Wilson gulped in air when the twins removed his hood. He coughed slightly from taking too much air too soon. Though the room smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and another odor Wilson could not immediately identify, he never remembered air tasting as fresh as it did as they removed his hood.
He looked for Sam, as his captors untied the rope. As he feared, she was not in the room. Wilson gingerly rubbed his wrists, relieved the rope was gone and watched the twins back away from him. Fuzz Face stayed at the door and kept his gun aimed at the center of Wilson’s chest.
They shut the door and locked it. Wilson heard the sounds of his kidnappers’ retreating footsteps. A sense of relief to be alone, however small, flooded over him.
They had set him down on the floor with his back against the wall. The low light in the room came from a dim-watted bulb centered in the ceiling. It allowed enough light for Wilson to scan the room. It was empty and small, perhaps no more than ten feet by ten feet. Wilson took several deep breaths, thought a moment before determining that the strange odor that had assaulted his senses when they pulled his hood off was probably cat urine.
Cat urine.
He cocked his head, the thought stirring something deep inside, unsettling him. Fear brushed the back of his throat. He was certain now he knew why they had been kidnapped.
After an inventory of the room, Wilson guessed he might be here awhile, given the thin mattress on the floor covered with an equally thin blanket. There were two twelve-ounce plastic bottles of water near the mattress. Beside the bottles, there were four packages of orange-colored crackers and processed cheese and an apple.
Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and opened the water bottle. He took two long swallows, closing his eyes and savoring the cold, refreshing liquid. He went for the cheese and crackers and noticed that the packages had already been opened and the red plastic strips used to spread the cheese over the crackers were gone.
Wilson ate every bite. He used his finger to scoop out the rest of the cheese in the corners of the package that he could not get with the crackers. It was the first thing he had eaten since being kidnapped. He drank the last of his water, knowing the crackers would make him thirsty, but it didn’t matter. Though he was starved, he decided to save one package of crackers and the apple for later.
Feeling a small surge of energy, he got to his feet and went to the door. He placed both hands over the knob and tried hard, several times, to open the door. The knob, nothing, would budge. He settled back against the wall and used the blanket to cover his legs. He tried hard to fight sleep, but the urge to close his eyes, if even for a few minutes, overcame him.
The next thing Wilson knew he was awakened by the sounds of someone opening the door. He tried to shield his eyes from the light streaming into the room, but someone kicked his hand away from his face and the outside light shone directly into his eyes. Wilson squinted. It took a moment to adjust to the sudden flood of light before he saw that the twins were back, standing over him like a pair of angry sentinels.
“Hey fellas,” Wilson said, casually, as if greeting old friends.
“Do you have to go to the john?” the twin in the gray T-shirt asked.
Wilson nodded. They helped him to his feet and this time handcuffed his hands in front of him. They loosely tied the hood over his head and when Wilson looked down he could see the tips of his black dress shoes. The men took Wilson by the arms and escorted him from the room. As they walked Wilson tried to keep his head down to watch for any markings on the ground that could become familiar landmarks to him, should he by some chance be able to escape. He also took several deep breaths to be aware of any kind of scents or smells that could serve as possible guides on the way out. Nothing, however, smelled as strongly as the cat urine in the room where his captors were keeping him.
He tried tracking how many times they had turned left and then right, but gave up after a few minutes, deciding that the bathroom was probably just down the hall and the kidnappers were taking him in all directions just to throw him off.
When they returned to the ten-foot-by-ten-foot room, they removed Wilson’s hood. He blinked a few times allowing his eyes to focus. Wilson saw that the lion tamer’s chair had been brought into the room and positioned directly under the bare bulb.
He could feel a bubble of apprehension begin to threaten his composure, as he worked to keep the look on his face neutral, his disposition calm.
The tall, bony man was back, or Pencil Fingers, Wilson decided until he learned his name. He was standing behind the chair. He motioned for them to bring Wilson forward. They pushed Wilson toward the chair and forced him into it. He held up his handcuffs, but the twins backed away without removing them.
