by Lucia Sinn
Cindy thought it strange that Gail hadn’t had numerous affairs by now. Gail explained that the Krueger tentacles were far reaching. They would have known within twenty four hours if she was screwing someone else in Houston. But now, on this particular afternoon in November, in San Diego, with two Margaritas under her belt, she had decided to take a chance.
She knew women who always seemed to be attracted to the same type of man. But the last thing she’d wanted was an Eric clone. Tony, with his smooth sculpted features, dark complexion, and slick chestnut hair parted on the side, provided the perfect contrast she’d been craving.
He’d come in alone and taken a seat at the bar.
Cindy saw him first. “OK, there’s your guy. Go for it.”
“How? He’s not even looking this way. Seems more interested in that glass in his hand. What do you suppose he ordered?”
“Scotch, probably. Get up now, and go to the ladies room. He’ll see your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Do the old eye contact thing.”
“Which is?”
“Don’t you even remember how to flirt?”
“I guess I do.” Gail stood up and walked slowly in Tony’s direction. Even under the jacket of his navy pin striped suit, she could see that he was broad shouldered, trim, and solid like an athlete. She gave him a bold stare, and their eyes met. He swiveled around on his bar stool. Dimples formed in his cheeks as he flashed her a bright smile, radiating a powerful aura of sensuality
She made it to the ladies room, legs wobbly on spike heels and wearing a sleeveless yellow mini dress that barely covered her crotch. When she looked in the mirror, she felt dismayed to see her face flushed a bright pink. She walked back to her table another way, avoiding him.
But she’d no sooner sat down than he was standing before them. “Okay if I join you two?” he’d said in that smooth, honey toned voice.
Cindy had excused herself within half an hour. Two drinks later, Gail was in Tony’s room. That’s how easy it had been for him.
Right away, he’d started pushing her to get a divorce and marry him. That wasn’t what she had in mind. Tony had a good business, but nothing compared to the Krueger empire. She was happy the way things were: unlimited funds at her disposal, and the best sex she’d ever had in her life.
But then Tony issued an ultimatum.
Their lovemaking had started the way it always did, with him slowly undressing her, stroking her legs, kissing and licking her everywhere, bringing her just to that point where she was ready for him. But at the crucial moment, he pulled away and walked over to the window. “I can’t go on like this, flying to Texas every week to see you.
Gail’s stomach knotted at the hard look on his face. “You mean, you’re ending it?”
“No, I’m not ending it. You are. By not marrying me.”
Gail’s body ached with desire. She wanted to feel his heaviness, and run her fingers along the tendrils of dark hair on his chest running down to his groin. She couldn’t give up that good hardness ramming inside her, and go back to flaccid Eric.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go back to Houston and file for divorce.”
Because her lawyers blamed Eric’s mental illness for the divorce, Gail’s property settlement and child support agreement had been generous. Tony suggested they use part of her money to pay off the mortgage on the house he’d built before his wife had been killed. She’d been eager to do that, to show her appreciation for him being so good to Doug. And since he was a successful business man, it had seemed reasonable for him to manage her investments.
She wondered, now, how much she had left.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TIM
BY NOW IT had dawned on Doug that things weren’t going to go down easy. His pinched face was white with fear when they drove to the end of the island and yanked him from the car.
“You promised I’d see my Dad as soon as we got to Padre Island,” he said. “Where is he?” Doug’s eyes were red rimmed from crying, his black T-shirt caked with powdered sugar from this morning’s doughnuts. He no longer looked like a spoiled rich kid, but that didn’t make Tim like him any better. He couldn’t wait to tie rope around those bony shoulders and legs, and wrap duct tape around his thin lips.
“Now march,” Tim said. “You’re going in that trunk.”
Doug gave him a wild look. “Don’t put me in there,” he cried. “I’ll suffocate.”
