Arthur was certain that at his age, and given the current odds, he had no way of fighting his way out of this predicament. They had one shot at getting out of this dilemma without it escalating into a hostile situation, but doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He wiped his clammy hands on his silk khaki pants, then gave a slight nod to Trudy.
“I'm sorry, but we are not going to participate in such fraudulent behavior.” Arthur rose out of his chair, grabbed his remaining credit cards, and stuffed them into his pocket. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
His heart hammering at his chest cavity, Arthur stepped toward the lone open door, with Trudy right on his heels. He looked purposely at the two men on either side of the exit. As their heads swiveled back and forth, they appeared stunned, searching for direction over Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur exited the room, and one of the men followed. Three paces later, he arrived at the top of the stairs. He heard a shrill behind him, quickly turned, and saw Trudy kicking her legs in the air. The wiry man had lifted her off the floor, one arm around her waist and the other trying to cover her mouth. Arthur tried to go back, but the large, hairy man used his considerable girth to shove Arthur down the first few stairs. He tripped on a raised nail and lost his footing, falling three more steps before his head rammed into a plastered wall. But at least it stopped my free fall.
A quick breath. Muffled yells bounced off wall—Trudy's voice. Before he could respond, Arthur felt a meaty hand jab the side of his ribs, then he tumbled down the remaining stairs, awkwardly bouncing off the last step.
“Trudy, are you okay? Trudy!” Arthur called up with desperation. The man rammed his knee into Arthur's kidney. Arthur smacked the metal door, falling backward out into the stone alley.
“Get to your hotel room. You will hear from us.” His chiseled scars and vein-filled eyes told Arthur this man had nothing to lose. “Tell no one, or we will have to kill her. Now go!”
Chapter Four
Colossal stone columns outlined the structure's brick facade like centurions guarding a fortress. I plodded up the front stairs of the oldest church in Franklin. A few small groups huddled outside of the place of worship, some dotting their eyes with tissues and consoling their friends and family members, while others, hands in their pockets, shuffled their feet and stared at the ground. I hesitated, taking in the somber scene, then glanced back to see if my wife of less than a year had arrived. From this higher elevation, I noticed dusk had settled in, with shades of purple reflecting off three of the city's contemporary glass buildings down the street.
The one-time farming community with a single railroad track splitting the east and west sides had developed into a thriving suburban city. One that no longer relied on the nearby metropolis to define its existence. But given the repetition of the current exercise, Franklin, my adopted hometown, was quickly developing a reputation that would put it on the map for an entirely different reason.
A teenage boy handed me a program, and I found a spot five rows from the back on the right side of the sanctuary. Marisa slid in next to me a few minutes later, wearing a conservative black pantsuit. She rested her hand on my leg and looked into my eyes, connecting with me as she had so many times during our four-year relationship. I didn't enjoy funerals. Who did? I wasn't friends with the deceased or her family, yet in my new role as associate publisher of the Times Herald, it was my duty as a community leader to attend and lend support...if that was possible.
Just as the minister of the city's largest Baptist church exited the side room and walked to his chair, I noticed our education reporter, Rose Tipton, three rows in front of me. Her jet-black, curled hair was clipped behind her head. She turned back and we both nodded. Our photographer wasn't allowed inside during the service, but he'd been given permission to take pictures, including that of the casket and any attendees, outside the church.
Music played, first from the organ with the massive steel pipes pointing up to heaven. Then a youngster from the high school band performed a moving solo of “Amazing Grace” on her flute. White handkerchiefs and tissues fluttered amongst the crowd. Finally, the minister stood before the broken, scared congregation, hands gripping each side of the pulpit.
“The circle of life is inevitable.” The middle-aged preacher appeared to have grayed as much as a first-term president in the last three months. “Burying the young, however, is not natural.”
He looked down to check his notes, or possibly gather himself to remain resolute, a symbol of strength for a community looking for guidance and answers.
“This young lady, Ashley Gervin, will never meet her potential. She dreamed of being a veterinarian. She dreamed of continuing her dancing in college. Her dreams, her parents' dreams will never be carried out. I do not say this to create pain.” Muted sobs interrupted his tenor voice. “I say this to wake us up. We are at war in our own backyard. Our children's lives are at stake, yet the culprit is mostly transparent and elusive, at times focusing our pain and anger at those who deal drugs. In reality, the end result of a beautiful, energetic life being taken can't be blamed solely on the provider of the drug. It's connected to desire...our human, imperfect craving to want more and more and more and more! A better high, a longer high—an orgasmic high!”
Every head in the sanctuary froze, not a sound to be heard.
“We can only do so much to stop the flow of drugs into our community. We must end the yearning. We must love our kids by spending time with them, not allowing them to fall further from their families and support system.”
The stalwart minister cleared his throat.
