Building a Family

by M. K. Stelmack

  Boy-Man cut him a cold look. “Shut up.” He switched back to Connie. “This is the way it’s going to be. You will be tied up and put in the fridge. There will be nine bullets, one from each of us. We untie her—” he jerked his head toward Ariel “—and leave. You two take it from there.”

  “How do I know there’ll only be nine bullets?”

  “You have my word,” he said. Which meant she had nothing at all.

  He motioned to his people, Trevor gripped her arm and suddenly they were upon her. She hadn’t meant to struggle. She didn’t stand a chance against them, but instinct kicked in and she thrashed and flailed, punched and screamed.

  In the end, it was no use. She was bound and wadded, like a bag of garbage, into the fridge.

  It was dark inside, except for a sliver of grayness around the edge. Then even that line of dim light was snapped away as the door was tightened and the whole fridge rocked. From the noises, she gathered they were tying it shut. It stunk of metal and plastic, and...baking soda?

  Her head. She had to protect her head from the bullets. And her spine. Her head and spine. How?

  She squirmed and twisted like a baby in a womb—in a hard, unyielding womb—until her back was against the rear of the fridge. Her spine was now as protected as she’d ever make it. Now what to do about her head?

  The end where the freezer was located would have more insulation. It was also the end where they’d shoved her in, so that’s where they’d expect her head to be. Trevor would shoot there.

  But if she moved, would they guess what she was doing, sense her movements? She needed to decide fast. The last thing she wanted was to be in the middle of a maneuver when they started shooting.

  She tried to move. She was stuck. Maybe she could do it bit by tiny bit, but it would leave her spine exposed. She curled her neck so her head was tucked against her chest.

  If she survived, she would get this fridge crushed until it could fit in her purse.

  She had one final trick open to her.

  She rocked her body back and forth in the claustrophobic confines, and then, with all the power vested in her, she threw herself against the front of the fridge.

  It teetered forward and she pressed into the door.

  Do it. Do it.

  It toppled forward and Connie’s cheek bumped against the curved mold of the upper door rack.

  Perfect.

  Now all they had to fire at were the coils and the insulated sides. In fact, one of the bullets might ricochet and hit Trevor or one of them.

  Or, just as logically, Ariel.

  Connie strained to hear what was happening. She thought she could pick out Trevor’s voice and, once, Ariel’s, but it was hard to hear anything above the humming of the fridge. For a wild moment she wondered if it was plugged in, and then she realized that the sound was the blood pounding in her ears. She raised her hands to try to cover her ears. Her face was wet with sweat; her whole body soaked. Except for her mouth. It was so dry. She was so thirsty.

  She waited. There was only silence. Unbearable silence.

  It stretched on. Had they left? Had they decided to leave her in the fridge to suffocate to death? And what of Ariel? Were they doing something to her while she was locked inside here? No, she would hear Ariel screaming.

  Unless she no longer could.

  Connie lifted her head to scream Ariel’s name when there was a sudden bump and explosion.

  The shooting had begun.

  * * *

  AT THE GUN BLAST, Ben, already in a crouching half run across the field, broke into a full run, McCready matching him stride for stride.

  Six more shots rang out, and Ben stumbled on the rough ground, praying. They slid to a stop at the back of the shed, where McCready grabbed his shoulder and Ben forced himself to stay put. If one gun had gone off there could be others. And neither he nor McCready was armed.

  McCready reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece. Okay, one of them was armed.

  Ben exhaled slowly. He crouched beside McCready to look through a hole at the base of the shed wall. It was a sizable opening, large enough for both McCready and him to rest on their elbows side by side and see into the open space beyond. Two lights were on. A young male held a halogen light on Ariel, who was sitting in a chair with her ankles and wrists tied. She didn’t look blindfolded but it was hard to tell. She was hunched, her head on her knees, her hands curved around her face so her fingertips were pressed against her ears. Probably in reaction to the gunshots. The other light was a second halogen lamp set atop a fridge lying on its front. Eight guys and Trevor were in a loose line in front of it.