“Get in.” Tim pointed his gun, but Doug was seemingly less afraid of death than of going in that small dark place. He bolted across the lot in a run for freedom, but Jose tackled him and pinned him to the pavement. Tim looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was around, and cracked Doug on the head with the butt of his gun until his body went limp. A flush of anger rose in Tim’s chest. Why hadn’t the kid just done what he was told? He gave him a couple of kicks in the back and belly for good measure. They picked him up and threw him in the trunk before tying him tight and taping his mouth.
“Look,” Jose said. “He’s bleeding.”
Tim could see blood oozing out from the top of Doug’s skull. “Guess I hit him pretty hard,” he said. It was a good feeling.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jose said. “He’s gonna be real banged up. And look, you’ve practically covered up his nose.”
Tim and Jose crossed the causeway to Port Isabel and headed down the highway to Brownsville. Tony had called and told them he would meet them about ten miles down the road.
In the beam of his headlights, Tim saw Tony pacing back and forth in front of an old wooden shack. His dark eyes looked wild, as if he was running from a fire. As Tim jumped out of the car, Tony’s breath drifted up in a sour mist.
“What’s up?” Tim asked. “Has something gone wrong?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that we don’t have much time. Follow me.”
Tony led the way down a narrow strip of highway that changed from two to four lanes every few miles. The road was poorly lit, with few markers. To their left, a long row of oil rigs stood in sharp outline across the gray moonlit sky. A road sign indicated they were approaching the port of Brownsville.
They turned left at the north end of Brownsville and drove through miles of brush country before reaching a security checkpoint manned by three young border patrol agents in brown uniforms and billed caps. Tim’s right eyelid fluttered violently as they slowed to a stop. Just being near the law made him nervous. But the guards lowered their heads and, after a long look, waved them through without further question.
Soon, they came to a dirty white sign with black letters and an arrow pointing to Boca Chica Village. A boarded up roadside bar, with a bright yellow martini painted on the door, indicated the place had once been a lively spot. Several yards beyond, they drove past a low stone shrine where a colored statue of the Virgin Mary faced a small, deserted housing development. Two rows of cinder block houses, perhaps twenty in all, sat somber and lifeless along a narrow street lined with withered palm trees. Most of the houses had smashed windows, rusty water tanks, and lopsided TV antennas. A ghost town.
Tony parked in front of a pink house with plastic flamingos and whirligigs stuck at tilted angles in a yard full of weeds. The front door hung open, swinging on its hinges.
“I gotta hand it to you,” Tim said as Tony got out of his car, “This is some hideout.”
Tony backed away. “I’ll hide while you get the kid out of here and throw him on that couch in the front room.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll spend the night here. You can’t be seen in Brownsville.”
“You gotta be kidding. There ain’t even a restaurant around. There’s nothing.”
“Don’t worry,” Tony said. “I stopped at the HEB and got you guys some beer and snacks. Just take turns sleeping so that you’re ready to go about four. We’ll meet on the island, then, and we’ll call Eric to pick up Doug before sunrise. I’ve got a place picked out--an abandoned office building next t
o a Stripes gas station beside the Sheraton. It’s next to a streetlight, so they can’t go sneaking around in the dark. ”
“But aren’t you staying here with us now?”
Tony shook his head. “No, I can’t let Doug know I’m the one who planned his kidnapping. Now listen, you’ve gone this far, and we’re almost done with it. When you get the money, you can drive Jose down to Matamoros where he can walk into Mexico through the turnstiles, and you’re home free.”
“So where are we meeting?”
“Back at the Holiday Inn. I’m going to catch a little sleep.”
“In the Impala?” Tim asked.
Tony’s mouth turned down at the corners. “This junk heap? No thanks. I’ll spend the night in the motel. Pick me up in the circular drive at 4 a.m. That will give us enough time to arrange a meeting with Eric and get the money before the sun comes up. Right now, I’m going to hide behind that tree next door before you let Doug out, and then I’ll go.”
