by David Berens
Eddie grabbed his cup and took a sip. Damn, that’s pretty good shit, he thought. He took another sip to brace himself for the toe reveal that was about to happen. He rolled the sock down his foot gently until he was able to slide it off his toes. They were all there and were all pretty swollen, but not too bad for having just been smashed by a Jeep. Freakin’ bitches, he thought, wondering who the hell they were. He laid the ice on the darkening toes and the cold felt painful, but good. He was pretty sure he’d recover from this quickly.
“So,” he said to T.D., “the bastard thief came here, right?”
“Looks that way, boss,” T.D. said while looking around the place.
Eddie couldn’t help but do the same. There were more than two-dozen people sitting around, at least half of which were college-aged kids. None of them looked smart enough to pull off what the thief had done to them. The rest were divided between professionals; lawyers, doctors, secretaries, and professors – and blue-collar workers; waiters on breaks, landscapers, trash collectors, and mechanics. None of them seemed likely candidates, either.
And nobody in the entire place seemed at all interested in them… the giant football player and the man with his sock and shoe off, icing his foot.
“Dammit,” Eddie said under his breath, “nothin’ here.”
“I dunno, boss,” T.D. said, sipping his coffee. The paper cup wrapped with a cardboard band seemed ridiculously small in his hand. “S’gotta be somebody at the college, right?” he asked.
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Eddie said, “but a student ain’t smart enough probly… and a professor… not ballsy enough. Nah, it’s somebody with a connection to the school… but I dunno what kind of connection.”
“Yeah,” T.D. said.
“It’s somebody with some serious knowledge of the arts,” he said. “I mean, I dunno… maybe it is a professor.”
“Nope,” a voice from a nearby table spoke up.
Eddie turned to see an older woman looking over at them. “S’cuse me?” Eddie arched an eyebrow.
“I don’t know what exactly you gentlemen are speaking of,” she said, “but I can vouch for the professors at the college, and I know that none of them would do any such thing that would get them labeled as a thief.”
Eddie was shocked that they’d been talking loud enough for anyone to hear them. As if realizing what he was thinking, she pointed to a hearing aid over her left ear.
“I can hear a gnat wiping his ass with this thing,” she said.
“Good for you,” Eddie said.
“Anyway,” she said with a shrug, “just thought you should know. Whoever you’re looking for isn’t likely to be a professor at the college.”
“And who the hell are you to say that?” Eddie demanded.
“Victoria Ermaline,” she said, extending her hand, “Dean of the Savannah College of Art and Design, at your service.”
Eddie stared at her hand for a second without taking it.
She tsked, and took her hand back.
“I sincerely hope you gentlemen find who it is you’re looking for,” she said, wiping her table with a napkin, then stood up and walked out. Eddie watched her go.
“Thank you,” T.D. called out after her.
She waved over her shoulder and pushed the door open out into the street.
“Let’s get back to the car.” Eddie swallowed the last of his coffee. “Was there another address?”
“Yeah, boss, “T.D. nodded, “one more.”
“Good,” Eddie said, cringing as he put weight on his swollen foot. “A little help here.”
T.D. wrapped Eddie’s arm over his shoulder and helped him limp out of The Coffee Fox.
The thief couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange that had happened in the next booth. Watching the two idiot art dealers arguing with Victoria and bumbling around town was hilarious indeed. The thief was now more certain than ever that the deal was sealed. The money and the painting were safely tucked away in a place no one would ever think to look. Sipping the cup of smooth black java, the thief smiled and breathed deeply. Scot-free… and rich to boot.
It was going to be a good day.
33
Snap, Crackle, Pop
Samantha Eliza Dawn felt the circulation going from her hands and feet. They were numb and icy cold. From the cool temperature of the concrete floor of the room she was being held captive in, she guessed it must be an exterior storage unit or something similar, with little or no insulation. The side of her face had been resting on the floor for over an hour as she worked her legs up and down, stretching the crack she’d made in the wooden legs of the chair by tipping it over. It creaked and groaned, but didn’t seem to want to yield. They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.
“Come on, you bastard,” Sami growled at the chair beneath her duct tape gag.
She heaved again and a louder pop told her she’d made at least a little progress. It was slow going, and it was still very dark in the room so she couldn’t see where the crack was or how to make it worse.
The tape on her left leg seemed markedly looser, so she worked that foot back and forth more vigorously. That strategy paid off with a satisfying jerk, and suddenly her feet were free. She kicked furiously at the bottom of the chair and heard wood splintering under her heels.
Panting, and covered in a sheen of sweat, she realized she’d been kicking air for a few minutes and stopped to assess the situation. Her legs were free, but her upper body was still strapped tightly to the back of the chair. Her hands were tied behind her back, and it also felt as though the thief had looped the tape around the chair as well.
