by Sharon Sala
Ryder stiffened. Was this their first break? “Do you have an ID?”
Gant nodded. “Belongs to a low-life hood out of Natchez named Bernie Pike.”
Lash felt his legs going out from under him and slid into a chair before he made another social faux pas. By the time everyone present had assured the detective they knew nothing about the name, he had himself under control.
Although Gant’s meeting with the family had been necessary, he hadn’t really expected anything to come from this lead. At least, not from this quarter. He was gathering his things and readying to leave when he suddenly remembered another fact he needed to verify.
Lash Marlow was on his way out the door when Gant called him back.
“Marlow! Wait!”
Lash spun, his nerves tightening with every breath that he took. “Yes?”
“About the ransom. Will you be able to get it all together by tomorrow?”
He went weak with relief. “Yes, sir. The bank has been most helpful in this case. Some of it arrived today by armored car. The rest should be here before noon tomorrow.”
Gant nodded. “Good. I don’t want any last minutes hitches. When that call comes in, I want to be ready to roll.”
Lash stifled a smile. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
CHAPTER 15
Now that Casey was no longer blindfolded, the thick layer of dust covering the floor in the room where she was being held was obvious. The footprints marring the gray-white surface were evidence of the degree of traffic that had come into Fostoria Biggers’s home since she’d been gone. The absence of glass in two of the three windows of her temporary cell did little to offer an avenue for her to escape. They had all been boarded up from the outside. She couldn’t get out and fresh air couldn’t get in.
Last night when they thought she’d been sleeping, she’d dug and pulled and pushed at the boards until her fingers were raw and her nails were gone. Only after she heard one of the men stirring around had she ceased her futile bid for freedom.
Now, she thought it was some time after daybreak. The smell of morning coffee had drifted into the room. On the one hand, she felt justified in celebrating the arrival of a new day, but if Lash was to be believed, she would not celebrate another.
She stood at the door, holding her breath and desperately trying to hear what the two men in the other room were saying. It was impossible. Their voices were too low and the door was too thick to hear anything other than an occasional murmur.
A plate lay on the floor near her feet. Remnants of the sandwich they’d given her yesterday to eat. She’d taken the food and a good look at the filth on their hands and decided she would rather go to her grave hungry.
Whatever it was that kept coming and going through a hole in the floor had made a meal of it last night. By now she didn’t much care what she shared the room with, as long as it came on four feet instead of two
In deference to her constant requests for drinks of water and bathroom privileges, her feet and hands were no longer tied. And, since Lash’s departure yesterday, the blindfold had also been discarded. But while she now had an odd sort of freedom within the small, boarded-up room, the implications behind it were frightening. They no longer cared if she saw their faces because she would not be alive to tell the tale.
The sound of a chair being scooted across the floor made Casey bolt for the other side of the room. Ever since the arrival of Skeet Wilson, Pike’s cohort, Casey had been afraid to sleep. Bernie had threatened her, but it was Skeet Wilson whom she knew would willingly do the deed. He was tall and skinny and walked with a limp. His hair was long and gray and tied at the back of his neck with a piece of shoestring. Some sort of blanket fuzz was caught in the knot and it was Casey’s opinion that the shoestring had been there for a very long time. Skeet bore more scars on his face than teeth in his head, and he carried them all with a wild sort of pride. He had a face straight out of a nightmare with the disposition to match.
She stood with her back against the wall, holding her breath and praying that it would be Bernie who came in the door. If she’d been betting on the odds of that happening, she would have lost.
Skeet Wilson stepped inside then paused, carefully eyeing the tall, slender woman with her back against the wall. Even though the blue suit she was wearing was filthy and torn and her legs and feet were bare and scratched, there was an odd sort of dignity to the way she was braced. In a way, he admired her. But it didn’t matter what he thought. Skeet was a man who could be bought. And right now, Casey Justice wasn’t a woman to him, she was fifty thousand dollars on the hoof.
“What?” Casey asked, as always, choosing to be the first one to speak.
Skeet grinned and smoothed his hand down the front of his fly, just to remind her who was boss. “Bed check.”
Unless a miracle occurred, today was the last day of her life, but she refused to go out screaming and crying and begging for mercy they weren’t capable of giving. She lifted her chin and squarely met his gaze.
“It’s certainly obvious where you spent your last vacation.”
It crossed his mind to be pissed, but her reference to the fact that his speech was peppered with penitentiary lingo was too good to ignore. He grinned, revealing his lack of a full set of teeth. And she was right. His world did revolve around the legal system. Just not on the side of law and order.
“Don’t get too prissy, lady. You’re real close to meetin’ your maker.”
Don’t let him see your fear.
The thought came out of nowhere, and somehow Casey knew that at that moment, Ryder was with her in the only way he could be. Her hands fisted as she stared him down.
“That’s what the mugger said before he snatched the old lady’s purse and ran into the street.”
Skeet’s smirk froze on his face. Either she was losing her mind or it was already gone. He’d never known a woman with the balls to try to tell a joke to someone who was holding her captive. “That don’t make much sense.”