Wilson recognized Pencil Fingers as the one who got out of the car the night he and Sam were kidnapped. Wilson looked down at his boots. They were the same pair that he had used to lift Sam’s lifeless arm off the ground. Anger replaced his bubble of fear. Wilson could smell the leather from Pencil Finger’s jacket. The scent was strong and the jacket looked fresh and new and Wilson guessed it must have been a recent purchase.
Pencil Fingers coolly reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. When he did, Wilson again caught sight of the butt of the pistol nestled inside the shoulder holster. Wilson watched as Pencil Fingers shook a cigarette loose and pulled it from the package with his lips. He cupped his long hands around a lighter.
He lit the cigarette and exhaled, then studied Wilson through a rising plume of smoke. Wilson returned his stare.
“Where is she?” Wilson asked.
Pencil Fingers laughed before he took a long drag on his cigarette. “In a safe place,” he said, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “In fact, I suspect that if she has not already been found, it won’t be long before she is.”
Wilson cocked his head and studied him skeptically.
“You can take my word for it. I assure you,” Pencil Fingers said as if he could read Wilson’s thoughts. “You don’t need to worry, she’ll be found soon.”
He took another quick drag on the cigarette and laughed harshly. There was something about his laugh, the cold and emptiness of it that put Wilson on edge.
“I have a feeling,” he went on, “That she may wish that she were still here with you by the time we get done with her.”
“What do you want from us?” Wilson said.
“Want?” Pencil Fingers echoed.
He laughed again and Wilson hated him.
“You can’t give me what I want, Mr. Cole.”
Wilson wasn’t surprised that Pencil Fingers knew his name. Pencil Fingers walked around the chair and Wilson followed him with his eyes as long as he could. He came to a stop in front of the chair.
“You know,” he continued, the cigarette bouncing up and down as he spoke, “I’ve never much cared for nicknames and given names that people abbreviate. Like Sam Church. Shouldn’t it be Samantha? Better yet, she should go back to her given surname, Marino. A good, strong Italian surname. Don’t you think, Mr. Cole? It goes so much better with her middle name, Samantha Christine Marino.”
Pencil Fingers’ voice trailed off as he removed the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it to the floor in front of Wilson and crushed it with the tip of his boot. He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled his 9mm from the holster. “My mother’s name was Christine, Mr. Cole,” he said and lowered himself to be at eye level with Wilson, almost sitting in his lap. “She died of cancer a few years back, of the boobs.”
Pencil Fingers was so close that Wilson could smell the stench of cigarettes as he breathed. He stared at Wilson a moment and laughed again as he backed away.
“Doesn’t that have a much nicer ring to it?” he asked using the pistol to stroke Wilson’s chin. “Samantha Christine Marino?”
Wilson didn’t answer and tried to turn his head away. The man used the barrel of his gun to stop Wilson from turning. Their eyes met. His da
rk sockets reminded Wilson of large black tunnels.
“I said, doesn’t that have a much nicer ring to it?”
Wilson nodded slightly.
“What’s your name?” Wilson asked, expecting him not to reply.
To his surprise, he did.
“Call me Juan,” Pencil Fingers replied. “You can call me Juan, ’cause we’re going to be together awhile.”
Wilson’s eyebrows drifted toward the top of his head as he nodded. Now Pencil Fingers had a name.
“Why didn’t you just kill us the other night when you had the chance?” Wilson asked, narrowing his eyes. “You could’ve made your getaway and never been caught. Now you’re going to face all kinds of charges, including kidnapping.”
The look on Juan’s face registered little worry about being caught.
“Who said anything about being caught?” Juan laughed. The harshness of it made Wilson stir uneasily in his chair.