“My friends, it takes a village to raise kids into respectable men and women. Our neighborhoods used to provide that support. Please, please take this opportunity to rekindle that spirit and to never let the flame burn out. If we fail to wake up and unite, we will repeat this horrific exercise of burying our young. We might as well start serving cocaine, heroin, and marijuana for dessert. It will get to them. It will overtake them. It will change them. It will kill them. We can rebuild our spirits. Let us begin now.”
Weeping returned, echoing throughout the chamber. Heads bobbed from uncontrollable emotion. Not a dry eye in the building. The overflowing church reminded me of the Sunday following 9/11. We'd heard compassion and a call to look in the mirror and re-establish our priorities as human beings, as neighbors and friends.
The casket rolled out, flanked by friends of Ashley, followed by the grieving family. Her mother wept openly; her younger sister buried her red face in her stepfather's arm. Her dad's family walked like zombies with blank stares, as if someone had ripped out a piece of their hearts.
I hoped Rose would be able to describe the sentiment and the challenge set forth by the minister, and that our photographer could capture the pained emotions I was witnessing all around us. We'd have at least one signature photo on the front page of tomorrow's edition, with several, more personal pictures on the jump page.
“How do you think the people in the church, or the people who read Rose's story will respond?” I asked Marisa as we sat in our car and watched the back door slam shut on the hearse.
“Michael, we've buried three teenagers from drug overdoses in the last three months alone,” Marisa said. “The minister needed to get people to wake up to reality. Drugs are out there, and the people associated with that industry will feed off a community's ignorance or naiveté. Kids are weak-minded, easy prey.”
“Right, but can people—parents, mainly—truly put their ulterior agendas aside? Can the adults in this community open their hearts and reach out to help our youth...just do the right thing?”
“I think you have an editorial to write, Mr. Publisher.” Marisa patted my leg as I pulled out of the parking lot in our green Accord.
“Associate publisher, thank you.” I gave her a quick wink.
I pulled my tie away from my neck. Resting my left elbow on the side of the door, I thought about my responsibility to continue, even enhance, the messag
e ignited by the minister. My newspaper, the Times Herald, couldn't simply sit on the sidelines and write the obituaries of an entire teenage generation. We needed to attack this chain of death like Arthur, Stu, and I had done with the Tiffany Chambers murder investigation. The clock was ticking, and precious lives of those we've never met were hanging in the balance.
Chapter Five
Hollow ice cubes jingled against the crystal glass. Arthur had sucked down the last drop of his Highland Park 30 Scotch, his second drink since taking off from the Puerto Vallarta airport. Normally, Arthur would be taking in the remarkable scenery, as the private jet he'd chartered—for what was supposed to be a celebration of his five years of marriage—ascended into the sky early the morning following the nightmarish incident. He wished it had been a mere nightmare. Actually, nightmare implied he'd actually closed his eyes and slept at some point. That couldn't be further from the truth. He'd been up all night, ever since Trudy had been kidnapped. She was now being held for an enormous ransom, although her captors considered it a “luxury tax.”
As instructed, he'd held off from contacting any authorities, although he'd picked up his phone four times with that very intent, only to recall the words from the son of a bitch who took Trudy and pushed him down the stairs: “Tell no one, or we will have to kill her.”
Arthur only wanted his Trudy back in his arms, away from the menacing group of...what, who were they? Two men dressed in police or military uniforms, while the two others looked like regular working-class citizens. He'd heard stories of corruption, but never witnessed anything like this. He loved the country and people of Mexico, the place where he and his wife had spent their original honeymoon. The people were friendly, even endearing.
“You might want to hold off on the drinks, sir. Otherwise, by the time we land we might have to carry you off the plane.” The pilot glanced back at Arthur, then gave a quick instruction to his younger co-pilot.
Arthur, usually a very chatty type, was in no mood for speeches, although he knew the pilot had a point.
“I think you're right,” Arthur said, realizing there wasn't much he could accomplish thirty thousand feet above the ground. “Thank you, uh...” Arthur searched for his pilot's name, while rubbing his aching ankle.
“Francisco, sir. Please enjoy the rest of the trip.”
Arthur pressed his eyes shut and released air from his lungs. His body had been battered from the fall down the stairs. His ankle jabbed needles of throbbing pain into his tired mind. He removed his sandals and tried moving his toes on the carpeted flooring.
“Shit.” His ankle looked like it had an orange buried under the skin.
“Perhaps you might wrap some ice in a rag and rest it on your lower leg?” Francisco offered from the cabin. “I've sprained a few ankles in my life playing basketball, and ice is the best remedy for reducing the swelling.”
Arthur responded with a helpless look. Francisco assisted Arthur in raising his leg onto a leather foot rest, and then applied the cold compress, wrapping it with an ace bandage he'd retrieved from the jet's first-aid kit. Feeling like he'd aged ten years in the last ten hours, Arthur closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you, Francisco.”
There wasn't enough ice on board to aid all of the bumps and bruises scattered up and down his back, forearms, and knees.
Arthur leaned back in his rounded leather seat, letting out a guttural moan. He wondered if the thugs had harmed his wife. He shut his eyes, trying to block those vile thoughts. He'd been told to pull together one million dollars and then call a cell phone number they'd given him. They would arrange for the exchange—Trudy for the “luxury tax,” as they called it.
