by Ruth Price
"That your fiance? He give you that rock?"
"Yes."
"Could be, since he's flush with money. I don't know for sure. They just pay me to watch the door."
She bit the inside of her lip, then took a breath. "How much do you want?" she asked, running her hand over her hair.
"Excuse me?"
"I'll give you this," Sofia held her hand out to him, the ring twinkling in the light of the bare bulb above. "It's worth five grand, at least. Just take it and let me go. I haven't seen any of your faces. Just look the other way, give me a half hour, and I'll be on my way."
Well, at least this one was more interesting than most, but no matter how much he wanted the ring, Carl would crucify Mike if he let his charge escape. Literally. "Sorry," he said, handing her the tray. "Not interested."
It rained off and on throughout the day. Carl didn't return, and after a few hours, Mike appropriated the television, turning the volume up as high as it would go and angling the screen towards the hall so that if they sat at the end of it, they could see the left half. Mike tried Carl's cell-phone throughout the day, but it only rang and went through to the message machine. After a couple of hours, D excused himself to piss in the woods, and when he came back a half an hour later, he said, "There's a room full of costumes on the second floor."
"You went up those stairs? That could have killed you."
"I held the railing." D shrugged. "Anyway, they have a couple of cop outfits, and a fireman, and an EMT--"
"And an Indian, right?"
D blinked. "No, but there were some army uniforms, and one SS officer, though that one's got moth holes in the crotch."
"Fascinating."
At noon, D gave the girl lunch and Mike took the dinner shift.
When Mike closed and locked the door behind him, D said, "We're running low on beans and marshmallows. When'd Carl say he was getting back?"
Mike shrugged. "He said he was going out for the paper so's he could make the video, but he ain't picking up his phone."
"Think he got caught? Cops could be on us."
"Carl? Not likely." But a cold lump settled in Mike's belly. "I been calling him. It's a burner cell."
"Cops can track that stuff, man. Haven't you ever seen Law and Order?" D pushed the paperback he was reading into his knapsack. "We've gotta get out of here. And wipe down our prints."
"And the girl?"
"Dunno, just leave her there. Cops'll let her out." D stood. "Where's the paper towels? And you'd better take the gun. We'll wipe it clean and put it in the river."
Mike began to pace the hall, avoiding the hole in the floor just before the living room entrance. "Carl'll kill us if we run."
"I'm not going to jail," D said. "I promised my girl I was done doing this shady stuff. She won't visit me in prison, man."
"We don't know he's been caught."
"Either that or he ran. Either way, cops is onto us. They're closing in, could be outside now. You need to lose that phone. Take the battery out for now, then we'll throw it away with the gun."
This job just got worse and worse. D had a point though. It didn't take nine hours to get a paper, any more than it was taking Mike's dad 22 years to buy a pack of cigarettes. "We'll give the girl the rest of the beans," Mike said. "In case the cops is slow."
"Fine. But you'd better use the rubber gloves so's you don't leave prints. Can't do nothing about the hair and skin."
"Man, you're as paranoid a Carl," but D's agitation and Carl's absence had put a worm of fear through Mike. He hadn't signed up for a stint in prison.
Mike placed the gun in his waistband and went to the kitchen to look for a pair of gloves. The floor was cracked off-white linoleum that lead to a red, barely functional gas stove, though rust had settled on the oven handle and the area around the burners had a rim of brownish-black burnt oil residue. D had scrubbed the counter, though some dirt remained in the cracks. An eighteen roll pack of toilet paper sat on the edge of it, next to the refrigerator, which hummed and coughed loudly. Above the counter were two cabinets. One was missing a door. Inside, Mike found a half used roll of paper towels and a dust covered spray-bottle of industrial bleach. Now where were the gloves? Mike wiggled the drawer beneath the counter to get it open. Inside were five mismatched gardening gloves with flower patterns. He put on a pair. It was tight on his hands, which immediately began sweating.
Mike took the other three to D. "Pick your poison," Mike said, handing them over.
D grimaced. "That's the best you could do?"
"You go ahead and search if you think you'll do a better job."
