6
I sat at a kitchen table that wobbled every time I shifted my hands. The two men—one on either side of me—had told me to keep my hands on the table. My wrists were bound together with plastic ties, which cut into my skin, though the pain barely registered. Every few seconds, I brought the water bottle they’d given me up to my mouth and took a few chugs.
The mammoth man who wore a cartoonish mask of Nixon had been with me the whole time. He spoke very few words. He was the one who’d tied my wrists and then picked me up like I was a toddler and sat me in the chair. I’d been in the kitchen for about ten minutes. Just a second ago, Jimmy Carter had joined us. The pretend Carter wasn’t a big guy, just average. But he was the talker—or more to the point, the instructor.
“You will follow the instructions I’ve given you exactly. Do you understand me, Alex Troutt?” His accent was Eastern European, and he enunciated each word precisely.
“Yes.” My voice was measured, even though my mind still felt like it was tangled in a web of sticky goo. I caught a glimpse of Carter’s hands. They appeared soft, as if he’d recently had a manicure. He was wearing designer jeans, and he sat with one leg crossed over the other, casual, as if it were just another night at the symphony. Even though the whole place smelled like a litter box, I picked up a waft of fine cologne. I could tell my brain was short-circuiting on the strange combination of Carter’s refined characteristics in this trashy environment. The structure was a one-story home that had been remodeled to fit their particular business interests—a prostitution ring and drug prison, from what I’d seen.
Carter smacked his hands on his thighs and stood up. “So, let’s wait another hour for you to have your mind working properly, and we will review the instructions one more time. Then you will be on your way.”
I was happy to have the extra hour, allowing my brain and body to heal. All the while, my eyes scoured the kitchen looking for a possible weapon. I only saw bags of fast food on the counters and floor. No signs of a knife, although I wondered if one of the drawers contained flatware. Surely, they had to have forks, spoons, and table knives.
Then again, what about this experience was normal?
An hour clocked by, and I continued my surveillance, listened for Erin’s voice, and waited. Nixon and Carter didn’t say a word, though I did notice Carter checking the time on his watch, which appeared to be rimmed in diamonds. “To reiterate what I told you earlier,” Carter said after the hour had passed, “you will go to the address listed on this slip of paper.” He tapped the table next to the piece of paper. The table wobbled. “The directions on how to get there are on the other side. When you get there, go to the back door, tell them your first and last name. They will give you two boxes. Put them in the trunk and then drive back here.”
“You haven’t told me where there is or where here is. I guess I’m still in Vegas, right?”
Carter lifted his head, as if he were looking over my shoulder toward Nixon. I couldn’t tell exactly. All I could see were small holes in the mask for eyes, which looked like black marbles. The mask fluttered about as he moved and spoke. It was creepy, watching the cartoonish jowls flop around like water balloons. While part of me wanted to rip the masks off both of them, I considered the fact that they were hiding their identities to be a positive sign. They didn’t want me to identify them. I had no idea who they were. That gave me some hope. I could pick up the boxes and then trade them for the girls and go. Skepticism, though, hadn’t left me.
“You will find out soon enough when we take you out to the car. But, yes, you are in Las Vegas, although not in the actual city limits. We are on a ten-acre piece of property. Not many trees, but a fence and a large, grassy knoll provide us the necessary privacy we need to conduct our business.”
A business. As if this was registered with the Better Business Bureau. Oh, how I wanted to ask him some pointed questions. But I knew this wasn’t an FBI interrogation room. I didn’t have the upper hand. I was lucky to be breathing. I had to play this smart…well, as smart as I could. Anything to get Erin and Becca out of here alive.
I leaned forward, eyed the address on the paper. “This is only a street address. Where am I going?”
Carter reached into his pocket, pulled out a small cell phone, and gently set it next to the piece of paper. “You will use this to be in contact with us.”
