by L C Hayden
“L-linn-da.”
She snapped her head up. “Bronson! You’re awake.”
The throbbing pain made him cradle his head in his hands. He tried to sit up, failed, and decided to remain still. “Wh-where are we?”
“In a motel somewhere. They blindfolded me, so I couldn’t tell you which motel or where.”
Bronson forced himself into a sitting position. He bit his tongue to keep from grimacing as a sharp pain volleyed between his temples. “How long, in the car?”
“I don’t know.” Linda looked down and shook her head. “They took my watch and my cell away. Maybe two hours. Maybe three. I really don’t know.”
“I’m sure we’re headin’ for Minnesota, and if they drove for two or three hours, then we must be close to Custer.” Bronson thought of Carol. His arms felt empty. He shook those thoughts aside and concentrated on the bathroom. “Can we open the bathroom door and get out of here?”
Linda shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Soon as they walk out, they move the dresser so it blocks the door. I’ve tried opening it, but I can’t.”
Bronson closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Maybe he could push the door, force the dresser to move. He’d wait for a few minutes while he gathered his strength. His gaze wandered around the various items in the bathroom, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find anything that could help them. The cramped little window wasn’t big enough to squeeze through. He pointed to it. “What do you see?”
Linda stood on her tiptoes. “Just more motel. Looks like we’re on the second floor. They have this pretty well planned out, don’t they?”
“Who are they?”
“Two men, both armed. I’ve never seen them before.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Yeah, sure. One wears glasses, has wiry hair and a big nose. The other is much taller, brown eyes, brown hair.”
Bronson recalled the man he had seen holding a gun to Linda’s head in the lab’s basement. “Their build? Big guys?”
“The mousey-looking one is the smaller of the two. The other one doesn’t have a football player’s body, but he’s big.”
Bronson felt his eyes close. Struggling, he snapped them open and shook himself. “Muscular?”
“Somewhat, yeah.”
Damn. Linda could describe both men, which meant that after she won that game for them, they would kill her. Unable to fight off sleep’s embrace any longer, Bronson closed his eyes.
* * * * *
Mike should have been tired, but the adrenaline pulsed through his system and kept him alert. In spite of what Marshall had said, he didn’t plan to sit on his ass and wait. If he hurried, he could still catch Stein at home.
A sprawling driveway led to Stein’s mansion, a Colonial-style house complete with white columns and colorful flower beds. Hoover rang the doorbell.
A middle-aged lady with a round face answered the door. Mike flashed her his I.D. badge. “I need to speak to Mr. William Stein.”
She opened the door to allow him into the foyer. “Please wait here.”
Mike stepped in. The aroma of frying bacon teased his taste buds. Up until now, he hadn’t realized how hungry he felt.
The woman returned. “This way, sir.”
He followed her past a living room large enough to hold a Dallas Cowboys practice session and on to the dining room. A mahogany table designed to accommodate twenty guests did nothing to dwarf the room. A distinguished-looking man with solid white hair set the newspaper down, stood up, and offered Mike his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid my maid didn’t catch your name or your title.”
“Detective Mike Hoover.” They shook hands.
“I’ve been expecting you.” Stein pointed to a seat. “Won’t you join me?”
Mike pulled out a chair and sat down. “You said you’ve been expecting me. Why’s that?”
“If you don’t mind, I won’t answer anything until my lawyer shows up. I’ve already called him. He lives a couple of houses down, so he won’t be long.”
The maid set down a steaming cup of coffee in front of Mike, which reminded him of Bronson. His hunger went away.
Stein reached for the fruit bowl and helped himself to some orange slices, watermelon, grapes, and sliced cantaloupe. “It’s so early in the morning. I doubt that you’ve had breakfast. I took the liberty of telling my cook to prepare some for you, too.”
“Thanks, but no. As soon as you tell me what I need to know, I’ll be on my way.”