  Where was Connie?

  A gun was passed from one of the guys to another. He aimed at the fridge and fired.

  A bunch of jeers went up, the kid apparently having missed the object entirely. Ben mouthed to McCready, Connie?

  McCready aimed his gun at Ben and mouthed back, Fridge.

  The noiseless word exploded in Ben’s mind, and he understood why McCready saw fit to hold him in place with the pointed gun.

  The freaks were shooting at Connie.

  Inside, the gun was handed to Trevor.

  “Stand the fridge up,” he said.

  A round of grumbling ensued.

  “It looks heavy.”

  “Why?”

  “Just shoot it.”

  “Then we can check inside.”

  “Why do you think she pushed it forward?” Trevor said. “All your shots have been wasted. No way is it going through the sides or the back. She’s sitting in there all pretty. But not for long.”

  He passed the .22 to one of the other guys. “I brought my own.”

  From inside his jacket, he pulled out a revolver.

  Beside him, McCready hissed. He raised his gun into the air and fired. Instantly the kids in the shed froze or spun in place.

  “Police!” McCready yelled. “Put down your weapons.”

  Instead, all of them ran to the side door of the shed. They poured out, and into the night air rose the slamming of car doors, revving motors and the beat of wheels and chassis over fields riddled with molehills and hollows.

  They wouldn’t get far. A bike trailer was pitched a quarter mile down the road. The stage for another old-fashioned disciplinary session. Any compunction Ben might’ve felt for that was swept aside knowing what they’d subjected Ariel and Connie to.

  Trevor hadn’t moved. As the roar of the cars faded away, he swiveled to face the back of the barn. “Show yourself, brother.”

  “Let Connie out,” McCready called. “Let her and the girl go.”

  “I will. I get my shot and then it’s done.”

  “You know that shot could kill her. You do that and you go to prison.”

  “I won’t aim to kill her,” Trevor said. “I’ve figured out where she is in there. But I want to wreck her pretty face. Besides, you won’t turn me in, brother. Not with all the stuff I have on you.”

  “Yeah, but I will,” Ben called.

  Trevor laughed. “Ben Carruthers. Didn’t I warn you Connie would bring you grief?”

  “You don’t give it up now, Trevor, and I will bring you grief.”

  Trevor aimed his revolver at the fridge. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Two guns went off. McCready’s shot dropped Trevor, whose own bullet blasted into the fridge.

  Ben broke into a run, rounding the side of the shed, and tore through the already open side door.

  “Ben!” Ariel screamed. “Get her!”

  He ran past the downed body of Trevor and reached for the ropes around the fridge.

  “Connie!” he yelled. “Can you hear me?”

  A thud from inside assured him something was happening. Then again, a dead body—

  He sawed on the ropes with his pock
etknife, McCready working the other side. Why wasn’t he with Trevor? Then again, Ben wasn’t about to question McCready’s priorities. When the ropes fell away, the two men heaved and righted the fridge. Ben heard the distinct bump and thump of a body inside.

  “Connie!”

  Ben pulled on the door and out she fell, head between her knees, bound by her wrists and ankles. He dropped beside her. “You okay?”

  She was quivering all over and he pulled her balled-up body into his own shaking arms, all the while patting her down for injuries. She flinched when he touched her right side and again when his hands grazed her shoulder but other than that—

  Unless her head—

  “Connie,” he said softly, “I’m going to lift your head, okay? Just to see your face. Okay?”

  He slowly pried up her head until he could check her face. A bruise reddened her right cheek and a cut sliced open her lip.

  Both lips trembled and she whispered, “Ariel?”

  “Auntie Connie! I’m okay. Are you?”

  Connie sagged against him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  Because Ariel couldn’t possibly have heard, Ben turned to her. “She’s good. We’re all good.”

  Except for Trevor.

