Running Out of Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Maybe I could force their hands. Get them to talk and reveal something. Anything. “Can you take that thing out of my ribs? I can’t breathe.” I coughed a few times.

  The man next to me shifted his weight, the gun still against my side, but his partner must have signaled something because the guy eased up. Still no further talking. We weren’t in the car more than fifteen minutes when it swerved to the right and rolled to a stop. Very little light seeped in under the hood and the sounds of the highway faded into the background. Were we in a parking lot somewhere? Why stop unless they had plans for me—

  “Miss O’Dell, I want you to listen to me carefully,” a second voice snapped out of the blackness.

  Every hair on my neck stood up straight. Where had I heard that voice before? Polite and civil. Certainly nothing like the gravelly tone of the guy next to me.

  “You know what we want,” he continued.

  So there was a ransom. But what was it? What did I have?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said boldly. It was the truth.

  Gentle laughter. “So that’s how you want to play this?”

  The gun was shoved back into my ribs. “Where is it?” the guy asked brusquely.

  My brain was burning rubber, running through a catalogue of options. “Why don’t you give me a hint?” Again, I was serious, not joking.

  The man next to me wasn’t having any of it. “I’m counting—”

  The soothing voice. “I was hoping we could do this with no fuss.”

  “No fuss? You gotta be kidding! My head is covered, my hands are taped together, and there’s a gun sticking in my ribs. I’d say we’ve passed the ‘no fuss’ stage.” Silence for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you are looking for and maybe I can help you.”

  Help them? It was the first thing that popped into my head. I was gradually calming down. If they’d wanted to shoot me I’d already be dead. But they needed something from me. They needed me alive. “Can we open a window? It’s really stuffy under here.” After a beat, I heard the window lower and a swish of cold air circulate through the car. I tried to gulp the fresh air. My backseat companion breathed asthmatically, air whistling in and out of his mouth.

  “Now. What do you want?” I asked, as composed as I was going to get with a firearm inches from my heart.

  Again the cool one. “The photograph.”

  “What photo—?” Then my heart banged in my chest. The snapshot I found in the theater. The one Sally was desperate to have back.

  “So you do have it,” he said smoothly.

  I had given myself away. The photo had to be valuable, somehow related to Gordon Weeks’s death and Sally’s destiny. Valuable enough to make two men kidnap me on Main Street in early evening. It was on my chest of drawers. I threw caution to the wind and lied. “I don’t have it.”

  A pause. “Where is it?” The gentle voice had taken on an edge of impatience.

  I hesitated. It would be easy enough for them to break into my bungalow and find the print. And with it might go the possibility of solving the murder. “I gave it…to the police.” The mood in the sedan altered radically.

  “When?” The words and the gun were shoved at me simultaneously.

  I sensed uncertainty and pressed my advantage. “This morning.”

  The engine rumbled to life. “We’ll check it out. If you’ve been lying, we’ll be paying you another visit and this time it won’t be as cordial.”

  Cordial? He threw the car into gear and we zoomed back onto the highway. The silence was broken only by the whining of the tires on concrete, slowing down when I assumed we’d arrived at the outskirts of Etonville where the driver probably was anxious to maintain the speed limit. The sedan pulled off the road.

  My captor tugged on my arm, easing me out of the back seat and leaving me unceremoniously on the side of the road. Hood and duct tape still intact. He leaned over me, spitting the words into the fabric covering my head. “Remember what he said.”

  How could I forget?

  The menace hung in the night air as the car sped off. I was sitting on a layer of frozen slush, my hands still awkwardly bound behind my back. I had to get this hood off my head. I laid back, scooted against the surface of the road, rubbing the hood back and forth hoping to shake it off. A bright light split the pitch-black night and the growl of a motor grew louder. Could they be back? Had they regretted dumping me here and come back for me? I rolled onto my side and worked my way to a standing position. Somehow standing I felt less vulnerable. The vehicle lumbered to a stop, the engine idling.