The maid reappeared carrying a tray filled with flavored creams, sugar, and sugar substitutes. Mike chose Irish cream, passed on the sugar, and thanked her. She nodded you’re welcome and retreated.
The doorbell rang. “Ah, that must be Roy,” Stein said.
The maid set down a plate filled with well-done bacon. Mike reached for a strip. “There’s plenty more,” the maid said. “Please help yourself.”
She left to answer the door and returned accompanied by a man sporting a military cut and a jogging outfit. He nodded at Stein, then smiled and extended his hand toward Hoover. “I’m Roy Kasdorf. Mind if I see your badge?”
Mike shook his hand, retrieved his badge, and handed it to Kasdorf. The lawyer’s eyebrows came together in puzzlement as he studied the badge. “Dallas? What does Dallas have to do with this?” Kasdorf returned the badge, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
Mike sat also. “I’ll answer that one, then it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Fair enough,” Kasdorf said. He looked at Stein, who nodded.
The cook brought in a basket filled with fluffy biscuits and a bowl topped to the rim with scrambled eggs. After she left, Mike said, “My department has been tracking Benjamin Carrier for quite a while.”
Kasdorf and Stein exchanged looks. “Who’s Benjamin Carrier?” Kasdorf asked Stein.
Stein shrugged. Both men turned to look at Mike.
“He’s a real bad man. He’s already killed several people.”
Stein froze halfway to reaching for some bacon. “He’s a killer and he’s here in our town?”
Kasdorf raised his hands. “I have a feeling we’re talking about two different things. Detective Hoover, why don’t you tell us why you’re here.” He sipped the milk the maid had placed in front of him.
Mike kept his eyes on Stein, although he knew the lawyer would do most of the talking. “My ex-partner, Harry Bronson, is missing, and I have reason to believe that Mr. Stein can lead me to him.”
Stein set his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t know anybody named Bronson and I certainly don’t know where he is. Am I in trouble with the law?”
“That depends on the extend of your involvement.”
Stein turned to Kasdorf, a question on his face.
Kasdorf straightened up. “Let me explain Bill’s—uh, my client’s—involvement, as you so adequately put it.” Kasdorf leaned forward and spoke as though addressing a jury instead of two men. “A few days ago, a young man by the name of Eric Randig showed up at Bill’s door. He had an incredible tale to tell.” He paused for effect. “Seems Eric is the son of our leading scientist who recently fell off a roof and died. Eric claims his father was pushed and that his grandparents were also murdered, all three for the same reason.
“Mitch Randig, our leading researcher, along with his partner, Henry Clark, were working on a formula that will erase and prevent wrinkles forever. According to Eric, Clark got greedy and decided to sell the formula. Bill—Mr. Stein—immediately hired me to protect the company from possible lawsuits and, of course, to make sure the formula stays with McGory and Stein, the rightful owners.
“I keep a private investigator on my payroll. Today, he’s supposed to report his findings to me.” Kasdorf retrieved his wallet, took out a business card, and handed it to Mike. “Here’s his contact information.”
Mike glanced at the card and pocketed it. “When was the last time you talked to Eric?”
Stein wai
ted until he finished buttering his bread before answering. “Roy and I talked to him at length last night.”
Mike put on a poker face. “Last night?”
“Yes.”
“And where exactly did you meet?”
“Here, at my house. In fact, he and his son are still my guests. He’s upstairs. The baby is playing outside. One of my maids is watching him. Eric feels safe here. We don’t know if Eric really is in danger, but we’re playing his game until we hear from Roy’s man.”
Kasdorf reached for a slice of bacon and broke it in half. “As you can see, Detective Hoover, my client has done nothing wrong. All he’s done is protect Eric Randig from possible harm.”
“If that’s the case, why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“But we did. I contacted Captain Marshall.” Kasdorf popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. “All three of us agreed it’d be best to keep Eric Randig’s whereabouts secret, just in case. Now tell me what all this has to do with your partner’s disappearance. Bronson, wasn’t it?”