"Uh-uh." D took the bleach and paper towels and started to scrub down visible surfaces. He went at it with gusto.
"I'm gonna take these beans in for the girl," Mike said. "And the bread." If the cops took too long, and she starved to death, and then they found Mike, that could be a charge of murder on his head too.
When Mike entered the room, Sofia stood at the far corner in front of the cot, the tray gripped in her hands. "What's going on?" she demanded.
"Here's your dinner," Mike said, dropping the six cans of beans in a pile on the floor. "Don't eat it all at once."
Sofia took another step towards him. "My name is Sofia." She was crying now, God help him. Mike preferred it when they bargained, or even better tried to offer him sex. "Please help me. I haven't seen your faces and I won't say anything."
"Are you going to offer me your rock again?" Mike pitched his voice low.
"Do you want it?" Sofia asked.
"Yes." It was the least Mike could get for a job gone so horribly wrong. "And a feel." Because it was important to get a little bit extra. Especially if Carl did blame him for running, which he would, Mike didn't kid himself. He'd have to tell Carl the girl had overpowered him somehow. With the bullet-proof glass of a prisoner's visiting room window between him and his employer, Mike might live long enough to make that explanation.
"What do you mean, a feel?"
"You've got a nice rack," Mike said, "Now put the tray down and come here."
There was a knock at the door.
Mike shouted, "Not now, D."
"What's taking you so long?"
"I'm fine!"
Blessed silence. "Hurry up," Mike whispered to the girl.
Sofia stood a moment, grasping the tray and shaking. She was prettier a bit afraid. The shaking made her lady-bits wiggle, and she looked at him with proper respect.
"Now." Mike ordered.
Still clutching the tray in the crook of her right arm, Sofia pulled at the ring and once she'd twisted it free, said, "Open the door."
"What?"
"I give you the ring, you let me go, that's the deal. So open the door."
This was getting annoying. Mike said, "You give me a touch, and a taste if I'd like. I take the ring, and I don't shoot you. That's the deal."
Sofia burst into tears. She clutched the tray to her chest as though she imagined it might stop a bullet. "No."
"What's going on in there?" D shouted through the door.
"Nothing!" Mike shouted, and then added in a hissed whisper that he hoped in his annoyance sounded properly threatening. "If you don't I'll take take what I want and strip the rest from your corpse."
Sofia screamed.
There was loud click as D unlocked the door and rushed in. He had a bat in both hands, his head craning back and forth around the room like a seagull pecking at the air for food. "What's going on!"
Before Mike could respond, Sofia threw the ring. It flew in a glittering arc between Mike and D, smacking the far wall with a light tap before falling to the floor. Mike's gaze followed it, his attention in that split second focused on that little bit extra, as Sofia shoved past him a dead run.
Mike made a grab at Sofia, catching the sleeve of her shirt, but she yanked her arm away with shocking strength and careened into D's side. D brought the bat down, grazing her temple, and she stumbled. Mike dove towards her. The gun clatter
ed free of where he had shoved it into his pocket and skidded across the ground. A ferocious bang sounded as the gun discharged, which froze Mike and D in place.
D let out a string of curses. Mike looked down at himself, afraid he'd been shot though he felt no pain.
"She's getting away!" D shouted. He took off down the hall after her. After a moment, Mike followed. Sofia made her way down the hall, through the living room and out the door, which had unfortunately been kept unlocked for easy access to the outside. Sofia had avoided the driveway leading to the main road, instead diving into the cover of the weeds and trees that had overtook the once fields. The sun was setting, and in the twilight, her white shirt fluttered between the trees. Mike overtook D across the patch of cleared land For a skinny guy, D was a terrible runner, and soon Mike had overtaken him. D's face was red, hands on his knees, he gasped, "Asthma."
Mike didn't have the breath to curse. He caught sight of Sofia again, scrambling up an incline into deeper woods. Mike strode after, his breath wheezing in his chest. He didn't like running. Mike had a body for slow motion bar brawls, solid and large enough to take a hit or five before knocking a guy on his back with one motion of his large, powerful fist.