  “Hey, you okay?” shouted a masculine voice.

  Relief poured through my veins. “Help!” I yelled as loudly as I could.

  A door slammed, the crunch of footsteps came closer. “What the…?” Then two hands slipped the hood off me.

  I took gasps of the chill air and faced my rescuer. It was Timothy of Timothy’s Timely Service, owner of the used Hyundai that provided transport for a few days, in a pickup truck. His shop was down the road a bit.

  “Dodie? What are you doing out here like this?” He was mystified.

  It was a good question. “Could you…?” I turned around to reveal my taped wrists.

  “Well, I’ll be. Somebody taped your hands!” He withdrew a Swiss Army knife, slipped a blade between my wrists and expertly snipped. “Let’s get you to the police station.”

  “No! I…uh…need to get my car first. Then I’ll go,” I said.

  I had no desire to set off alarm signals throughout Etonville before I could talk with Sally and Andy and figure a few things out. “Could you drop me off at the Windjammer?” I peeled the duct tape off my hands.

  Timothy stared at me uncertainly. “This seems pretty serious.”

  “I’m fine. A ride to the restaurant would be a big help,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I’d really appreciate it.”

  On the ride across town, Timothy peeked sideways a few times as we traveled in silence. I was tempted to rattle off some wild story about this all being a mistake, maybe a prank of some kind. But even my imagination was exhausted. For the first time in a long time, I was at a loss for words. So I closed my eyes, memorizing every detail of the kidnapping caper that I could remember.

  “Here we go,” Timothy said and pulled up in front of the restaurant. By the clock on his dashboard I could see that it was only eight thirty.

  I opened the car door. “Thanks.” I hesitated. What else to say? “Have a good night.” I shut the door and waved.

  Timothy waited until I was in my Metro with the engine running before he maneuvered his pickup back onto Main Street. The lobby of the ELT was lit up; Lola’s meeting was still in progress. All else was quiet. I was tempted to stop in and share the evening’s drama, but she had enough drama of her own to deal with and I was shaking from the cold, my pants wet where I’d scrunched back and forth on the roadway and the skin on my wrists sore. I needed a hot bath.

  * * *

  I’d buried the photograph—in a plastic baggie—under the carpet in my bedroom, after eliminating the freezer—too common—and drawers as too obvious hiding places. I double-checked all door and window locks. Then tried to relax into the lavender suds, resting my head against the lip of the tub. I touched my wrists tenderly where red marks were a reminder of my captivity only a few hours before. How long did I have until they realized the police didn’t have the photo? But what could possibly be so important about a picture of two twenty-somethings? What was in the photo that made the two men so desperate? I’d had it with tranquility; I needed some oomph. I dripped on the bath mat, wrapping myself in my terry cloth robe, made myself a cup of coffee, and settled at the kitchen table with my laptop and cell phone. Logically, I should have called the Etonville PD and reported my kidnapping. But I
couldn’t risk Bill sharing this piece of information with Archibald. After all, the kidnapper implied that he had a contact in the police department with whom he could “check out” my claim about the photo.

  I tapped on Andy’s number, hoping he was available this time. The phone rang once, twice, three times. I’d mentally begun to compose my message when he picked up.

  “Hi, sis. Was thinking of you. Got an email from Mom and she’s already hinting about Easter in Florida. But with Amanda’s work load—”

  “Did you get my message?” I asked quickly.

  “Haven’t had time to check them all day. Been really hectic. And I finally got Cory to sleep. Why?”

  “Sally Oldfield’s been arrested,” I said.

  Andy exhaled loudly. “Damn. She’s now the prime suspect?”

  “She’s the only suspect.”

  “You’re not involved in all this, are you?” He warned more than asked.

  “Don’t worry. Following up on a few things.” I dared not mention my kidnapping or Peeping Tom or my Metro break-in. “Bill has a private detective working the case, you know with his broken ankle and all.”

  “Yeah. How’s he doing?” Andy asked.