He hadn’t answered my question. But I suddenly realized I didn’t have my phone on me. A moment later, Nixon got up, walked over to a trash can, and dangled my phone just above it. He let it swing between his thumb and forefinger before dropping it to the floor. “Oops,” he said, bringing a hand to the front of his fake mouth. He then used the heel of his boot to crack my phone into pieces. He scooped up the remnants and dropped them in the trash.
“So,” Carter said as Nixon sat back down, “this phone will be how you stay in contact with us. We expect updates on your status every hour, top of the hour. And no other calls or text messages to anyone.”
They were doing everything in their power to cut me off from my world of contacts. I felt isolated, vulnerable. They knew they had control over me and my actions, but I couldn’t play it completely weak.
“You never answered my question. Where am I going?”
“Los Angeles. Near LAX airport.” Carter flipped the paper over and tapped it. “Directions are on this side. You only need to use the phone to give us status updates.”
I could hear my breath flutter. LA? That had to be five or six hours away. No way in hell I was driving ten hours without my Erin. But how could I win over Carter and Nixon?
“I’m assuming these two boxes are worth a lot of money to you.”
No verbal response, just some head movements and flapping masks. Surely, when this was all over, I would have nightmares, like with the clowns in the classic Stephen King novel, It.
“One of you—I’m assuming it was one of you called and talked about receiving two million dollars in ransom…” I paused and made sure my battered mind didn’t mention the call from the Faulks. I didn’t want Carter and Nixon to learn that I’d been in contact with anyone. “Whatever is in these two boxes, that will fulfill the ransom request?”
“You better hope so.” It was Nixon who’d answered. He had no distinct accent to his voice. But he didn’t sound as educated as his counterpart.
“Richard!” Carter said in a rebuking tone.
Damn, this whole presidential theme was strange.
“Sorry, Jimmy. I just want the—”
“Don’t say another word,” Carter said.
Nixon held up two hands. “Whatever. You’re the boss.”
That confirmed what I’d thought. Now that I knew the organizational hierarchy—at least with the people in my purview—I continued my quest to try to end this before someone got hurt. Then again, how did I know Erin and Becca were still alive? Somehow, I kept my tears at bay, although the mere thought chipped off a piece of my heart.
“So, as you can see, I’ve followed your instructions ever since you called me.”
“More or less,” Carter said.
I wasn’t going to start building my case, but I sensed he could see that I was treating this as a negotiation. He was sharp. Maybe too sharp.
“As an act of good faith, I’d like to take Erin and Becca with me on this errand. I will not talk to anyone, as you instructed. I will follow through and bring the boxes to you.”
Carter snorted out a laugh. He paused, looked at his nails. He couldn’t contain himself. He broke out in a cackle that made the hair on my arms stand up. Nixon joined in, and the laughter went on for a good minute. Finally, Carter rose to his feet, walked a few steps, and then flipped around, pointing a finger at me.
“You think with your Jedi FBI tricks that you can fool us, Alex Troutt?” He shook his head. “Your ego is something to behold. Even with the lives of your daughter and her friend on the line, you still want to act like you’re in control.” He picked up a chair and
slammed it to the floor.
Nixon and I both flinched.
“You fucking Americans are all alike.”
“I’m not like that, Jimmy. Come on now. Don’t group us all together.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Silence filled the small room. A moment later, I picked up faint sounds of more grunting and groaning through a wall. Disgusting.
Carter flipped a hand toward his underling. “Play her the recording.”
“Will do. This should be fun,” Nixon said, pulling a phone out of his pocket.
An icy patch formed on the back of my neck as my breaths came out in short gasps.
Nixon fumbled with his phone.
“Play it, now!” Carter’s composure had been cracked like an egg. He seemed unhinged.
“Okay, okay,” Nixon said. He placed the phone on the table and tapped a button.
I heard muffled voices. Then…
“Leave me the fuck alone, you fucking prick!”
It was Erin. Every muscle and joint in my body turned to stone.
