Dolled Up for Murder (20 page)

I did as I was instructed, backing the Camry up to my car, leaving about two feet between them. I hoisted the tub up and into the Camry's trunk, then got back behind the wheel and turned the light on.

DRIVE TO FIELDSTONE INN. RT 1 NEAR HAMPTON. ON LEFT.

I knew the Fieldstone Inn. It was a new construction, all-suite residency hotel. I'd met the manager at the last chamber of commerce breakfast. It took about twenty minutes to get there, a straight shot down Route One. There was a steady stream of cars going in both directions, enough so I couldn't tell if anyone was following me. When I got there, I turned into the lot and stopped. Thirty seconds later, a message arrived.

DRIVE TO POOL IN BACK.

Lights were on in about half the rooms, including a ground-floor unit overlooking the pool. The blinds were up. A man about my age was sitting on the bed watching TV, drinking beer from a bottle. The kidnapper could be watching me from any room, a creepy thought. I rolled to a stop.

TAKE KEYCARD FROM GLOVE BOX. LEAVE CAR KEY ON FRONT SEAT. TAKE TOWEL AND PHONE. GO TO …

Another text arrived.

… HOT TUB. REMOVE BOOTS AND CLOTHES TO UNDERWEAR. SIT IN TUB AND SUBMERGE HEAD. GET OUT AND TOWEL OFF …

“What?” I said aloud. “Are you nuts?”

I looked around. The man on the bed seemed oblivious to anything going on outside.

“I get it—you think I might be wired.”

It occurred to me that he might be listening in, that possibly he'd rigged the Camry with GPS, just as we'd done to my car, and added a listening device as well. He wouldn't need to follow me … he could track me. He could also hear if I was making unauthorized calls—but I could text Ellis from the new phone.

… DON'T GO OUT OF SIGHT. GO NOW.

He's watching me.
My heart leapt into my throat at the thought.

I looked around. The place appeared to be deserted, but there were ample hiding places—stands of trees and bushes, a janitor's shed near the pool, any of the guest rooms.

I opened the glove compartment. A white keycard, the kind used to access hotel guest rooms, rested on the black plastic. The only marking was a blue arrow indicating which way was up.

The pool area was surrounded by a six-foot-high black iron fence. The gate was fitted with a silver lock, a boxy-looking thing with a slot near the top. I inserted the keycard into the slot, and a second later a green dot of light glowed on the top. I pushed, and the gate swung open. The pool was kidney shaped, covered with a sturdy tarp. The hot tub was positioned at the far end of the pool. A separate building housed the towel service, now closed, and changing rooms, also closed. Big red-and-white signs warned that the pool and hot tub had no lifeguard, that you used the facilities at your own risk.

I dropped the key and towel on a chaise, then sat to remove my boots and socks. I stood to take off my slacks and shirt. Goose bumps appeared on my arms and legs, and I hurried into the hot tub. The jets weren't on, but the water was hot. I eased myself in, sat for a moment, held my breath and dunked myself, then stepped out and ran through the chilly knife-sharp air and grabbed the towel. I wrapped it around myself and rubbed. The phone sounded, and I pounced.

LEAVE CLOTHES WHERE THEY ARE. TAKE KEYCARD. OPEN CAMRY TRUNK. CHANGE IN BACKSEAT. DROP YOUR UNDERWEAR OUTSIDE.

A second text arrived.

PLACE TOWEL AND KEYCARD IN TRUNK.

I ran to the car. Inside the trunk, I found a large clear plastic, kitchen-sized trash bag. I dumped the contents into the trunk. There was another towel, a match to the first, a pair of white briefs, a white bra, a black dress, and flip-flops. I stuffed everything back into the bag and got into the backseat area. Kneeling on the seat, glancing around to make sure no one was close by, I stripped off my underwear and slipped on the briefs, which were the right size, and the bra, which was too big. The dress was way too large, and shapeless. It hung like a potato sack to just below my knees. The flip-flops were too big as well. I wouldn't be able to run in them. Or kick an enemy. I felt exposed and vulnerable and cold.

I dropped my underwear on the curb, as instructed, then placed the towel and keycard in the trunk and slipped behind the wheel to wait for the kidnapper's next directive.

The man was still watching TV, still drinking beer.

I turned the heat up to high, and when the warm air began pouring forth, I held my hands up to the vent.

My boots were gone, and with them the last GPS devices.

The phone buzzed.

DRIVE TO SHAW'S IN NEWINGTON. PARK NEAR THE LEFT SIDE ENTRANCE. GO NOW.

I had to make a decision, and I had to make it now, except there was no decision to make, not really. I typed:

I WANT TO TALK TO ERIC.

I hit the
SEND
button before I could second-guess myself.

NO. GO NOW.

 

NO. A PHOTO OF HIM WITH TODAY'S PAPER OR I TALK TO HIM. NOW.

Time passed. Seconds stretched into minutes.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please.”

It got too hot, and I lowered the temperature. It was still too hot so I lowered the fan speed. The phone buzzed.

HE'LL LEAVE A VM. DON'T ANSWER PHONE.

I texted back:
OK.

The phone rang six times before the automatic voice message system kicked in. I watched the display. The phone number was the same as the one sending the texts. The call lasted twelve seconds. As soon as the icon popped up, I pressed 1 and followed the prompts to retrieve it.