  “Fine. Did the private detective speak with you?” I was sure I already knew the answer.

  “No. Why?”

  “He claimed Sally’s doctor in Boston said she was unstable. I think they want to use that against her,” I said.

  “What? She’s not unstable. Sad about the recent death of her mother, yes, but understandable. She’s human, like the rest of us,” he said. “Has she called a lawyer? Does her father know?” he asked.

  “I assume so.” After all, Charles Oldfield had been in and out of Etonville ever since that Sunday we’d almost collided on Main Street. I tapped a pen against a legal pad where I’d made a few notes: Archibald in Boston, picture of a young couple, Gordon Weeks…

  “Who do you think the detective spoke to about Sally’s mental state? Someone else in your practice?” I asked.

  “Definitely not. I’d know if someone did.”

  “What about Gordon Weeks?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  I realized Andy hadn’t gotten the news from Etonville, New Jersey. “The victim in the stabbing. Did Sally ever mention him?”

  “Gordon Weeks? Not that I recall. Look, Dodie, what are you trying to get at?” he asked.

  “The truth. I feel there’s more to Sally’s story than she’s telling the police. I think she knew the murdered man but won’t admit it. Like maybe she’s protecting herself. Or him.”

  “I don’t know the details of the murder, but the Sara I know would not be capable of killing someone or lying about it,” he said.

  “Maybe the Sara you know is not the Sally who’s been living in Etonville these last few weeks,” I said.

  Andy was silent.

  “There’s so many loose ends.”

  “Such as?” he asked.

  Despite his admonition to stay out of the investigation, I shared my research on Gordon Weeks and the break-in at Sally’s childhood home in 1997 and my feelings that it was too much of a coincidence to be easily dismissed. Andy reluctantly agreed but urged me to tell all to Bill. I heard crying in the background.

  “Cory’s awake. Gotta go. Sorry,” he said.

  “Thanks, Andy. Miss you,” I said.

  “Me too. Stay out of trouble.”

  We clicked off. What had I learned? Sally never mentioned Gordon Weeks in therapy, and no one had spoken with Andy about Sally’s mental state. That only reinforced my suspicions about Archibald and his Boston contact. My little hairs kicked up their heels.

  24

  I shot up, startled. My cell phone binged in my ear. I’d been dozing at the kitchen table, arms crossed under my head, my phone two inches from my face. I read the text from Lola: Are u up? The clock on my wall said eleven p.m. I must have dropped off an hour ago. I texted back: Yes.

  I wiped some drool from my mouth, threw some water in my face to wake up, and brewed another cup of coffee. I had the feeling it might be a long night. My cell rang.

  “Hi, Lola,” I said.

  “Dodie O’Dell?” The voice was familiar.

  “Yes?” My heart went from zero to sixty.

  “You lied to us. The police department does not have the photograph in question.”

  My kidnapper. How did they find out so quickly? Did they have someone on the inside? Archibald? I inhaled slowly to keep my voice from quaking. “But I gave the photo—”

  His speech was clipped with a hard edge. “I want the picture in my hands by noon tomorrow.”

  Noon? Between my inevitable meeting with Bill and the Windjammer opening, noon didn’t give me much time. “I don’t have it with me. And I can’t get it by noon. Later in the evening. Say nine? I’ll call you to confirm,” I babbled.

  Silence for a moment, then he said, “No. I’ll call you to arrange the meeting.” He clicked off.

  Another call came in. My hands shook as I answered it.

  “Dodie? How are you doing? I know it’s been a rough day. Over here too. But we have a plan in place if the turntable stops working and Walter is trying to cut some of Act Two so—”

  “Lola…” Despite my best efforts to hold it together, my voice gave me away.

  She paused. “Dodie, what’s the matter?”

  “I think I might be in over my head,” I whispered.

  “Is this about Sally and the murder?” she asked.