Mike nodded. “I’d like to talk to Eric.”
Stein stood up. “I’ll wake him up and have him join us.”
Mike watched Stein go up the stairs and knew he had run headlong into another dead end. No one knew where Bronson was.
forty-eight
Bronson struggled to open his eyes, then to focus. He looked around and recognized the bathroom that held them prisoner. Linda’s eyes were closed. Her folded arm lay on the toilet’s lid, while her head rested on her arm. Bronson stood up and his knees buckled. He grabbed the sink to keep from falling.
Linda stirred, then quickly got to her feet. “Are you okay?”
Bronson waited until the dizziness went away. “I’m fine—maybe a little weak.”
“There’s some food for you. When they brought me supper, they put the bag in the shower in case you woke up.”
Supper? Weren’t they way past suppertime? Bronson looked out the window. Still dark. Not much time could have elapsed. “How long was I asleep?”
“One of the guys said you’d been out over sixteen hours. That was maybe an hour ago.”
Sixteen hours?
“You worried them. One of them said they were dead meat if anything happened to either one of us. They considered getting help if you didn’t wake up in a couple of hours.”
Bronson knew why they wanted her alive, but why were they keeping him alive? “That’s always good news—bein’ needed.”
“How’s that?”
“It gives us an edge.”
“Bronson!” A sharp voice came from the other side of the door. “We know you’re awake. We heard you talking.”
“I hear you.” Bronson scanned the bathroom, noting how the door opened, the location of the shower, sink, and pot. No towel holder.
“Get inside the shower and close the curtain.”
Bronson looked at Linda and shrugged. Not seeing any options, he figured he might as well do what they wanted. Maybe when they were together, he could overpower them. He stepped into the shower and saw the bag of food. As he drew the curtain shut, he looked at the curtain holders.
He heard the bathroom door open and considered bolting out, but decided to play it safe. Seconds later, he heard the same voice say, “You’re alone now. Use the facilities if you need to, and then come out. The door’s unlocked.” He heard the door close.
Bronson reached up, unsnapped the brass curtain holder, and pocketed it. Then he slid the curtain open and glanced around. They had Linda. His heart jumped to his throat, but he forced himself to calm down. They needed her alive. He used the bathroom, washed up, retrieved the food bag from the shower floor, and said, “I’m coming out.”
“Keep your hands where we can see them.”
He opened the door and saw the giant from the lab basement pointing a gun at him. Bronson raised his hands. “I have my food with me.” He quickly scanned the room. Double beds separated by a nightstand. Phone on the nightstand. A dresser in front of the beds. Television on top of the dresser. The mousey-looking thug held Linda at gunpoint at the opposite end of the room.
“We’ve been warned about your tricks, so don’t try anything,” said the giant. “Jack may not look threatening, but believe me, he’s very capable.”
“I’m cool.” Bronson pointed to his food bag. “Mind if I sit down and eat?”
The giant pointed to the edge of the bed. “Sit down and enjoy your meal. We’re under strict orders to feed you and patch you up.”
Bronson opened the bag and looked in. “Kind of like fattenin’ up before the kill.”
“You have no idea how close you are to the truth.” The giant flashed Bronson a shark’s grin and stuffed his gun in his pants.
Helplessness and dread squeezed Bronson’s gut. He bit into his sandwich and glared at their captors.
When Bronson had finished eating, the giant said, “Now listen very carefully. Linda will be fine as long as you do what I say. Do I make myself clear?”
Bronson nodded.
The giant reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a set of red flex-cuffs. Bronson recognized the type. He’d always liked them because they slipped on easily and seemed almost impossible to get out of. Now he wasn’t so sure he liked them after all.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Bronson did. He felt the snap of the cuffs around his wrists and a tug tightening them.