“Of course we could have done away with you and Samantha Christine the other night. Right there in the parking lot. Very, very easily.” Juan pressed the muzzle of his weapon hard against Wilson’s temple. “Boom, one shot and that’d be it. In fact, I could’ve put a bullet right through the center of your skulls and you both would’ve been dead before you hit the ground.”
Juan shouldered the automatic and retrieved his cigarettes. He offered the pack to Wilson, who shook his head. Juan lit another cigarette and slipped the pack back in his coat pocket. He thought a moment before continuing. “I must admit that it would’ve given me great satisfaction watching the both of you fall dead to the ground. It would have been fast and painless, or relatively painless. But don’t you think, Mr. Cole, that it would have been rather boring?”
“Boring?” Wilson said.
“Yes, boring,” Juan replied. “Over and done with, just like that.”
Juan snapped his fingers. “No, no,” he continued. “This will be so much more fun. By the time we are done with Samantha Christine, she’ll wish to shit that she had been shot that night. In fact, Mr. Cole, we’re going to lead her right here to us. And then …” Juan pushed his jacket aside, exposing the butt of the automatic. “And then, we’ll see, maybe I’ll shoot her myself.”
Juan paused long enough to allow his words to have the desired effect.
“You’re not going to just kill her are you?” Wilson asked, remembering Sam’s suspicions about being followed. He should have trusted her instincts.
Juan looked around the small room and then at Wilson. “It might be hard for you to imagine, Mr. Cole, just how much money I made in this little room. We had quite a little operation going here until Samantha’s bitch of a sister started nosing around. I couldn’t have her messing things up, so we had to put the dog down ...”
Juan’s voice trailed off and he had a smirk on his face that Wilson wanted to slap off. “She was easier to get rid of than I thought. I must admit, however, that Samantha had more fight in her than even I had given her credit for. I was certain she would wilt at the first sign of our threats, but she surprised me.”
Wilson snorted. “What’d you expect? You murdered her sister.”
“Yeah but she still hasn’t gotten the message has she? I’ll be ready for her this time,” Juan replied coldly, ignoring his comment. “As I said, when we get through with her, she’ll wish she’d died in the parking lot.”
Juan took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke was giving Wilson a headache. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Cole, to make your stay here a little more comfortable? It may be a few days before Samantha arrives, allowing me the pleasure of her company.”
Wilson didn’t answer. He wanted to burst out of these handcuffs, grab Juan by the neck and strangle him. “Another bottle of water and a little more food would be nice,” Wilson said, his voice an even, measured tone.
Juan took a long drag on his cigarette. “That can be arranged.”
Juan nodded at Fuzz Face, who left the room. He returned moments later with a twelve-ounce bottle of water and a burrito in a package and set them on the floor, just beyond Wilson’s reach. Juan turned around and headed for the door. He stopped just before leaving and turned to look at Wilson, his pencil fingers resting casually on the doorframe. “My people have always feared my anger, Mr. Cole. They have always treaded lightly around me. They didn’t want to risk my wrath. It’s not a pleasant sight. That I can assure you, but you and the reporter have done more than provoke my anger and she will pay dearly. And you, Mr. Cole …” His voice trailed off into an empty laugh. “You will have the pleasure of watching what will happen to her.”
Juan turned and left without another word. Fuzz Face removed his 9mm and trained it on Wilson as one of the twins removed the handcuffs.
“Get up and stand against that wall,” Fuzz Face ordered and pointed with his gun to the back of the room. Wilson did as he was told. He watched as they took the chair and left the room, closing the door behind them. He could hear sounds of the door being locked and footsteps retreating into the distance.
Anger and the thought of Juan hurting Sam surged through Wilson like a live wire. He hurdled himself hard at the door and hit it with a heavy thud. The force from the impact knocked him back and off his feet. He lost his balance, stumbled and fell to the cement floor.
Eight
The last of the daylight was fading when Sam left the newspaper and headed toward Wilson’s Accord. The raw wind that had pushed her into the office that morning had died down, the bare trees surrounding the parking lot, still as a photograph. Sam had purposely parked in the front of the building when she came to work this morning, avoiding the back parking lot and what had happened there.