  “And kidnapping and a threatening phone call and—”

  “What? Stay put. I’m on my way,” Lola said forcefully.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Lola sat at my table sharing some French onion soup—without the bread bowl—that I’d liberated from the Windjammer. I’d filled her in.

  “So let me get this straight. Someone kidnapped you over that picture we found in the theater?”

  “Seems so. They want it badly too. I’ll bet that’s why my car was broken into. They, whoever they are, thought I might have had it all along. Maybe they thought I was keeping it safe for Sally.”

  “And Andy hadn’t spoken with any detective?”

  “Right.”

  Lola sat back in her chair. “This is getting stranger and stranger. And more complicated,” she said.

  “See what I mean?”

  “You have to tell Bill. This abduction is serious stuff.”

  “Tomorrow. With the picture and all of my evidence,” I said.

  Lola’s brow puckered. “Is it safe to wait? Call him now!”

  I should have, but I knew the second I turned everything over to Bill, and Archibald, I’d be locked out of the investigation and probably unable to assist Sally any more. I had to get a few more answers before I surrendered everything I had on the murder. It was clear Sally wasn’t going to help me dig into her past; I’d have to figure this out on my own.

  “How’s the final dress rehearsal going to go tomorrow?” I asked.

  I had very little skin in the Eton Town game at this point—aside from the remnants of the intermission desserts—and listened to Lola’s updated rehearsal plans and Walter’s script changes and Chrystal’s worries over the cost of the new schedule of performances because her costumes were rented for a limited run. I nodded appropriately and reassured Lola that it would all go well. It usually did with the ELT. I stifled a yawn at midnight. Lola wanted to spend the night or, better still, have me stay with her, but I declined the offer. I had work to do and I felt safe enough with the kidnappers on hold; if they had wanted to harm me, they’d have done so by now. Lola reluctantly left after making me promise to call Bill first thing in the morning.

  I powered up my laptop, downed a couple of stale cookies and set to work. Charles Oldfield. I typed his name and Bost
on in the search bar. I clicked on one of several links and an article from the Boston Globe appeared. It described his marriage to socialite Olivia Holmes in September, 1994—a small affair with only family in attendance—and the birth of their daughter Sara Olivia Oldfield several months later. Was it a shotgun wedding? Interesting… There was a paragraph on his background: born in Boston into a family of social strivers, prep schools in New England, Emerson College, worked in the Holmes family ventures in various positions. A brief story on a business bankruptcy. Nothing that sent up a red flag.

  The wind whistled around the eaves of my house, sending a draft of air into the cracks around the window frames in the kitchen. But it was more than the winter weather that sent a chill through me. I was generally good at thinking outside the box and making leaps of imagination. Bill had more than once scolded me for too much creativity where a homicide was concerned. But I was sure I had stumbled onto missing pieces of the Gordon Weeks puzzle. I couldn’t articulate my thoughts yet, I just had the feeling that if I could fit the pieces together, the face that would emerge would be the killer’s. And it wouldn’t be Sally Oldfield’s. I needed my wits about me tomorrow and that meant a few hours of sleep.

  * * *

  I woke up every hour, the last time at seven a.m., my body achy, my mind muddled. In the shower I let the hot water wash away the remnants of sleep as well as my mental cobwebs. I felt alert as I dried my hair and dressed for warmth and utility: a sweat suit and an extra hoodie. I wasn’t sure what state the Windjammer would be in today, but I wanted to be prepared for all emergencies.

  At eight a.m. I texted Pauli to see if he could do me a favor. I knew from past experience that he was usually awake early, doing homework or working on his computer. He was on board. I could see his brown eyes shining at the prospect of one of my Internet assignments. I texted him the picture of Gordon Weeks Sally had texted me and asked if he could run it through his facial recognition software and remove the beard. I wanted a better look at Weeks’s face. Pauli said he’d have it back to me within the hour. Next I prepped for my meeting with Bill: the kidnapping; the photograph; no one interviewing Andy about Sally’s emotional state. I would avoid any mention of Archibald if I could help it. My referring to his friend was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.