“It does if you know that, seconds later, the mugger was run over by a car. The old lady then walked into the street, lifted her purse out of the dead mugger’s hands and bent over and whispered something in his ear.”
Skeet knew he shouldn’t ask, but he was too intrigued to let the subject lie.
“So, what did she say?”
Casey grinned. “To tell her maker hello.”
Skeet cursed and slammed the door shut between them. He wasn’t all that smart, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what she’d been getting at and he didn’t like it.
He and Bernie had gone through a lot these last two days. Marlow had threatened them with everything from murder to reneging on the last of their money if they so much as touched a hair on Casey Justice’s head. Marlow had all but frothed at the mouth, claiming that right was to be his. Sick of his ranting, they’d finally complied. But Skeet wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of her. She was too damned mouthy for her own good.
He kicked at an empty bean can in the middle of the floor and flopped back down in his chair. There wasn’t any way this plan could fail. By tonight, he and Bernie would be rolling in dough. After that, he didn’t give a damn what Marlow did with the bitch. Whatever it was, it was still less than she deserved.
* * *
“What are those?” Ryder asked, as Roman sorted through a small case in his lap.
“Tracking devices, something like the ones the FBI will probably put in with the ransom money.”
Ryder nodded, although his opinion of the FBI left a lot to be desired. In his opinion, they asked too many questions and didn’t give enough answers. They acted as if what was going on was none of his business.
“Won’t the kidnappers be expecting something like that?”
Roman looked up. “That’s why I’ve got these. The Feds can do their thing. I’m going to do mine.”
“They’re not going to like it,” Ryder warned. “You already ticked Wyandott off yesterday.�
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Roman leaned back in his chair, remembering the confrontation he’d had with the special agent in charge. “No one dies from being ticked.”
“You are a hard man, Roman Justice.”
“Tell it to Uncle Sam. He took credit for making me this way. He can take the blame, as well.”
If the situation had been anything else, Ryder could have laughed. As it was, he almost felt sorry for the man who got in his brother’s way.
He glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. Where the hell was Lash Marlow with the money? He kept remembering what Roman had told him about Marlow’s financial situation. It seemed to him that there was a fault in the theory that Lash should be responsible for its deliverance. It was like giving a starving man the keys to the cupboard.
The doorbell rang. Ryder jumped, then started down the hall, unwilling to wait for Joshua to let whoever it was in. Maybe there was news of Casey. But the Feds beat him to it. Lash was admitted carrying two large duffel bags.
“I’ve got it!” he crowed.
Two men in dark suits relieved him of the bags, leaving him standing in the hall with a jubilant smile on his face. Lash could hardly contain his joy. It was almost over.
“The armored car was late,” Lash said, by way of an explanation for his tardiness.
Ryder listened without comment.
Lash smoothed a hand over his hair. “Any news?”
Ryder shook his head. “No.”
What seemed to be a genuine grimace of dismay spread across his face. “You know, sometimes this all seems like a dream.”
“More like a nightmare, if you ask me.”
Lash nodded. “Of course, that’s what I meant.”
A man Ryder had never seen before came out into the hall from the main salon. Another Fed.
“Mr. Marlow, Detective Gant wants to speak with you.”
Lash straightened his suit coat and followed the man into the room. Ryder was right behind.
Gant waved his hand toward the open bags. “It’s all here, I presume?”
Lash nodded. “Three million dollars in unmarked bills. None of them larger in denomination than a fifty, none of them smaller than a five.”
Gant nodded and turned back to the desk while Ryder struggled with a notion that wouldn’t come. Something Lash had just said rang a chord of memory, but he couldn’t figure out why.
Lash started toward the door. “If you have no further need of me, court awaits.”
Gant paused and looked to Wyandott, who was officially in charge of the investigation. Wyandott didn’t bother to look up. Gant shrugged. “I guess not. But if something comes up, I’ll know where to find you, right?”
Lash chuckled. “One can only hope.”
Ryder’s hands were itching. The urge to grab Lash was overwhelming. It was all he could do to stay put as Marlow left. But at this point, Ryder couldn’t pinpoint what it was that was bugging him.
The front door slammed behind Lash as Roman walked in the room.
“Who was here?” Roman asked.
“Marlow. He brought the ransom money.”
Ryder pointed toward the bags on the desk and the men who were working on securing tracking devices within the bags.
It was when Roman started toward the desk that the notion hovering in the back of Ryder’s mind started to take shape.
“Hey, Gant.”
Gant looked up. “Yeah?”
“Marlow was gone when the kidnapper called, remember?” Gant nodded.
“Then who told him how the money was to be paid?”
“I did,” Gant said, then glanced at Wyandott, who had already expressed some displeasure in the way Gant had handled things thus far. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy to accumulate that much money in small bills. Thought he needed as much time as possible.”
But that wasn’t what Ryder needed to know. “No…exactly what did you tell him?”
“I don’t follow you,” Gant said. “What are you getting ant?”
Ryder’s nerves were on edge. The more he thought about Lash, the more certain he became. “I want to know what you told him to bring.”
“I said something to the effect that we needed three million dollars in small, unmarked bills by noon today.”