Each step was an effort. It took all her energy to put one foot in front of the other. She was so certain that she would have heard something from Wilson’s kidnappers before the end of the workday. Her heart would start to race every time Anne buzzed her with a phone call, or she’d check for new e-mails. Each time her hopes were destroyed. Calls with comments from the mayor and the city’s planning director about what would soon turn into another controversial housing development didn’t excite her. Spam e-mails about weight loss and erasing debt, she deleted.
She felt heartened that Nick Weeks and Anne Misner had kept their words and had said nothing to the staff. At least for now everyone else still thought that Wilson was enjoying himself in sunny Mexico.
Sam caught sight of Wilson’s vanity license plate before she got inside the car.
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She had often wondered what it meant. Certain there had to be some significance, she would ask Wilson when she found him.
She wanted to drive home, avoiding Sixth Avenue westbound, but heard on the police scanner just before leaving the office that there had been a multi-car accident near the Kipling Parkway exit. Traffic had backed up to the Wadsworth Boulevard exit, the one Sam used. The last thing Sam heard on the scanner was that a motorist had been thrown from the vehicle and had landed fifteen feet from the hood of the car.
She knew she should have grabbed a reporter’s notebook and headed out to cover the accident. She thought of Rey Estrada and the first time she heard his voice on the phone. She heard the hesitancy in his voice, his unwillingness, at first, to help her continue Robin’s investigation. Seeing mangled bodies on the roadway, however, wasn’t how Sam wanted to end her day. It had been bad enough waiting to hear from Wilson’s kidnappers. Instead she hoped the staff photographer had heard about the accident on the police scanner in his car and was on his way to the scene.
She’d call the police department and get the full report in the morning. That was one advantage of working at a weekly. The Grandview Perspective published only on Fridays. At the Denver Post, she’d have to file the story before going home. Now Sam wouldn’t have to write anything before Wednesday. And when she did write it, she would have to use a second or third day lead. By the time it appeared in the Perspective the accident would be old ne
ws. The city and the people in it would already have moved on to different tragedies.
The thought of being able to wait a day before having to file the story relieved her. She just wasn’t ready to cover the scene of a traffic accident. Sadness pulled at her as she thought of Rey again and the day he was killed. She had only known him a short time, and she could not believe how much she had come to care about him and be so affected by his death.
She could picture him, young, tall and standing straight. She could see him in his safety orange vest directing traffic. His left arm extended straight out, palm up, holding traffic in that direction to a standstill, while motioning rapidly to the traffic with his right hand to move through the intersection. She stopped her thoughts there. She would not allow herself to think of how he died.
Instead she drove the Accord slowly along West 20th Avenue that paralleled Sixth Avenue, going where she knew she should not be headed. She had gone there so often that she navigated the streets without thinking. She drove along a quiet tree-lined 20th Avenue, before turning onto winding Glen-Garry Street. She drove until she reached the last house on the corner, coming to a stop before she got to the white-clapboard, two-storey home that sat back from the street on a half-acre plot.
The ‘for-sale’ sign went up almost immediately after Jonathan’s death and the house sold in four days. The garage door was up and Sam could see stacks of moving boxes inside. She wondered about the family who had moved in and thought of her own that had unraveled somewhere along the way because she couldn’t be trusted with a drink in her hand.
The judge had given Jonathan custody of April when they divorced because she wasn’t responsible enough to continue to raise her.
“Until you can convince me, Mrs. Church, that you can be grown-up enough to raise your daughter, she shall not be in your custody. What kind of influence can you be to a 9-year-old if you’re drunk all the time?”
‘Doesn’t mean that I don’t love her,’ Sam had wanted to shout at the judge during the court proceedings. Instead she just stared at him solemnly, her hands clasps tightly in front of her.
Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery, Book 2) Page 5
