Shadows on the Sand

by Gayle Roper

  Suddenly thirty seconds seemed a very long time to keep Michael, Harl, and Chaz from hearing the warning beeps.

  The turn of the lock sounded loud in the quiet night, and Lindsay pushed the door open.

  “Inside, all of you.” Michael gave Andi a shove.

  She lost her balance and crashed against me. I in turn fell against the doorjamb. My bad wrist exploded in pain.

  I screamed; I couldn’t help it. I hunched over, cradling my arm still tucked inside my jacket.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Andi began to weep. “He pushed me. I didn’t mean—”

  “Carrie, are you all right?” Lindsay cried, rushing toward me.

  I sagged against the jamb and made pain noises, gagging noises. It wasn’t hard to exaggerate them because the pain was real and intense. I sank to my knees in the doorway.

  “Get up! Now!” Michael ordered.

  “She’s got a broken wrist.” Lindsay went down beside me, throwing her arm around my shoulders.

  “Catch me if I faint,” I mumbled, raising a hand dramatically to my forehead. I could hear the alarm beeps going faster and faster. If I could stall just a few seconds more …

  A hand grabbed me by my jacket collar and pulled me to my feet. Harl. “Inside!” He had Lindsay in his other hand, and the three of us stumbled into the café. Michael and Chaz followed with Andi.

  By now the alarm beeps were an almost-constant thrum.

  Michael strode to the keypad. “Code!” His finger was poised over the numbers.

  I opened my mouth to tell him the right numbers when the alarm went silent. Almost immediately the restaurant phone rang.

  “It’s the alarm company,” I said. “They’ll want me to give them the password and key in the code.”

  Michael indicated the phone, and Chaz ran for it. He brought it to me. As I took it, I watched Michael raise his gun to Andi and Harl pull his from his waistband and aim it at my sister.

  “Hello?”

  “We have an indication of possible trouble at your place,” a man’s voice said.

  “I just didn’t get to the alarm pad in time,” I said as apologetically as I could. “Everything’s fine.”

  “What’s your password?”

  “Lemon chiffon pie.”

  “Okay. Now please key in your code to reset your system,” he said.

  “Sure.” I handed the phone to Lindsay and walked to the keypad. I blocked it from view as much as I could. I took a deep breath and coded in four digits: 0911.

  The code for a hostage situation.

  47

  It was not going to end because of some little girl who thought she was so clever.

  It was not going to end, period. At least not for him.

  Those years of storing up treasure, not in heaven but offshore, were going to pay off big time. He smiled in anticipation.

  Being a genius was often a trial because of all the imbeciles you had to deal with. But having the intellect to think things through carefully and plan quickly was the upside of brilliance.

  And he had tonight planned. Get the disc and destroy it. He sighed at the thought of losing all those videos at the compound, but he could start a new collection at his new home. There were always willing girls, especially for a wealthy, handsome man like him.

  Harl would kill the women for him tonight. The man was putty in his hands. They would then take the yacht and head for the islands. Mysterious—and unreported—disappearances at sea would take care of Harl and Chaz.

  Then the good life. Money from all the properties purchased through the years would stream in, and he’d sit back in the sun and enjoy life. He’d earned it. This time tomorrow …

  48

  The waitress had just taken Greg’s order when his phone vibrated against his side. He glanced at the readout and didn’t recognize the number. He decided to let the call go to voice mail. He’d not even taken a drink of his iced tea when the phone vibrated again. He glanced down and saw the same number. As he debated answering, the waitress appeared with his house salad, and the call was forgotten.

  For almost twenty seconds. Then as he swallowed a mouthful of salad, the telltale vibration began again.

  When he saw the same number, he frowned. “I’d better take this, Josh,” he said to his former boss. “It’s the third call in the past couple of minutes, always from the same number.”

  “You’re not a cop anymore, Greg. No more emergencies. No more ruined dinners.” Josh took a bite of his Caesar salad.

  Greg forced a smile. “Still I’d better check it. Could be a big problem at one of the properties.”

  Josh shrugged. “Who cares? Not my concern anymore.”

  “But it’s still mine. I’ll be right back.”

  As he started for the small lobby, he flipped the phone open. “Yes? This is Greg.”

  “Greg! You’ve got to help them!”

  The skin on Greg’s skull contracted. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Cilla Merkel.”

  “And who do I have to help?”

  “Carrie. And Andi.”

  His heart skipped a beat. “Carrie’s in trouble?”

  “Three men have them.”

  “What do you mean, have them?” he shouted, drawing strange looks as he bolted out the door and toward his car.

  “Like in kidnapping. At gunpoint.”

  He had to swallow to keep that lone lettuce leaf down.

  “One’s that Chaz,” Cilla continued. “I’m not certain about the other two. It’s too dark.”

  “How do you know this?” She was old. Maybe she’d miss-seen. He’d hang up and call Carrie, and she’d be fine. They’d laugh about Cilla’s penchant for drama.

  “Perk and I were coming back from dinner and had just pulled up in front of my place. We were looking at that hole in your building, thinking that the boards seemed wrong. Crooked or something. We weren’t certain, you know, given the parking lot lights.”