Eager to pull together the cash, Arthur knew it would take some work. He had money, but not nearly enough liquid. And he needed a confidante, someone with whom he could share this tragedy and receive sound advice. He only trusted one person with this much on the line.
Chapter Six
I wasn't sure which stopped first, my feet on the plush Persian rug, or my breathing. I'm almost certain my jaw had dropped.
“That's right. My precious Trudy for one million dollars.” Sitting behind an antique mahogany desk, Arthur extended rigid hands, his face etched with stressed wrinkles. I'd never seen him so agitated.
Only an hour before, Arthur's voice sounded fragile, draped with fear and desperation. He said he'd been awake most of the night and asked me to meet him at his office, but wouldn't elaborate on the purpose. While hiking up the back stairs to Arthur's third-floor downtown Franklin office, I'd run through every possible scenario I could imagine. Apparently, my imagination just couldn't go there.
Trudy, his one and only, kidnapped.
“Walking out like I had nothing to lose...I've replayed that scenario a hundred times. It's obvious I made the wrong move.” Arthur grabbed a tissue and blew his nose. Dark shadows hovered under his eyes, and I noticed a blue bruise on his forehead. “In reality, I had everything to lose. Trudy...she's my everything.”
My heart dropped, but I couldn't let my good friend see the anxiety I felt. “Arthur, I know you're worried about Trudy. I am too. But you made it out, and we can try to figure out how to get her home, away from those thugs.”
It had been a roller coaster of emotions for my boss and good friend since I'd arrived five minutes earlier...likely ever since Trudy was stolen away from him in Puerto Vallarta. He'd rattled off everything he could recall about the abduction. I was still trying to piece it together.
“I need a miracle.” Arthur's voice trailed off, and his eyes found a framed picture of his wife. Obviously drained, his head fell into his arms.
I didn't know how to respond, so I walked over to his bar and poured an ice water, then set it on his desk. Arthur's face emerged from his folded arms, his eyes moist and red, his clothes wrinkled. He gulped down the entire glass, slammed it on his desk, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. That wasn't the same Arthur I knew.
I finally broke the silence, praying we'd figure out how to get Trudy home.
“Did you contact the authorities, the American—”
“Consulate?” Arthur jumped in. “They'd already thought that out. They said if I did, then they'd kill her.”
I looked away just long enough for my brain to quickly analyze everything I'd heard.
“I still have a lot of questions, but I think it's appropriate for you to call the number they gave you to ensure Trudy is okay. You can tell them you're in the process of getting the money, but you want assurances she's being treated humanely.” I spat out the words as fast as an auctioneer.
Arthur sat up in his tan, high-back leather chair, appearing hopeful for the first time since I'd entered his office. He put his office phone on speaker and dialed the number.
“I'm sorry, the number you have reached is not a working number. Please try again,” the recorded voice said.
Arthur repeated the sequence. Same response.
Was this some type of sick game? Arthur put his hands over his face and began to weep.
Chapter Seven
“I'm sure they want your money more than they want to play these silly games,” I said, still pondering why they'd given Arthur a bogus phone number. “There are a lot of things that could have happened. But I think it's obvious they want to trade Trudy for the one million. Since we can't do much about the phone number right now, let's focus on pulling together the money.”
Arthur opened his eyes and began to nod. I could see he appreciated my support and our partnership. I thought momentarily how trusted an advisor I'd become in his life. After stumbling upon a dead body in a plastic bag over a year ago, I'd made a personal commitment to devote myself to find the killer. In the process, I dove into a foreign world—journalism—to aid Arthur and his reporter, Stu Owens, to uncover the seedy underbelly of a corrupt group of business and community leaders who had turned to violence, even murder, to pad their pockets. Arthur appreciated my instincts, constantly lathering me with praise, seeing posi
tive traits in me that I never thought I had. In the end, he offered me a job as associate publisher, establishing a succession plan at the top position of the paper, one that had been in his family since it was founded over seventy-five years ago. With no other family members still alive, I knew he looked at me as a son, and he said as much almost every time he addressed me.
“Michael, my son, I'm torn. They told me if I went to the authorities, they would kill Trudy, although later on the phone at the hotel, they said they didn't want to.” Arthur wiped his glasses then put them back on.
“Key point, Arthur.” I quickly seized the moment for a positive sign. “They said they didn't want to kill her. I know it's a tough call, whether we should call the FBI or not. I'm sure you're agonizing inside. But you know they want the money. This glitch is a setback, but they will contact you to get the money. Then we can figure out how to get Trudy.”
Arthur grabbed a pen and paper and began to list his assets, estimating the value of each. I sat silently, waiting for Arthur's cue for further input. Arthur's office phone buzzed, startling both of us.
“Sir, you have a call. Would you like to take it, or should I say you're busy in a meeting?” Stacy, his long-time admin, asked.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 25