Inside the canopy of trees it was dark, with only hints of the twilight peeking through the leaves above. When Mike made it up the incline, Sofia was only about eighty feet ahead of him, and slowing, lucky that. If she'd been wearing dark colors, he doubted he'd have been able to see her at all. The incline had ascended to a narrow strip of trees and rocks bordering a sharp drop into what looked like an overgrown valley that Mike guessed had once been a dried creek bed. Patches of rocky ground were visible through the thick vegetation. Mike also had to slow also to keep himself from falling on the uncertain ground, but even with the adrenaline and the mud softening the ground beneath her, the lack of shoes made the rocky terrain more difficult and soon he had over taken her pace.
Sofia must have heard him coming up from behind because she gave a half scream, half whine and managed a last push of speed. Mike took in a deep breath and ran faster. He grabbed at her arm, his fingers whispering over her flesh as the rocky dirt beneath her feet shifted and gave. Her arms wheeled, grabbing at anything, but falling rocks had caused her to topple forward. Mike grabbed at her, cursing. Then the ground beneath him began to move, and Mike backed away as the side of the hill rushed downwards in a mini-avalanche of mud and rocks.
Sofia screamed once and then was silent. When the rockfall had finished, Mike leaned carefully over the edge. Sofia was there, about fifteen feet down, unmoving against a tree where she had fallen. "Well," Mike said, wiping the sleeve of his shirt over his forehead. He stared a bit at the body, seeing if she would get up and try to run again. His t-shirt was soaked through with sweat and while the air had cooled somewhat, the air was thick and humid, promising more rain.
Without climbing down the steep incline, Mike had no way to determine whether she was alive. The question was, should he risk his neck scaling down this treacherous hill-face to see if the girl was dead? And what would he do if she wasn't? Drag her back up? No, he didn't have to be D to know that dragging around the injured, possibly dead woman he'd run into a ditch wasn't a good idea. Call an ambulance then? As if anyone would buy he'd just been walking in the woods when he stumbled across an unconscious kidnap victim, even if she never woke up, told her story and then identified him from his voice.
Then, as a sign from above, it started to drizzle, the large intermittent drops that always came before a heavy storm.
Sofia's dead, Mike decided. He'd take the ring from where she'd thrown it in the room, if D hadn't gotten to it first, pawn it, and move West. They had need of a man of his services on the West coast. And there'd be starlets and wannabe starlets all eager for a taste of excitement and a strong, older man. Or at least that's how they showed it in the movies.
Mike was halfway back down the hill towards the farmhouse, having tripped over two tree roots, stubbed his foot on a rock, and gotten bitten by about fifty mosquitoes when D came jogging and wheezing our of the waist high weeds that surrounded the farmhouse. "Mike, did you get her?" D clutched Mike's prepaid phone, which was ringing Pachelbel's cannon in his left hand.
"She's dead," Mike said.
D's eyes widened, making him look like a startled ferret. "That's not good, Mike," he said, rapid-fire. "Not good. We're in so much trouble!"
"Who's on the phone?"
"Dunno, they called ten minutes ago, but when I called back it said Lancaster General hospital. Whoever it was left a message."
"Did you check it?"
"Police can track that stuff, man."
And they couldn't track D calling the hospital? D's paranoia could get to be a bit much. Besides, the mention of the hospital brought a horrible, alternate suspicion for Carl's absence. They'd rented the car with cash, and Carl had filled out a bunch of paperwork. Had he listed Mike somewhere as an emergency contact? Mike had gotten his license at eighteen, but never bothered with cars more than that. It was easier and cheaper to bum rides off of people, so how would he know how car rentals went. But if Carl hadn't been caught by the cops, if he'd gotten into an accident instead...
"Give me the phone," Mike said.
There must have been something in his face, because D handed it over without argument. Mike flipped the phone open and listened to the message.
"What's wrong?" D asked, when Mike had ended the call.
"Carl's been in a car accident," Mike said. "He went into surgery at three."
"Will he make it?" D asked, nervously rubbing his hands together.
"God I hope not," Mike said.