Tim opened the trunk, expecting to see Doug staring at them, bug eyed and frantic. But he lay face down, motionless. Jose grabbed his shoulder and turned him over. Doug’s eyes were closed, his tousled hair sticking out from his head like a scarecrow.
“Jesus,” Jose said. “He’s still out.”
Tim put his hand to Doug’s chest. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s still breathing. Now come on, let’s get him inside.”
The house was filled with broken down furniture, the floors crawling with lizards and palmetto bugs the size of doorknobs. They dumped Doug on a large flowered sofa with split seams and piles of stuffing. Tim got a whiff of something rotten, like a stopped up toilet or garbage left in the sink. He almost gagged. “Let’s get out of this shit hole” he said.
Tony stepped out of the shadows as they emerged from the house. “Doug looked bad,” he said. “You think he’s okay?”
“What’s okay mean? He’s alive. You can go now. We’ll see you at four.”
Tim and Jose waited until Tony was out of sight before saying anything.
“We can’t be far from the ocean,” Jose said. “I can hear the surf.”
“We’ll drive down there and walk around, maybe go for a swim.”
“But Tony said to stay here.”
“Tony’s gone. We need a break.”
Jose raised his elbow and sniffed his armpit. “You’re right,” he said, “I stink as bad as you do. Let’s go.”
Boca Chica pulsed with activity. Flickering bonfires glowed on a beach littered with blankets where couples in various stages of undress openly made love. The smoky air--smelling of beer, fish, and perfume--was filled with the sound of dirt bikes and motorcycles grinding their way up and down the dunes.
The ocean was warm as bathwater. Tim lay on his back, amazed at how easy it was to float in saltwater. At first, he was frightened by the swell of waves lifting him high and slamming him against the shore, but soon he was wading back in deeper for another ride. He could have stayed there for hours, but Jose got antsy.
“What about Doug?”
“What about him?
“We should find out if he’s okay.”
Tim said. “Let him suffer.”
“We’re supposed to be watching him,” Jose said. “We shouldn’t have left him like that, unconscious. And you never know, he could have gotten loose somehow and run away.”
“All right, if it will make you feel better. But I hate that kid, and I really don’t feel like seeing him again.”
The air was thick with mosquitoes when Tim and Jose arrived back at the village. By now, they had finished most of the beer Tony had bought at HEB and decided they’d be better off sleeping in the rental car. But first, they had to check on Doug.
“He’s just where we left him,” Jose said. “Wouldn’t he have moved, just a little bit?”
“Naw.” Tim moved closer and touched Doug’s arm. It felt dry and cool. Why wasn’t the kid at least twitching or responding in some way? When he flipped him over, Doug’s head listed to one side.
“Shine the flashlight on him,” he told Jose.
Tim heard the sharp intake of Jose’s breath as a triangle of light illuminated Doug’s face. His glassy eyes were half open, pupils back in his head. The skin on his left cheekbone was mottled and blue, like it had been sponged with ink. Tim ripped off the duct tape, shaking the kid and slapping his face, but even as he did so, he knew it was too late.
Jose’s scream shattered the still night air as he turned and ran.
Tim raced after him and wrapped his arm around his thick, slippery neck. “Where the hell you going, man?”
“I’m getting out of here, going back home.” Jose strained to free himself from Tim’s stranglehold.
“Going home? How you gonna get there?”
“I can hike to Matamoros from here. I’ll be fine once I get across the border with my own people. This is murder, man. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in some American prison.”
Tim forced Jose to the ground and twisted his arm behind his back until he yelped. He squatted down, pressed his lips against Jose’s ear, and spoke in a low voice, the way he did when he wanted his dog to behave. “Fool, don’t you know what you’ve done is just as bad? What do you think the rap for kidnapping is? You’ve gone this far; you may as well go all the way. That money is just waiting for us. And all you have to do is cover me when I do the pickup. Anything happens--say, the cops come, or somebody has a gun on me--I’ll be the one killed, not you. But if we do make it, you’ll have your ten grand. That’ll go a long way in Mexico.”