“Did you tell him what denominations?”
“I told him no hundred dollars bills. Everything had to be smaller than one hundred dollar bills.”
Oh, my God. What if Roman was right on target about Lash Marlow’s involvement all along? “Then did you or any of your men ever play that tape for Marlow?”
“What tape?” Gant asked.
“The one you made when the ransom call came in.” Gant shrugged. “I don’t know. I know I didn’t.” He looked at Wyandott. “Did you or any of your men?” All answers were negative.
The flesh crawled on the back of Ryder’s neck. “Then can any of you explain to me why Marlow just quoted the kidnapper’s exact terminology of the request he made for ransom?”
Roman pivoted, already following the line of his brother’s thoughts. “I wasn’t in here. What did Marlow say?”
Ryder stared around the room, daring the men to disagree. “You all heard him. He said, ‘Three million dollars in unmarked bills. None of them larger in denomination than a fifty, none of them smaller than a five.”’
“Son of a bitch.” Gant’s epitaph was echoed in more than one man’s thoughts. “If memory serves, that’s just about word for word.”
Wyandott looked surprised, then began issuing new orders as Ryder turned and started running. Roman caught him at the door.
“You can’t do what you’re thinking.”
Ryder yanked himself free. His words came out a cold, even tone. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
Roman tightened his hold. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you one bit. But you’ve got to think of Casey. If Marlow is involved and he’s alerted before the drop even goes down, what’s going to happen to her? Better yet, how the hell would we know where to find her?”
Ryder hit the wall with the flat of his palm and then wiped a hand across his face. Every time he took a step he wanted to run, but to where? What had they done with his wife?
“My God,” he said. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Wait until someone brings her back to me in a body bag?”
Roman got up in his face, and this time, he was the one on the defensive. “No, I expect you to let me do my job.”
Ryder doubled his fists and refused to give an inch, even to his brother. Helpless in the face of so much logic, the urge to lash out was overwhelming.
Roman sighed. He didn’t understand this kind of commitment between a man and a woman, but he’d seen enough of it to know it went beyond any blood ties. And as he gazed into his brother’s face, he had a flashback of a little boy with mud in his hair and fire in his eyes. He remembered that same little boy had not only whipped the boy who’d beaten him up to take away his baseball, but he’d gotten the ball back, too. Even then, Ryder Justice had been a force with which to reckon.
“So, what’s it going to be?” Roman asked.
Even though the urge to argue was overwhelming, Ryder relented, slumping against the wall. “Then do it. Just know that every step you take I’m going to be on your heels.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, brother, but that will come later. Right now, there’s one little thing I need to do before the day gets any older, and I don’t want help in getting it done.”
It felt wrong, and it hurt like hell to watch Roman going out the door without him, but Ryder stood his ground. Roman was right. He’d asked for his help. The least he could do was give him the leeway to do it.
“Give ’em hell, Roman.”
Roman looked back, just as he started out the door. “Is there any other way?”
* * *
Lash was making himself a ham and cheese sandwich. He’d even gotten out his mother’s good ch
ina on which to eat it. He slathered mustard on one slice of bread and mayonnaise on the other. And why not? It’s about time things started going my way.
The sandwich was thick with meat, cheese, and lettuce. He pushed a toothpick into an olive, then topped his sandwich by stabbing the toothpick into the bread with a flourish. Now there was only one thing left. He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine. Chilled to perfection.
He walked out of the kitchen toward the old dining hall with china, wine and food in hand. When he stepped inside, there was a feeling of relief unlike any he’d ever known.
Spiderwebs draped the dust-covered chandelier above the table like torn and tattered lace. One of the panes was out at the top of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the back of the property and there was a bird’s nest in the corner of the room. But Lash didn’t see the ruin and decay. His jubilation was focused on former glory and future renovation.
The cork popped on the wine and he smiled to himself as he filled his glass. As he sipped, the chill of the grape and the dry, vintage taste of fine wine tingled on his tongue. He set the half-empty glass down in a patch of sunlight, admiring the way a sunbeam pierced the liquid.
He pulled the toothpick out of his food, popped the olive into his mouth, and chewed down. There was an instant awareness of an odd, unfamiliar taste as he gasped and spit the olive out into his hand.
And the moment he saw it, his flesh crawled. Somewhere within his mind, a drumbeat sounded. Then it began to hammer, faster and faster until he couldn’t move—couldn’t speak. He heard a cry, and then the faint, but unmistakable, sounds of a woman’s soft voice. The language was French, spoken in the patois of the slaves his great-great-grandfather had once owned.
He jumped up from his chair and flung what was left of the olive onto the dust-covered table before running out of the room. The celebration and his meal were forgotten in the horror of what he’d just seen. And as the sounds of his footsteps faded away, the carcass of a small, white worm fell out of the olive and into the patch of sunlight beaming down through the wine.
Lash ran out of the house and into the woods, searching for a solace his mind couldn’t find. To any other person, it would have been an unfortunate choice of an olive from a nearly full jar, but to Lash, it was the first step in a curse that had started to come true.