“We’re going for a little trip,” the giant said. “If you give me any problems and I’m not back in the room in a reasonable amount of time, Jack will shoot Linda. He won’t kill her, but the pain she’ll suffer will make her wish she were dead.”
“No need to hurt her. I’ll go with you.”
The giant led Bronson outside and down a stairwell that opened directly onto the parking lot. The darkness of night prevented him from learning anything about the motel’s location. The giant stopped in front of a gray Nissan Altima and opened its trunk. “Get in.”
Bronson climbed in. His world went even darker when the giant slammed the lid shut.
He tried to sort through the recent events, but his thoughts kept returning to the same question. Why are they keeping me alive?
forty-nine
Although Bronson couldn’t accurately predict the amount of time he’d spent in the trunk, he estimated it to be somewhere between three and four hours. His joints screamed with pain and there wasn’t an inch that didn’t feel wretched. Relief swept over him as he felt the car stop. Seconds later, the trunk lid popped open.
As he climbed out, the fresh air hit him like a slap, and he welcomed it. From the looks of things, he was on a well-lit farm. The ranch house, a typical rectangular structure with a two-car garage, stood to his left. A two-story red barn with white trim was to his right. Two four-story high silos flanked the barn. A lone structure displaying a sign that read Custom Barbeques hung above its door. Rolling hills completed the setting. Under different circumstances, the peaceful, tranquil scene would have soothed Bronson like a lullaby. Instead, it set his pulse racing.
The car door opened and Linda slid out. Jack followed. Bronson breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were still together. One way or the other, he’d get them out of this mess.
“Quit admiring the scenery and get moving,” the giant told Bronson as he poked him in the back.
Much to Bronson’s chagrin, the man led him toward the barn, away from the house, away from electricity and a possible phone. Bronson slowed his pace so that Linda and Jack, who were slightly behind them, could catch up. “Are you all right?”
She looked at Bronson through fearful eyes and nodded. He gave her a reassuring smile. She looked away, and he wished he could promise her safety. He also thought of Carol and prayed she was oblivious. He didn’t want her hurting.
As they walked past the Custom Barbeques building, Bronson caught a glimpse of several barbeque pits in various stages of completion. Not too many places special
ized in custom barbeques. Perhaps this would give him a hint as to their whereabouts.
A little way past the business stood the barn. It smelled musty and only a single bulb lit its interior, casting eerie shadows. An assortment of tools ranging from rakes to hoes and shovels rested against a wall. The two empty stables were stacked with bales of hay. Wood, in all sizes and shapes, laid haphazardly on the floor to his right.
The giant shoved Bronson toward the first stable. “Take the hay bales and stack them over there.” He pointed to the area outside the stable.
“That’s kind of hard with these cuffs.”
The giant punched Bronson in the stomach. A small whoosh escaped him as the air shot out of his lungs. He staggered forward, regained his balance, and glared at the giant.
“Nobody likes a smart ass,” the giant said.
Bronson remained quiet. He had learned his lesson.
“Turn around.”
Bronson pivoted and felt the cuffs eased off. He brought his arms forward and rubbed his wrists. If felt good to be out.
“Get to work.”
Bronson glanced at the tools, lingering on the pitchfork. He could accidentally drop it and when he picked it up—
“Just your hands, Wise Guy,” the giant said.
Bronson opened the stable gate. Four bales rested on the floor, with three more stacked on top. He heaved as he raised the first bale. It weighed less than he anticipated but more than he could handle in his weakened condition.
By the time he’d removed the top three bales, sweat ran down his face and stained his shirt. He stopped to catch his breath. From the window he could see the beginnings of dawn.
Another day as a hostage. Another day without Carol.
“Get to work.”
Bronson bent down and picked up another bale. Once he had removed two of them, he could see the outlines of a trap door. As he raised the last bale, his fears materialized. They were going to be prisoners in a basement on this isolated farm.
Nobody would ever think of looking for them here.