Jose stopped trembling, and his breathing slowed down. He turned to look at Tim. “All right, amigo. But what do we do with the body? They will want proof of life before they pay.”
Tim met his gaze. “Very simple. He’s not stiff yet. We’ll untie him, and prop him up in a chair.” Tim helped Jose to his feet and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go, buddy. Now that Doug’s dead, we can both get some sleep.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CARA
MC CAULIFFE HAD TOLD Cara to get some rest, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Although exhausted and sore from her ordeal at Cataract Lake, Cara’s mind was still on overdrive, going back and forth between Angie’s and Tony’s disappearance, to doubts about John. Would John have confessed to following her last Saturday if McAuliffe hadn’t forced his hand?
She took a long soothing bath and put on a flannel nightgown, but her bed offered little comfort. She woke up every hour between nightmares, thrashing at bedclothes, and clawing her pillow until the first gray light of dawn peeped through the vertical blinds in her bedroom.
Cara’s thoughts turned positive as she watched the sun rise outside the kitchen window. Tony must have taken Angie somewhere. That would explain their simultaneous disappearance. And, wasn’t it perfectly normal for John to feel suspicious about her friendship with Tony? That didn’t mean he would do something devious or illegal like getting Doug kidnapped.
After Cara had fixed a pot of Starbucks and the caffeine kicked in, a jolt of optimism ran through her veins. Things always seemed better in the morning.
Then she turned on the television.
The newscaster, a tall blonde with a wide toothy smile, seemed especially pleased to have another kidnapping to report.
“Angie Cabella, daughter of prominent businessman Tony Cabella, has been reported missing since yesterday afternoon, when she disappeared from Wabash Elementary School during recess. Cabella, himself, was out of town at the time on business and is on his way back to Lewiston this morning. It’s the second kidnapping for the Cabella family in the past week. Cabella’s stepson, Douglas, vanished from McDonald’s on Saturday while having lunch with a friend of the family, Cara Mackenzie. You may remember Ms. Mackenzie as the nutrition director at Sycamore Hospital, who was under investigation last year during a salmonella outbreak…”
Cara flipped off the television as the young woman stopped t
o catch her breath. She had learned the best way to cope with public scrutiny was to focus on work and the simple acts required for getting through the day. She dressed carefully: black suit back from the cleaners, white silk blouse, just enough makeup to cover the smudges under her eyes, and hair smoothly upswept into a tortoiseshell clip.
Cara knew the hospital would be alive with gossip, and she dreaded being peppered with questions by her staff. It was too painful, thinking about that precious child in the hands of a kidnapper. She put her head down and walked in the back door, successfully avoiding conversation with the morning crew until she reached the safety of her office.
It was only then, when she was unloading her purse and packet of information from last night’s meeting, that she remembered the article in the ADA journal. She opened the folder and looked again, just to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken about the photo of Dr. Rozgonyi looking so strange. In the cold light of day, the photograph was as perplexing as ever. It was difficult to believe a person’s appearance could have changed so much in such a short time.
Her friend from Indiana State who lived in Oakland would still be asleep. Cara had to wait at least until noon to call.
At that moment, Casey’s voice came over the intercom. “You’re wanted upstairs in Coronary Care.”
Cara’s heart sped up. Please God, not another problem with Jeff King. She stood up and walked into the diet office. “You know what this is about?”
Casey looked up from her printer, which was spitting out a stream of messages spilling onto the floor. “Yeah, there’s a patient who wants to see you up there. Louise Cabella.”
Tony’s mother. Cara hadn’t seen the woman for at least ten years, but remembered her as a formidable force: about five foot ten, with a helmet of steely gray hair, a firm jaw, and silver rimmed eyeglasses on a rhinestone chain around her neck. Mrs. Cabella usually wore a shantung silk suit with matching pumps. Once, when she and Tony had made love on Mrs. Cabella’s bed, Cara had seen a walk-in closet full of these suits in various colors, and racks of size eleven matching shoes.
