was the element of surprise. All I could hope to do was to bust out of there as soon as a door opened.

  Running fast was the other thing.

  Except that I was wearing heavy socks. No running shoes.

  And flannel pajamas.

  I changed my position so that I was balanced on my butt, with my legs bent and in the air, my feet close to the doors, and my arms supporting me behind my back.

  I heard footsteps, and took a deep breath.

  When the door opened I jabbed my legs straight out with as much force as I could muster and was lucky to connect with the face of one of the kidnappers.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as he fell to the ground.

  The other guy wasn’t there.

  I jumped out and fled down the driveway of what looked like an industrial warehouse. I heard the guy on the ground shout, “Jules! She’s getting away!” I turned slightly to see the other coming from the building, where I guess he had gone to unlock the door while his partner was getting his kisser kicked.

  I rallied all the speed I could, racing like Francois Cluzet, the lead character in the French film based on the Harlan Coben novel Tell No One, when the police are chasing him because they suspect him of murder.

  Favorite movie scenes can be truly inspiring for saving one’s ass. Trust me.

  I cut through parking lots, crossed streets, and found myself in a wooded area, where I stopped to catch my breath and pull off some pebbles stuck to my socks, which were soaked from the damp ground. My feet were killing me, but I sprinted off again.

  I ran and ran until I eventually reached what seemed to be a major road. It was so late, there was no traffic, but this would be my best bet. I crossed it to see what was over its far ledge.

  I leaned over, resting my hands on my legs while I panted and gazed at the mighty Columbia River.

  I was somewhere in north Portland, and if I remembered correctly, not all that far from the airport.

  A car had to come by soon.

  I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering.

  Jules. Julius. Biker Dude.

  “Fuck you, Greta!” I screamed it over and over, louder and louder, until I was exhausted.

  That’s when a truck saw me and pulled over. It was a semi. The driver rolled down the passenger window and yelled out to me. “Hey, you all right? You need a ride?”

  I wasn’t climbing into any more vehicles with strangers that night. “Would you make a phone call for me? Then my friend can come and pick me up?”

  “Sure, but you’re going to freeze out there in the meantime. Don’t you want to get in…?”

  “Please? Just the phone call.” I gave him Mickey’s cell number. He called and then hung up. He reached behind him, grabbed a blanket, and tossed it out the window to me. “I’ll sit right here in the truck until he gets here. Okay with you?”

  I nodded. “Thank you.” Most of me wanted to climb inside to get warm, but an insistent nagging bit of me was not going to risk in any measure ending up like William Macy’s wife in Fargo—kidnapped and dead.

  ***

  Mickey sat in the backseat with me. Dad was driving, Luis was in the passenger seat. Mickey held me close while I tried to direct Dad to where I thought the warehouse was. But a lot of the buildings in the industrial park looked the same, and there was no sign of the van. We pulled into a parking lot.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure anymore. It was dark, and I was running.”

  “Shall we wait here, call the police, tell them to meet us out here?” Dad asked, looking at Mickey in the rearview mirror.

  Mickey rubbed my arm. “Annabelle’s so cold.”

  “I’m warming up. The trucker’s blanket was a big help. What a nice guy, huh? Thanks for thinking to bring my jacket and my sock-monkey hat, Dad.”

  He twisted the mirror so that he could see me, and smiled weakly. “Nothing to thank me for, Bea. That back door was unlocked. I can’t believe I didn’t check it.”

  “Any of us could have checked it, Jeff,” said Luis. “It is not your fault.”

  Dad didn’t respond.

  “Call the police, Mickey. Are they looking for me already, or are they with Mom, or…?”

  “I’ll call.” Mickey got out of the car, and I saw him pull a cigarette out of his pocket and light it.

  Dad saw it, too. “Mickey smokes?”

  “News to me, too. Apparently he used to, and now he does under stressful situations, although I never saw him smoke in Las Vegas. Did you, Luis?”

  Luis shook his head. “Nunca.”

  Now, I’m not a no-smoking Nazi. I like it that restaurants and airplanes and nail salons aren’t filled with tobacco smoke these days, but if someone wants to smoke without blowing the fumes all over me, who am I to judge them? I mean, we all have our addictions.

  I tugged my sock-monkey hat tightly over my ears. “Greta’s involved, Luis. I’m pretty sure that one of the kidnappers was Julius. She must have had him follow us home.”

  Luis shifted around in his seat. “Amiga, she seemed glad that I threw him out.”

  “She lied about everything, I’m sure of it. I told you, she made a phone call while we were leaving. Probably told him to follow us.”

  “Makes sense, but why kidnap you?”

  We were all quiet for a while, waiting for Mickey to hang up. He did, then stubbed out his smoke on the pavement, and pocketed the butt before getting back in the car.

  “Cool.”

  He frowned. “Smoking? It’s so not cool.”

  I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. “No, that you picked up the butt. I hate litterbugs.”

  Luis suddenly sat up straight. “Greta. You said she lied about everything.”

  “No reason to trust her at this point.”

  “You remember, she said that she spoke to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “But remember, amiga, Perry at The Rowdy Yeats? He said that he had only just remembered that Hank Howard told him that he liked a girl at the Uptown Billiards Club.”

  “Uh huh. He did.”

  “So, he didn’t tell the police that. The police wouldn’t have even talked to Greta.” Luis looked from me to Mickey and to Dad, and then back at me.

  Mickey snapped
his fingers. “Excellent, Luis. Greta learned about the gun from us. She was clueless otherwise.” He paused. “Maybe she sent Julius after you to get the gun. Figured you still have it.”

  Dad was silent through all of this, his head leaning against the headrest. I saw him adjust his glasses, and noticed his hand was unsteady.

  “Dad. It’s okay. We’re making progress. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

  He held that hand in the air, signaling that he heard me. But it was still shaking.

  Soon a police car rolled into the parking lot, and we all got out, me a little weak-kneed, Mickey and Luis tough and ready, and Dad looking like he had been hit by an age-inducing virus that infected him faster than you could say rheumatoid arthritis.

  “Dad.” I put my arm around his waist. “It’s not your fault. I’m fine.”

  “It is my fault, but that’s not the problem.” He stopped and turned to me. “I just got a text from your mother. Loren Scranton called her on our home phone.”

  “What did he say?!”

  “I’m not sure. But her text said she let him have it and hung up.”

  “Go, Mom.”

  “Right. But…”

  “Are you worried that he’s coming back to the house and we’re not there?”

  “No. She’s gone over to Sal and Drew’s.”

  “Good. So why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

  Dad held his hand to his forehead. “Darling, do I really need to explain that to you? My daughter was kidnapped tonight, and my wife is being stalked. How are you so calm?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. I just shook my head.

  He took my hand. “Let’s join the conversation with the police and Mickey and Luis, and then let’s get the hell home.”

  We walked hand in hand the few steps to the others. When Mickey met my eyes, I thought I might lose it. But maybe for the first time in my life, my father seemed to be relying on my strength, and no way was I going to let him down.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dawson and Monroe weren’t on the case this evening. The officers who arrived were very accommodating and professional. I gave them a full statement with as many details as possible. I knew the van was dark green, but I hadn’t been able to determine the make. Mickey and Luis told them all about Greta and Julius and suggested that they get in touch with Dawson and Monroe to fill them in on the case. They nodded, wrote everything down, and said they’d take a few turns around the area to see if they could spot the van.