Then a scream. That had to be Becca.
“Leave her the fuck alone,” Erin said.
And then another scream—that was Erin.
Loud voices erupted, male and female, followed by yelling and shuffling.
I started to lift out of my seat. “Did you fucking harm my child?”
Carter motioned with his hand for me to sit. I didn’t, but Nixon grabbed my arm and yanked me down.
It was all I could do not to lash out and start pounding on Nixon. But I knew it would be counterproductive. My hands were still bound, and Nixon would swat me away like a fly. I had to sit there and listen.
A second later, Erin released a shrill that made my insides explode. I grabbed the empty water bottle and crushed it. Then, from the phone: “Get away. No. Don’t. Don’t put that in me. I’ll do anything. I’ll listen, I’ll do whatever. Just don’t put that needle in my arm. No, no, noooo!” She wailed a few seconds, and then it faded as though a howling wind had taken a life away.
Nixon tapped his phone and removed it from the table.
Tears filled my eyes. My whole body quaked. I couldn’t make myself stop.
“Now, Alex Troutt,” Carter said, his arms leaning on the back of a chair that faced me, “I’m assuming you have the motivation to carry out this task with no further questions on your part.”
I lifted my eyes, my heart in pieces. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“Ten hours,” he said, walking toward a door. “Nixon. Take her to the car. It’s time to get this trip underway.”
7
Ivy Nash
My phone buzzed, and I picked it up to see a text from Cristina, my younger partner in my small PI firm, ECHO.
What kind of beef jerky do u like?
I shook my head. I was sitting in my car outside of a RaceTrac gas station a couple of miles from our office, which was just south of downtown San Antonio. She was inside the convenience store and, as usual, she felt like she had to use her toy—her cell phone—to communicate via text. She couldn’t simply walk outside and ask me, or even just give me a ring. Had to be the text.
She was ten years my junior—she’d graduated high school just a few months ago—but at times, it seemed like we’d been born a century apart.
I wasn’t a big fan of texting. Well, a few words here or there were fine. Like with Saul, my boyfriend of more than a year. And those text messages had turned into the type of utterings usually reserved for late-night whispers while sharing the same pillow.
Another vibration from my phone.
Beef jerky alert. Hello????
“Will you stop it already with the texting?” I said, holding up the phone, knowing Cristina couldn’t hear me. What was the deal with the beef jerky, anyway? She knew I didn’t like that crap. I wasn’t even sure she did, now that I thought about it. But she’d just turned nineteen years old. She’d been known to flip-flop on decisions. It came with the age.
I typed in a quick response. No thanks. U almost ready?
I waited a moment for the three dots to flash across the screen, but nothing happened. Had she been distracted from texting? Hmm. Maybe her phone battery had died.
I pointed the air-conditioning vent in my direction. It was spring—nothing like the sweltering heat we would experience in July and August—but it was still in the mid-eighties, not a cloud in the sky. As the air cooled my neck and face, I tried to look through the store windows and spot Cristina. She was just under my height of five-six, with sand-colored skin and dark hair, which, when not put up in a ponytail, hung to her mid-back. She had that tomboy look, although in the last few months, I could see she was maturing into a young woman, at least in some respects.
Me, on the other hand…I could practically glow in the dark. That was the running joke that Saul had directed at me. We’d just returned from a vacation, my first in…forever. My friends had been encouraging me to take a break from my work and go relax on a beach. Actually, “encouraging me” would be an understatement. It was more like begging me. They claimed they could literally feel the tension radiating off me like a portable heater. Guilt was my constant companion, though, and taking time away from our investigations—which centered on helping kids who were in danger, from the unforgiving world or sometimes themselves—had always won the battle in my mind.
Well, until Saul had picked me up for a late dinner on a Friday night. Except he didn’t stop at the restaurant. He drove us all the way to Galveston, where we boarded an enormous ship. We ended up taking a seven-day Caribbean cruise. We spent the time taking in new cultures, hiking, lying on beaches, and to be perfectly honest, rocking the ship.