  McCready squatted over his brother, who moaned and twisted on the dirt floor of the shed. Blood gushed from his side.

  “McCready?” Ben called softly.

  Trevor’s brother held up a hand. “You three clear out. I’ll clean up here.” His voice was low and Ben didn’t question him. He cut Ariel free and, with an arm around each of his girls, took them away from their nightmare. And his.

  * * *

  MIDNIGHT. ARIEL WAS tucked in her bed downstairs under a thick pile of quilts and books. Connie had offered her a spot in bed with her, but Ariel claimed that no way was she bunking with that much pink. Besides, and here she looked at Ben, the bed would likely be full, anyway.

  Ariel was partly right. Ben was in bed with Connie. Not doing what Ariel assumed they’d do. He lay on his back on top of the covers. Connie, dressed in his old flannel shirt and sweat shorts, snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder.

  “This is nice,” she murmured, and wiggled closer. “Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a steno pad and a pen in the drawer beside you. Could you get them for me?”

  It took a bit of shifting and rolling but he got them. She drew two lines, tossed aside the pad and snuggled back down.

  “Don’t you want to frame it or something?”

  “I’d rather not have a daily reminder of what I had to go through to strike off those names. Time for a fresh start.”

  He thought of the wood box high on his shelf where he’d stored the ring. “I have just the place for all of them.”

  “Later,” she murmured. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  He wrapped his arms around hers and squeezed her harder than he ever had before. She emitted a muffled squeak. What was he thinking? Holding her tight when she’d just been forcefully bound.

  He relaxed his arms. “Sorry.”

  She molded her body to his again, her hand warm on his chest.

  “Ben. After I’ve had bullets fired at me while I’m in a fridge, you are allowed to hold me as hard as you want. In fact, I insist on it.”

  “Okay. How about after a hard day’s work?”

  “Lots of people have those. That only deserves a quick hug of sympathy.”

  “Then I get to drive you home?”

  “Sure. But every third trip, you should ask me if I’ve done anything about getting my own wheels. No. Never mind. A car will be on my new list.”

  “And home renovations?”

  “Why would that involve hugs?”

  “It could be a hard day for me.”

  She snorted. “Fine.”

  “And if you puke because you drank too much?”

  “I’ve learned my lesson. If I’m puking it won’t be because of that. Roll over and go back to sleep.”

  Roll over and go back to sleep. Him with her, together. He tapped her abdomen. “If it was because of a growing bump here,” he said, “I would.” He drifted his hand to cover for her hand on his chest, and encountered a small hardness. His ring. On her finger. Huh.

  “When?”

  “You finally noticed?”

  “Let’s just say that after tonight’s events I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “I put it on in Trevor’s car. I discovered you’d sneaked it into the box in my purse.”

  “I meant to tell you.”

  “It stopped a bullet.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “My story and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Okay...does it mean what I want it to mean?”

  “Ben. What about a fresh start don’t you understand?”

  He hugged her tight and she let him. Finally, finally, they were ready.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from DAD IN TRAINING by Cynthia Thomason.

  Dad in Training

  by Cynthia Thomason

  CHAPTER ONE

  FAMILY. THE WORD could be as irritating as a burr between a guy’s toes or as comforting as a soft pillow. Unfortunately, for Jace Cahill, the burr metaphor was the one he most thought of. Sure, he loved his brother Carter, his sister, Ava, and his mother, Cora. They were good people. But he’d practically thrown a party when his father, Raymond, died almost two years ago.

  Animosity hardly described the relationship between Jace and his father. In fact, an accurate word probably didn’t exist in current vocabulary. Raymond had taught Jace two important things. Avoiding family drama was a good thing. And living alone was a blessing.

  But today Jace was working on the schedule of raft trips down the Wyoga River, and his brother was seated across the counter from him, and that was all good. Now that August had come to the High Country of North Carolina, Jace knew his potential for getting money from the pockets of tourists was running dry. They would head back to wherever they came from, and the Wyoga would run cold and swift now that summer was almost over.

