72 Hours (A Thriller) (3 page)

James called again.
 
She let voicemail take it.
 
She rolled her eyes and shook her head when he immediately called a third time.
 
They’d been divorced just over three years and he really knew how to get under her skin.

“Fine,” she said aloud and answered the call.
 
“I’m busy, James.
 
This isn’t a good time.
 
What do you want?”

“Are you near a television?” he asked.

“James, I don’t have time for this.”

“Dunbar is trying to kill you,” he said sharply.

She froze, a chill spreading through her chest.
 
“What are you talking about?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m driving.”

“Where are the kids?”

Her head was spinning.
 

“They, uh…Wyatt…he’s at soccer practice.
 
I’m supposed to pick him up in about an hour.”

“And Ramey?
 
Where is Ramey?”

Lindsay touched a hand to her forehead.
 
“She’s with a friend and should be home any time.”

James Hammond was silent for a long moment.
 
Long enough that Lindsay thought perhaps the call had dropped.

“James, are you there?”

“Lindsay, listen to me.
 
Dunbar has declared to the world he’d pay five hundred million dollars to anyone who kills you.
 
Every psycho and his brother will be on the lookout for you!
 
Do you understand?”

“But he’s in prison!”

“You have to find the children and get home!”

Lindsay suddenly felt very exposed and vulnerable even though no one passing on the streets or sidewalk could see her behind the tinted glass of the Escalade.
 
Panic seized her.
 
Then she forced herself to focus.
 
She snapped instantly into survival mode.
 
She dug a hand into her purse and brought out a pair of Gucci sunglasses, pushing them onto her face.
 

She drifted into the turn lane at a traffic light and sat with her eyes closed.
 
She clutched the wheel hard to try to keep her hands from trembling.
 
A fresh wave of panic rose up from deep inside.
 
Somehow Dunbar had found a way to get to her.
 
Tears filled her eyes.
 
She wondered how long that monster had been planning this.

CHAPTER 8

Johnny Smackdown came out of the restroom and headed back down the hall to his studio.
 
His long hair flowed down to the middle of his back and looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
 
It hung in his face as he swaggered past office cubicles and the giant posters of himself and his fellow DJs hanging on the walls.
 
They were on commercial break.
 
He passed a window, ignoring the sweep of Los Angeles spreading out far below.
 
The THUNDER 99.1FM studios were housed in the top floor of a glass tower amid the skyline of downtown L.A.
 
This was Johnny Smackdown’s kingdom in the sky, his palace, the empire he had built with his very own insipid brand of filth and toilet humor.
 

Smackdown was a forty-three year old low-life with millions of daily listeners and an eight-figure salary.
 
At six-foot-eight, he was impossible to miss.
 
He was rail-thin and not exactly the definition of movie star handsome.
 
He looked like an aged rock star wannabe.
 
His usual uniform was a wrinkled heavy metal T-shirt, ratty denim jeans, and black combat boots.
 
He wore dark shades, indoors or out, day and night.
 
Legend held that he often smoked pot on-air during his show, and that was true.
 
Smackdown marched to the beat of his own drum and was rich enough to no longer have to take orders from anyone.
 

They were just kicking off the drive-time show.
 
Time to give the commuters something to laugh about.
 
Smackdown was the king of smut.
 
Bimbos and midgets were money in the bank.
 
Fart jokes.
 
Phone pranks.
 
Anything for a cheap laugh.
 

He lit a cigarette as he entered the studio.
 
He dropped into his swivel chair and snapped the headset over his ears.
 
His sidekicks, Greasy Al and Wanda West, were in their seats around the table, ready to roll.
 
He raised his chin and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
 
An Instant Message window popped up on his computer screen.
 
It was from his producer, Wes, seated on the other side of a wall of glass.
 

Wes: GOOD NEWS!

Smackdown: WHAT?

Wes: REMEMBER THE DUNBAR MURDERS FROM A FEW YEARS BACK?

Smackdown glanced through the glass.
 
He saw Wes in there, and shrugged at him.

Wes: THE RICH DUDE.
 
KILLED HIS WIFE AND KID.

Smackdown: OK…?

Wes: DUDE IS BACK…IT’S ALL OVER THE INTERNET.

Smackdown: AND…?

Wes: CHECK IT OUT…

Almost instantly an email dropped into Smackdown’s inbox.
 
He opened it.
 
Wes had sent him a hyperlink to a camera phone video on YouTube.
 
Smackdown clicked on the link and watched the video of Dunbar’s speech from San Quentin.
 
Smackdown loved it.
 
Thought it was hilarious.
 
He knew he could get some serious mileage out of a stunt like that.
 
The wheels inside his devious little brain immediately went to work.

Smackdown: GREAT STUFF!

Wes: THERE’S MORE.

Smackdown waited.

The follow-up IM from Wes said: TRASHTAWKER.COM HAS POSTED LINDSAY HAMMOND’S HOME ADDRESS ON THEIR WEBSITE!!!!!

Smackdown felt a chill.
 