She caught her breath and rested for a second. When she was steady and calmer, she probed around with her feet and found a rung beneath the seat of the wooden chair. She placed both feet on it and pushed down. Just as she’d hoped, the chair back began to slide down, pulling free from the loops around her chest and arms. The tiny hairs on her exposed triceps got caught and yanked agonizingly out of her skin, but she didn’t care. The more she pushed down, the looser the bindings became… so she pushed harder.
With one last big push, she kicked the chair free and sent it sliding away from her across the floor. Blood raced into her feet and hands and the tingling sensation as the feeling returned sent painful pinpricks all over her fingers and toes.
She stretched out flat on the floor and paused to let the feelings subside. Free from the chair, she had plenty of slack in the tape around her body to bend her knees and wriggle her hands below her feet to bring them in front of her. Even in the dark, she was able to twist and tear the duct tape and eventually free her wrists. She carefully pulled the gag from around her face and mouth and felt tears of joy and relief streaming down her face. At least she was free of the bonds… now she’d need to get free of the room.
She’d been in the dark for over a day, so her eyes were accustomed and adjusted well enough to find the door – a tiny sliver of light around the edge of the opening led her to it. Feeling up and down the door, she found it to be exactly as she expected, a metal garage style door like the kind you’d find on a self-storage building. She got her hands under a lip on the bottom and heaved. The door rose an inch and slammed against a stopper of some kind. Sami imagined it must be a lock on the outside.
Slumping down on the floor inside, she took a deep breath.
“Well, that’s it then,” she muttered to herself, “there’s no getting out of here.”
She turned and leaned her back up against the door and her tears of joy became tears of fear and resignation. The thief would be coming back to kill her, and there was nothing she could do about…
Wait, she thought, there is something I can do about it. Sami realized that there was a significant difference about the next visit the thief would be paying her… she was free. When the bastard opened the door, she’d slam the thief’s skull with the chair. Then she remembered the scraping sound she’d heard during their last visit. The knife. Is
the knife still here? She peered around to the room in the low light and saw a table to her left. She groaned as she stood and walked carefully toward it, hands outstretched. The table seemed to be made of rough wood, more of a worktable than anything else. She slowly ran her hands over the top of it until they found it. Not a knife, but a short machete.
“Hell yeah!” Sami exclaimed as she found the handle and gripped it tight in her hand.
Relief, and even a little confidence, started to creep into her mind as she clutched the weapon. The thief would have a very different meeting with her next time. She moved to the side of the door and again sat down on the cold floor. She laid the machete across her lap, not releasing grip… and waited. She even allowed a smile to cross her lips. As the day wore on, she finally heard a car pull into a gravel lot. The door opened and closed. She was about to scream, but then wondered if it was even the thief… better not.
The desire to call out was so strong she whimpered and a sob escaped her throat, but she somehow kept quiet. The sound of footsteps crunching in the gravel seemed to come closer. It had to be the thief. And then what must’ve been the padlock on the door rattled. The thief was unlocking it.
Sami stood as quietly as she could and turned toward the door. Raising the blade above her head, she imagined herself driving it deep into the thief’s head. And then she second-guessed herself… did she really want to kill him? She lowered the blade and made a plan to strike the thief in the leg… immobilize the…
A metal clatter stopped her in mid thought. The lock had fallen free. She tensed up as she waited for the door to rise. And then, somewhere outside the door, a cell phone rang. Sami gasped… it was her ringtone. Bastard, she thought, using my phone. She waited for the thief to say something, but heard only silence. And then, faintly, she heard the thief push a button, and what might’ve been a voicemail started to play. She couldn’t make out the voice clearly on the phone, but it might’ve been male… maybe Alain? Or RayRay? Or maybe even Troy. Whoever it was, the message was too faint for her to hear what they’d said. She waited patiently as the thief apparently listened to it.
34
It’s Me Again
The thief clicked play.
“Hey there,” the message said, “this is Troy Bodean. I know who you are. I also know what you’ve done. We both know where this is headed. I’m thinkin’ we can strike a deal. All I want is Sami back. If you drop her somewhere and let her come on, I’ll convince her to drop this whole Tayler thing and you can run away with the painting.”
A short pause.
“Unless you’ve already sold it,” he said, “in which case, you can run away to ole Mexico or somethin’ like that. Either way, you’re off scot-free. That is… if I get the girl back.”
The thief clicked the phone off and smiled. Mexico, eh? Yeah, that’s about right. With the score from the two black-market art dealers, the thief could live pretty well in old Me-hee-co. Dropping the lock in a coat pocket, the thief reached down to slide the garage door up and then stopped short. A light chill ran up the thief’s neck.
“I know who you are,” Troy Bodean had said on the message.
Could that be true, the thief thought? Nah, surely not. That bumpkin in a hat couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn – from the inside. There was no way he’d figured out who the thief was… but still… it did put a little worry in the mind. Maybe the ideal situation would be to make Troy disappear too.
The thief shook a suddenly worried head. This was getting more and more tangled up, and more and more bodies were going to pile up. Got to nip this in the bud right now, the thief thought.
Stuffing the phone into a pocket, the thief reached down again to raise the door. I’ll deal with you later, Bodean, he thought as the metal door screeched upward.