  “So, how was your season?” Carter asked Jace. “Did you make a killing here at High Mountain Rafting at forty-five dollars a clip?”

  Jace motioned for one of the younger guys who conducted the rafting trips to come to the counter. Jace didn’t lead the river trips unless he absolutely had to, if someone didn’t show up for work or asked for a day off. Jace knew every inch of the Wyoga River, but he was just plain tired of navigating from the back of a raft filled with anxious adults, screaming kids and overly zealous adventurists.

  “A killing? Not hardly,” he said. “But I made enough to keep Copper in kibble.”

  A picture of Jace’s eight-year-old ultra-calm Labrador retriever sat on the counter for all the tourists to admire and to keep Jace from flipping out at the repetitious questions from the folks who tried to convince themselves to take the plunge. Ha! An accurate description, because on at least half of the river trips, usually one person actually did plunge into the rapids.

  “How fast is the river’s current?”

  “Will we be issued life jackets?”

  “Does anyone ever fall off the raft?”

  And Jace’s prepared answers: “Slow. Yes, often, if they don’t listen to instructions. Why do you think we have that wall of slickers and goggles and life vests?”

  “You know,” Carter began, “maybe it’s time for you to consider selling this business and taking over the Christmas tree farm. Nothing would make Mama happier, and you might be getting too old for rescuing folks every other day.”

  “I don’t rescue people that often,” Jace said. “I only guide about once a week these days.” He raked his hand through his wavy light brown hair, stopping when he reach
ed the spot where twine had held his short ponytail until two days ago when he’d had it cut off during a spontaneous moment that he still wasn’t sure if he regretted or not. “And you know how I feel about Snowy Mountain Tree Farm. I’ve never had an interest in it. And may I mention, neither have you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Carter admitted. “But Mama’s always held out the hope that you would take over her inheritance. Grandpa left that acreage to his daughter, thinking she would hand it down to her sons.”

  Jace frowned. “One of whom is a cop, not a tree planter, I might point out.”

  “Yeah, and one of whom is a disgruntled adventure guide,” Carter said. “Speaking of being a cop, I’d better get to the station. This town won’t protect itself.”

  He stood from the stool he’d been occupying as Jace gave instructions to the young man who would guide the tourists waiting outside by the reclaimed school bus the business used. Every day during tourist season the bus transported eager rafters across the Tennessee line to the input area of the river. “Have you got your jokes memorized?” he asked the kid. “Keep ’em entertained, Billy. You need the tips. I don’t pay you nearly enough.”

  The young man laughed, grabbed his paddle and safety gear, and headed into the parking lot.

  “You going to Mama’s for dinner?” Carter said as he walked to the door.

  “Nope. You and your bride enjoy her barbecue pork. I’ve got a gig at the River Café. Gary and I are making a fat hundred bucks for playing the patio.”

  Carter stopped at the door. “Looks like you’ve got a late arrival.” He stared across the parking lot at a woman and a young kid who’d just gotten out of a small but sleek crossover vehicle.

  “They won’t make it now,” Jace said. “Billy’s full up and he’s already pulling out.” He leaned over the counter and stared at the woman. “Whoa, she’s a looker. With customers like that coming in the door, you can’t think I’d actually give up this business to grow Christmas trees.” He grinned at his brother. “Maybe I’ll arrange a personal tour with me at the helm.”

  Carter chuckled. “Behave yourself, Jason Edward Cahill. Your big brother’s a cop, remember?”

  Carter was in his patrol car before the woman reached the entrance to High Mountain Rafting. She came up the three steps and in the door of the outfitter shop, gently prodding a boy ahead of her. The fact that she had a kid was something of a downer to Jace. He enjoyed being an uncle to his brother’s stepdaughter, but he had no interest in being a father himself. He had no interest in being anything other than what he was—a part-time rafting guide and an underpaid folk guitarist.