  “Cilla!” Greg slammed into his car and slid the key into the ignition.

  “Right. Well, we decided one of the boards had been pushed aside. While we watched, Carrie and Andi climbed out through the hole.”

  So that was where the kid had been hiding.

  “Then three men came next. One was Chaz. The other two had guns. They made the girls get into a car.”

  Greg could hear Mr. Perkins yell, “Gray or silver Ford Taurus. Maybe beige.”

  “Did they head for the causeway?” Greg’s tires squealed as he pulled onto the road. He could intercept them there.

  “Don’t know yet. We’re following them.”

  More amateur sleuths. “Be careful. Guns can shoot anyone who scares the bad guys even if they weren’t the original target.”

  “Of course we’re being careful. Do you think we’re nuts?”

  Greg didn’t say what he thought.

  “They’ve turned into the alley behind the café.”

  “The café?”

  “Perk has parked on the cross street at the end of the alley, and we’ll keep watch until you get here. Oh no!”

  Greg went cold. “What?”

  “One of the—it looks like that Fred—has gotten Lindsay from upstairs.”

  “Fred? As in Durning?”

  “Perk doesn’t know his last name, but it’s the guy who came to the café to see you.”

  Greg blew through two red lights without lessening his speed, thankful for off-season traffic. He wished he had a Kojak light.

  “They’re taking them in the café. Why would they do that?”

  I wish I knew. “You called 911, right?”

  “Oh.”

  “Cilla!”

  “I tweeted.”

  Greg’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. Like that would help. “Never mind.” He flipped his phone shut, then open. He hit 911.

  He got a busy signal.

  He cut the call and tried again. When the dispatcher answered, some of his tension drained away.r />
  “Stephanie, Greg Barnes. There’s a hostage situation at Carrie’s Café.”

  “Got it. You’re my fourth call about it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all over Twitter.”

  Cilla.

  “The alarm company called first. Someone gave them the hostage code,” Stephanie said. “Chief Gordon is assembling a team.”

  Greg tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Chief Gordon was intelligent, trained, and more than competent, but it would take time for him to get his people in place, time Carrie and the others might not have.

  Greg rounded a final corner and pulled up behind Cilla and Mr. Perkins. He reached into the glove compartment for his Taser and restraints, which he stuck in his pocket. He grabbed his gun and flicked off the safety. He’d asked himself a thousand times why he continued to carry these things, but he knew enough about the underbelly of mankind to want some protection. Now he thanked God that he had.

  As he ran for the alley, Mr. Perkins powered his window down. “They’re still inside.”

  Greg waved and kept moving, noting with one part of his mind how comfortable his weapon felt in his hand. Maybe handling a gun was like riding a bicycle. The muscles and memory were always there, just waiting for recall.

  He stopped at the back door to the café. He grasped the knob and turned, inch by slow inch.

  Something brushed against his legs, and he froze. The movement continued. Brush, brush, brush. One leg, then the other. He looked down to see Oreo twining about his ankles, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  Greg let out a breath. He reached down and moved the animal aside. “Later, kitty. Just stay out of the way.”

  Slowly he turned the doorknob. Slowly he pushed open the door.

  He hadn’t taken a step inside before Oreo shot past him into the café.

  Greg grabbed for her, but the cat was a black meteor streaking through the dim café, lit only by the emergency lights.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  49

  Lindsay and Andi and I huddled together in the gap between the register counter and the pink lunch counter. Ahead of us was the door to the kitchen, behind us the café itself. I cradled my wrist in my good hand, cupping it through my fleece jacket. I tried to look weak and frail, a challenge since I’d spent my whole life trying to prove I was strong. The throbbing pain in my wrist made the mummery easier than it might have been.

  Harl grabbed Andi, and she bleated in terror as he rested his hand on her shoulder and his gun against her throat. For whatever reason, the very nonchalance of the action more than all that had come before made me realize that we might not survive the night. Michael and Harl were men with everything to lose if we three lived.

  I thought of Greg and what might have been and the injustice of his losing someone else he loved. It’s just not fair, Lord. It’s just not fair.

  I thought of my mother and felt an unexpected ache. Was I going to die without resolving my feelings toward her, without forgiving? What was I going to say when I met God? Well, Lord, I just didn’t feel like making things right?

  “Where’s the DVD?” Harl demanded.

  Andi hunched her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You’re not an ostrich,” Harl sneered. “You can close your eyes all you want, but we aren’t going anywhere until you give us what we want.”

  Andi opened her eyes and glared at him with what I thought looked like contempt, an amazing thing considering who he was, what he’d done, and where we were.

  “I happen to be praying,” she said with dignity. “I’m asking God Himself—not a mere archangel—to save us.”

  Chaz gave a strangled laugh. “That’s funny.” When no one else laughed, he said defensively, “You know, funny strange. Like who talks to God?”

  I fought the insane impulse to raise my hand.

  Michael ignored Chaz and nodded to Harl. He appeared happy to let Harl deal with Andi while he stood and watched, his gun aimed at my heart. At the rate it was pounding, it would jump from my chest at any moment and yell, “Shoot me and get it over with!”