But since the Atlanta job, God had gotten out of the habit of answering Mike's prayers. In a perverse way, it was one of the few things in this world that made Mike a believer.
Chapter 4
Abram's hand was warm and a bit damp as he offered his arm to help the Englischer girl onto the buggy. The dress he'd given her was a bit long, and she had to roll up the sleeves and hold up the hem in order to walk around. She couldn't imagine how difficult it must be for Abram to see her, a stranger, in his dead wife's clothes. Still, she was grateful for the bath and to change into something clean. She rather liked how the dress fell over her body. The cut wasn't flattering, but it was comfortable, and she felt somehow safer to be swathed in these layers of cloth, as though the men from her nightmares might look past her if they saw her. She could breathe.
In fact, only her hair felt out of place, though she had no idea what to do with it nor how to properly cram it under the head-covering. She also admired the color of the dress, a rich, leaf green which suited her. She wondered if Abram had chosen it for that reason, though that presumed a greater attention to her looks than seemed likely considering his at most neutral attitude of helpfulness towards her. And to be honest, the woman hadn't any idea what she would do with that attention if it was focused on her. She wasn't sure of her culture of family background, but in her bones she knew it was very different from his.
She climbed up onto the front seat of the buggy and he followed. The buggy was narrow, so they had to sit with their legs touching. It was only a casual touch, born of necessity, but it solidified a connection between the two that hummed with an unspoken significance. Abram deftly guided the horse onto the road, the steady clomp of her hooves as much a comfort at the rattling buggy beneath her and the solid competence of Abram's hands.
"You have a way with animals," she said.
Abram only shrugged, his gaze focused ahead, his cheeks a bit pink either from embarrassment at the compliment or from the sun. His modesty, his quiet attention was intoxicating in its way. Not that she had any business holding such thoughts about this man. She had to get herself together. She shouldn't put so much meaning into a simple expression or touch. It wouldn't be fair to her or Abram, who had already lost so much. Soon, she would learn who she had been and return to her own life, whatever that was. She'd best get start
ed on that now, instead of weaving fantasies from sunshine.
"Where are we," she asked, hesitantly.
"Lancaster," Abram's cheeks had definitely darkened now. "Do you know it?"
And she did, a flash of memory as vivid as it was fleeting. She let the words spill from her mouth, trying her best to capture it before it faded. Her home had been large and beautifully kept with hardwood floors similar to Abram's but finished to a brighter shine. She remembered the smell of garlic cooking and a plush red carpet. Unlike Abram's, her home had electric lights, and there had been a hum behind the television, a fan of some type or possibly an air-conditioner. The images hung in her head, vivid and golden, shining like a Christmas angel. But no matter how hard she tried to recall more, a face, a name, it all faded. "It's all gone," she said. If only there had been more, something to give her some indication of who she was.
"It will come back to you, as God wills," Abram said. The platitude should have angered her, but in the face of his great loss, it was difficult to disparage the strength of his faith. In truth, it awed her, that Abram could continue to live by the laws of and pray to a God that most people, in his position, would assume had abandoned him. Whatever her past life, she doubted her own faith had been so true.
When the rumbling of a car sounded behind them, the sound was both jarring and frightening. Ruthie barely twitched her ears. The woman found herself shrinking into Abram as he held steady to the reins, allowing the car to pass in a way that seemed far too fast and far too close. For the rest of the ride, he entertained her with stories about the fields and people of the farms they passed. As he spoke, his voice became more animated. He spoke with quiet love of the land and his community. Some of the stories, such as the egg thieving chicken, made her laugh out loud and even brought a chuckle to Abram's lips. He looked much younger when he smiled. It seemed too soon when he turned off the paved road onto a dirt road leading to another large, white house surrounded by a well kept and flourishing garden.
A swarm of children ran towards them. In their plain clothes and running red faces, it was difficult to tell one from the next, but Abram quickly struck up conversation with one of the oldest, a straw headed boy named Emmanuel. It occurred to the woman, as she accepted Abram's arm to guide her down from the buggy, that she would likely not be riding back to his farm with him. Once the police were called and she returned to her old life, she wouldn't have any reason to pay call to Abram again.