What a beautiful day this had turned into.
 
Trashtawker.com was a popular sleazy celebrity tabloid website known for posting private information about the rich and famous.
 
Smackdown went to the website.
 
They already had the address plugged into Google.
 
Smackdown clicked his mouse and zoomed right in on the satellite image of Lindsay Hammond’s roof.
 

Smackdown was ready to have some fun.

CHAPTER 9

Lindsay dialed her daughter’s cell but got only her voice mail.
 
She left a brief message telling her to call back as soon as possible, that it was an emergency.
 
Then she dialed the carpool mother who had delivered Wyatt to soccer practice.

“Hello?”

“Sherry, it’s Lindsay.
 
Is Wyatt with you?
 
Are you still at practice?” She strained to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Yes, still here.
 
Something the matter?”

Lindsay changed lanes without signaling.
 
“Everything’s fine,” she answered.
 
“Just a small change of plans.
 
Having to pick him up a little early is all.”

“Hmm.
 
Sounds good.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”
 

“Cool.”

Lindsay dropped the cell onto the center console.
 
She placed her hands at ten and two on the wheel and took a deep breath.
 

She forced herself to think through this logically.
 
Dunbar’s announcement had already been posted on the Internet, but how quickly could it have possibly spread?
 
How many people could have seen it by now?
 

She calmed slightly.
 
The sky wasn’t falling.
 
The streets weren’t flooding with armed marauders.
 
The city wasn’t burning.
 
This would all blow over and in three days Gaston Dunbar would finally be out of her life forever.
 
He had simply been clever enough to find one more way to scare her.
 
But he was still locked away, still on his way to the execution chamber.
 
All the money in the world couldn’t change that fact.

The street that bordered the city park was lined with cars down both sides.
 
She decided to double-park the Escalade and leave the motor running while she hopped out to retrieve Wyatt.
 
She was getting out when her daughter called her cell.

“Ramey, where are you?”

“I’m with Crystal.
 
She’s taking me home.”
 
Ramey’s voice was noticeably shaky.
 
“Mom, do you know what’s going on?”

“What have you heard?”

“It’s all over the radio!
 
Gaston Dunbar is telling people to kill you!”

Lindsay sighed.
 
“Please just go home and lock the doors.”

“Mom!
 
You don’t understand!
 
We can’t go home!”

“Ramey, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Johnny Smackdown.
 
He got our address off TrashTawker and he’s telling everybody!
 
Mom, everybody listens to Smackdown!
 
All those bad people will know where we live!”

Lindsay felt her heart drop.

“That impossible.”

“Mom, I heard it myself!
 
He’s on the radio right now!”
 

“Listen to me.
 
I will be home in five minutes.
 
If you get there ahead of me, park down the block and stay in the car with Crystal.
 
Does she have the Jetta today?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good.
 
I’ll look for you.
 
I’m in the Escalade.
 
Just don’t get out of the car.
 
Wait for me in the Jetta.
 
Okay?
 
Everything is fine.
 
He’s just trying to scare us.
 
That jerk on the radio can’t hurt us.
 
Stay in the car and I’ll see you in five minutes!”

Lindsay hurried across the field to where a cluster of young boys were standing in their soccer uniforms.
 
She ignored the stares from the other parents.
 
The coach caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, and stopped talking mid-sentence.

“Uh, Ms. Hammond?”

She marched straight to her son, grabbing him by the wrist.

“Mom?
 
We’re still – ”

“Let’s go,” she said, turning back toward the street.
 
“Coach Sanford, I apologize.”

Coach Sanford’s eyebrows went up, as all he could do was stare after them.
 
The parents on the sidelines whispered conspiratorially as Wyatt protested, red-faced with embarrassment.

“Mom, this sucks!”

“Get in the car.”

He climbed into the passenger seat, fuming.
 
“This isn’t fair!
 
That was humiliating!”
 
He glared at her.
 
“This is why I want to go live with Dad!”

Lindsay couldn’t afford to acknowledge the arrow through her heart.
 
Right now her only priority was keeping them alive.

She turned into traffic and tuned the radio to Smackdown’s show.

“What about you, Greasy Al?
 
Wanda says she’s not up to the job.
 
Would you kill someone for five hundred million bucks?”

“Sure, why not?”

(Laughter in the studio)

“Whoa!
 
Really?”
 
(Big laughter from Johnny Smackdown)
 
“Okay, so what about for half that?
 
Say, two hundred million or so?
 
You do it for that?”

“Hey, you show me the cash up, pretty boy, and I’m on this like The Terminator!”

(Machine-gun sound effects over riotous laughter)

“But Al, come on, what if you knew you’d get caught?
 
They’d put you away forever!”

“Johnny, you know me, I’m like a ninja.
 
(sound effects simulating hand-to-hand combat)
 
I move like a shadow through the trees!
 
I’d never get caught!”

(Smackdown howling with laughter)
 
“Greasy Al, you weight three hundred pounds, you idiot!
 
There are no three hundred pound ninjas!
 
You cast a shadow like a school bus!”