Yes, Ivy Nash, the woman who not only didn’t have time for vacations and had previously sworn off having a serious boyfriend, made it official on that vacation. She’d used the “L” word…verbally, not just in her head.
In fact, according to Saul, after I’d imbibed in a couple of mai tais in Puerto Rico, I whispered in his ear that I wanted to sire his children. My response to this revelation? “I’d never use the word ‘sire.’” We laughed, kissed, and did our best to tip the ship on its side. After spending a majority of my life running from monsters, both as a foster child and as an adult, I’d hit a new level of euphoria I never thought possible for myself. I was in love and could see a future with Saul.
“Is that Cristina over by the beer cooler?” I said aloud to no one.
I squinted my eyes. Yep. That was her. What made her think she could get away with buying beer? Had she acquired a fake ID? She knew I wouldn’t approve of that. Technically, I was just her employer, but the line for feeling responsible for her well-being was very thin for me. It was similar to that of a close relative. I was okay with “older sister,” although she’d called me a “nagging mom” more than once. Still, though, did she think she was going to pick up a six-pack and drink it on the way to our meeting?
I checked the time. We had ten minutes to reach the office of the assistant superintendent of the San Antonio School District. They wanted an outside firm to conduct new background checks on all teachers—”can’t be too careful in this day and age,” I was told over the phone. The gig wasn’t exactly in our wheelhouse, but it paid the bills in between the meatier cases.
I put a hand on the car door handle, just waiting for Cristina to pull open the glass door to the beer cooler.
A second later, she did exactly that. “What the hell does she think she’s doing?” I hopped out of the car just as a man rushed out of the RaceTrac. His sweat-coated hair was matted to his forehead, his unblinking eyes darting around like he was high on something. Both hands gripped countless plastic bags, almost as though he’d done his complete grocery shopping…at a convenience store.
His eyes caught mine. I quickly looked past him to find Cristina. She was reviewing her choice of beer. I shut the car door and walked toward the curb. The man zipped past me and opened the rear door of a
small SUV.
That was when I heard the screams of a little girl.
No big deal, right? Kids cried all the time.
But I still looked over my shoulder as I approached the door to the building. The girl was in the back seat—maybe seven or eight years old—and she appeared to be trying to get out of the vehicle, which I noticed was running. Maybe he’d left the AC on for her while he was inside.
I heard him say “no” more than few times, but I didn’t hear the girl’s name. Did he know her name? I assumed she was his daughter. I knew kids could be stinkers—even at the age of eighteen, apparently. I shifted my gaze back to the store, keen on finding Cristina.
I couldn’t help it, though. Just as I entered the store, I flipped around to look again at the man and girl. Daughter or no daughter, if that guy took a swing at her, I’d have to confront him. After the beatings I received as a kid, I’d made a personal pledge never to let that happen to any child, if I could help it. And in this public setting, I could—would—stop it. Right now, though, he seemed to be consoling the girl, who was crying.
Okay, good.
I stopped at the end of a small aisle. “Cristina Tafoya!” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
She turned around with a smile on her face, but she lost it in the blink of an eye. She didn’t say a word.
“You really thought you could get away with buying beer?”
She narrowed her eyes. Wait—was she nudging her head?
“Cristina, we’re going to be late for our meeting. If we get this gig, we can pay the office rent for the next five months.”
She gave me more odd head movements, and her eyes were bugging out at me. Whatever.
I took another glance over my shoulder to check on the little one. The man shoved the girl into the back seat and slammed the door shut. Something was off. I just wasn’t sure if it crossed the line into my business.
Back to Cristina. She was still standing there with the door to the beer cooler open. A young man was trying to get in to pick up some beer. I pointed over her shoulder. “You might want to move to let the gentleman get inside the cooler.”
Back AT You_An Alex Troutt Thriller Page 3