Samantha Eliza Dawn waited as long as she dared for the door to rise clear of the opening. It was dusk outside, but the light was bright enough to flare in her eyes and momentarily blind her. The silhouette of the thief was right in front of her, still dressed in all black with a hoody and black blue jeans.
Samantha swung the machete with all her might but it only seemed to glance off the side of the thief’s leg. A yelp escaped into the air. Male? Female? She couldn’t be sure. But she did see the thief drop down to kneel and clutch the leg Sami had apparently struck. Without thinking, she took off running. She could see she was in a long row of storage units – tan buildings and bright orange metal doors.
Running down the row as fast as she could, she saw no one around. She screamed.
“HEELP! HEEEELP!”
Behind her, she heard the crunching footsteps of the thief chasing her, sounding faster and closer. She couldn’t have done much damage with the blade. She rounded a corner and saw the industrial complex of the airport in the distance. I’m near the Savannah International Airport? Maybe to the south?
She ran hard as darkness fell around her, and turned a corner and slammed hard into a chain link fence. Turning from side to side, she could see she’d made a fatal mistake… she’d run toward the back of the storage building lot, but there was no opening in the fence as far as she could see.
The thief slowed, probably realizing Sami was trapped.
“Noooo,” she moaned and held up her hands.
“Goddammit, Sami,” the thief growled.
The voice. She recognized the voice. The thief wasn’t using the voice modifier.
“Why?” she groaned, hoping to hear more of the thief and figure out who it was.
“Because, dear Samantha,” the thief said, closing the distance between them, “there’s no other way I could possibly make this much money. And when I have you and Troy out the way, I’ll disappear… not that anyone sees me anyway.”
Tears streamed down Samantha’s cheeks as the thief’s – the killer’s – face slowly came into view. She could now see clearly the face of the person who was likely about to kill her… and would probably kill Troy Bodean too. She wished she could get a message to him, somehow and warn him. They both knew the killer, but Troy would likely never suspect— The thief slammed a heavy hand into Sami’s head and she blacked out again.
35
Distribution Office
Troy Clint Bodean knocked on the DISTRIBUTION OFFICE door and peered through the dark industrial park glass door. Nothing looked unusual about the space, except for the fact that there didn’t seem to be much stuff inside for a distribution office… not that Troy knew what such an office should have in it. He knocked again and figured nobody was home. Pulling on the door, just for kicks, he wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He stepped back from the door and glanced to the left and right. The next door to the right led to what looked like a furniture warehouse, and on the left, a vacant office with a sign on the front advertising the realtor who had it listed. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the placard. A sweet sounding woman named Kimberly answered.
“Yes, darlin’,” Troy laid on his charm as thick as he could, “I’m interested in the office space out at the…” – he paused and looked back to the road at the park’s entry sign – “the Savannah Industrial Park,” he continued, giving himself a mental face-palm for not knowing such a simple name. “Suite 102.”
“Sure, sure,” Kimberly said and clicked a few keys in the background. “When would you like to see it?”
“Well,” Troy said, “I’m lookin’ in the door right now. Any way you could make it out now?”
“Oh, um… uh,” she stuttered then quickly recovered, “I’ll be right over, Mr. uh…”
“Bodean,” Troy said, “Troy Bodean.”
“Alright, Mr. Bodean,” she answered, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank you kindly, Kimberly.”
As they hung up, Troy turned around and leaned against the doorway. He tipped his hat back and chuckled to himself. He’d done it again. Seemed like everywhere he went these days, he got fouled up in some kind of mess with a murder or kidnapping
or something. He thought idly that his adventures might make for a good book… but he’d failed every English class he’d ever had, so it would have to be written by a ghostwriter.
True to her word, Kimberly pulled up ten minutes later and stepped out of a massive black GMC Yukon Denali. It looked brand new… and expensive as hell. Her heels clicked the pavement as she walked up. She was short, not more than five-foot-two, and wearing a form-fitting black skirt with a white flowing blouse. Professional, yet sexy. She jingled her keys and smiled.
“Thank you for meeting me so quickly, Kimberly.” Troy put out his right hand to shake hers and tipped his cowboy hat with his left.
“Any realtor worth her salt would never say no to a customer standing at the door of a property she has listed.” She shook his hand and let it linger for a second.
Troy laughed and nodded. “I s’pose not.”
“Here,” she said, fumbling with her phone and holding it up near the lockbox hanging from the door, “let’s go inside and check it out.”
“Perfect.”
“What kind of space are you looking for, Mr. Bodean?” she asked.
“Oh, uh, well,” he stumbled for a second, “I’ve got a, um… I make fishing rods. Need a place to assemble ‘em and ship ‘em out.”
“Huh,” she nodded, “that’s interesting. How long’ve you been doing that sort of thing?”
“Oh, gosh,” he said, “goin’ on two or three years now. Just got the business built up enough to need a separate space this year. Garage was gettin’ too tight.”