  “So where is it?” Harl asked again.

  “In there.” Andi pointed her chin toward the kitchen.

  As good a place as any. All kinds of nooks and crannies, drawers and shelves offered cover for something as small as a disc.

  “Everyone, move,” Michael ordered.

  Andi started for the kitchen, Lindsay right behind her.

  “Knives,” Chaz shouted. “There’s knives back there.”

  Well, yeah. It was a kitchen.

  “You’ll just have to keep her away from them, won’t you?” Harl’s voice dripped with disdain, which the ever-sharp Chaz missed.

  Twitching like a junkie in need of a fix—which was exactly what he was—Chaz charged into the kitchen. “There they are!” He threw his body between the big knives, slotted in front of a scrubbed cutting block, and little Andi as if he were a Marine ready to stand off a company of terrorists.

  I thought of all the years I’d spent with a knife under my pillow, having to use it only once. How ironic that when I needed one again, Chaz—Chaz!—prevented me from getting to it.

  But I had a better plan.

  “Move it.” Michael shoved at me again, and I staggered.

  “My wrist!” I yelled it in spite of the fact that he hadn’t touched me anywhere near my right arm. I fell back onto the stool behind the register. “Don’t hurt me again!”

  Michael, disgusted with my whining, ignored me as I started to pull myself upright. I put out my good hand to steady myself, dropped it below the counter, and grabbed for my weapon of choice: a canister of pepper spray I kept in case I ever wanted to fend off a burglar. Or a phony archangel. As I stood, I slid the spray into the side pocket in my jeans. I made my way out from behind the counter, moving toward the kitchen as requested.

  “Where?” Harl demanded.

  Andi looked at me, terror written all over her face.

  I actually felt my stomach drop as I realized the DVD wasn’t here in the kitchen.

  Harl realized it too.

  “Why you little—” He grabbed her by the hair and raised a fist to strike her.

  At that wonderfully appropriate moment a black cat raced through the kitchen door, held open by Michael, bounded onto the cutting board, and leapfrogged onto Chaz, who screamed like a terrified little girl when Oreo landed on his shoulder. Oreo screeched too, dug in her back claws, and jumped down by way of the stove and scurried beneath Lindsay’s pastry table.

  There was a moment of absolute silence from everyone but Chaz who blubbered and brushed at his shoulder as if Oreo was still there.

  Harl turned his gun on Oreo, visible only as a pair of unwinking eyes and a white bib.

  “No!” Lindsay and I both yelled, racing to stand in front of our cat.

  “No, Harl.” Michael’s voice was a whip. “No shooting here. Too much noise.”

  I watched Harl, fascinated as he struggled to obey Michael. There was a lot of resentment and anger there. Even if they got away tonight, someday it was all going to blow, and only one of those men would be left standing. My money was on Michael, though Harl would fight hard and dirty.

  “How did that cat get in here?” Michael demanded, his eyes darting about the kitchen and into the café.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how he got in. You saw him come downstairs with Lindsay, but he ran away.”

  “The back door must not have closed behind us, and she pushed her way in,” Lindsay said. “She’s a big, strong animal.”

  Michael turned to Chaz, now shaking doubly hard and muttering about demon cats and werewolves. “Go check that back door. Make sure it’s closed and locked.”

  50

  When Oreo went blasting past him, Greg knew he had just a few seconds to get deep into the shadows and assess the situation. Someone would be back to check the door to see how the cat had gotten in. He left th
e door open a few inches as if Oreo had pushed it, then stepped into the storage closet.

  He heard Chaz’s less-than-manly reaction to Oreo, not that Greg had room to criticize. He’d had his own “less than” performance just a couple of nights ago. Tonight would not be a repeat even if it literally killed him.

  He heard Carrie and Lindsay explain Oreo’s presence and defend the cat’s honor with their lives.

  Carrie, it’s a cat! I can live without it but not without you.

  When Michael ordered Fred—how had Fred gotten involved in this?—to stand down, Greg let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “Go check that back door. Make sure it’s closed and locked.”

  Who was Michael sending? Chaz? Fred? One of the girls?

  He slid deeper into the closet and waited. Through the crack of the partially opened door he watched Chaz come, twitching and muttering to himself.

  “I shoulda just left town.” He ran a hand through his stringy hair. “I shoulda said, ‘Pay me and I’ll tell you where she is,’ not ‘I’ll show you.’ Demon cat. I shoulda just left town.”

  Chaz passed the storage closet, then reached for the back door. Quickly, silently, Greg moved behind him and pulled the Taser’s trigger. Chaz gave an inarticulate gasp and went limp. Greg pulled him into the storage closet, laid him on the floor, and put him in the plastic restraints, hands behind his back, one foot attached to the leg of a large storage rack full of dishes and paper products. The last thing he wanted was a groggy Chaz stumbling out at the wrong moment.

  Moving with stealth, Greg slid along the café’s inside wall until he came to the counter. He dropped to a crouch and moved past the stools to the break between the pink counter and the register counter. He stuck his head forward for a quick glimpse to gauge what was happening in the kitchen.

  And it was bad.

  51