“Hi, Josie,” Eric's message began. He sounded tired, more than tired, weary. “It's Eric. I'm okay, sort of. I got hit on the head. Do what they say, okay? Would you—”

I pounded the dashboard.

They.
Eric said “they.” More than one. I wasn't surprised. It would be next to impossible for one person to handle something this complicated, to manage so many moving parts, alone. A text arrived, a repeat of the last instruction.

DRIVE TO SHAW'S IN NEWINGTON. PARK NEAR THE LEFT SIDE ENTRANCE. GO NOW.

I pulled out of the Fieldstone Inn's lot and headed back toward Portsmouth. The traffic was lighter, but not light enough to be able to spot a tail. Eighteen minutes later, I turned into the mega-grocery-store parking lot. A text arrived before I parked.

GO INSIDE TO FLORIST SECTION. LOOK UNDER PALM TREE FOR KEY. WHEN YOU HAVE IT RETURN TO CAMRY.

The plant and flower department was at the front on the opposite side of the store from where I'd entered. I walked past the checkout aisles. When I reached the area, I saw two five-foot queen palms in terra-cotta containers on the floor near a display of miniroses. Several smaller palms of various varieties were in plastic pots on tables. I lifted a four-foot fan palm, then a three-foot windmill, then a date palm about the same size. I found the key under a four-foot pindo palm tucked in a corner half-hidden by a chest-high stack of twenty-pound bags of potting soil.

I returned to the Camry, and in a minute another message arrived.

PARK CAMRY IN HIGH-HANOVER GARAGE, LEVEL 4.

I drove back into Portsmouth's business district and turned into the High-Hanover parking garage. It was mostly deserted, and as I circled up, level by level, I saw fewer and fewer vehicles. This time my wait for the message was shorter.

PARK NEXT TO WHITE SONATA ON THIS LEVEL. PLACE ENTRY TICKET IN GLOVE BOX. TAKE NEW KEY AND PHONE AND NOTHING ELSE. MOVE DOLLS TO SONATA TRUNK.

I backed the Camry up to the Sonata to make the transfer easier. When the bin was safely in the Sonata, I parked the Camry, put the parking ticket in the glove compartment, and got behind the wheel of the Sonata to wait for the next message. It came quickly.

TICKET, MONEY, WIG IN GLOVE BOX. PUT ON WIG. LEAVE LOT. DON'T TALK TO CLERK. TAKE SPAULDING TPK N. I'M WATCHING U.

Icy fear threatened to take hold of me, but it faded quickly. In crisis mode, fear is acknowledged by some part of my brain, then dismissed. I looked left and right, seeing only the near-empty garage, and then I spotted a video camera attached to the outside hood ornament, its lens aimed right at me, the pinprick-sized dot of red glowing brightly.

“Okay, then,” I said aloud. “Next up is the wig.”

The wig was golden blond and chin length, with bangs. Tucked inside was what looked like a flesh-colored nylon stocking, except shorter. I'd never worn a wig before, and I had no idea what the nylon was for or how to put the wig on. I started the engine so I could turn on the heat. I pushed the ceiling light button, tilted the rearview mirror so I could see myself, and began experimenting. The wig was impossible to get on. I picked up the nylon piece and examined it. It was stretchy, and just for the heck of it, I tried drawing it over my head. It was tight but not uncomfortably so. It fit like a bathing cap. I worked loose strands of hair up and under the cap's edge. After several failed attempts at pulling the wig down onto my head, I discovered that if I leaned into the wig and eased it over my head, it fit as if it had been made for me. I smoothed it into place, then stared in the mirror. I was unrecognizable. Even if the police had managed to follow me, unlikely, I knew, they'd never think that the blonde in the white car was me. Without question, I was on my own.

I was heading north on the Spaulding Turnpike, as instructed, when a text message arrived. I pulled over and set my blinkers.

TURN ON PISCATAQUA. RT ONTO RABBIT. LEFT ONTO OLD GARRISON.

I'd never been on Old Garrison before. It was narrow and winding and seemed to cut through a dense forest. There were no houses or cars that I could see, or if there were houses, they were set so far back not even a glimmer of light shone through. I stopped in the middle of the road to listen, in case someone was following me with his lights off. No one was. I started off again, flipping on my brights to check for side roads or turnoffs. Nothing. I could have been the last person alive in the world. If I hadn't been in crisis mode, I would have labeled what I was feeling as terror. As it was, mostly I was admiring the kidnappers' attention to detail.

A new text arrived. I rolled to a stop.

1
⁄
10
MI BEFORE SPRUCE, TURN ONTO DIRT ROAD ON RT. ENTRY HARD TO SEE. LOOK FOR NARROW PASSAGE BETWEEN TREES. GO TO END AND PARK FACING IN.

I missed it twice. I got to Spruce Lane and backed up, then did it again. The third time I lowered my window and inched forward, peering into the darkness. Calling the entry an opening was like calling a needle's eye a gaping hole. I turned in. Twigs and leaves dripping from the day's rain scraped the side of the car. The packed dirt road must have originally been some sort of cart track. The dirt was more sloppy mud than anything else, filled with gullies and dips. The road curved to the right, then left, and then, a quarter mile in, it dead-ended at a wide circular clearing, a kind of homegrown cul-de-sac. I parked as instructed, then picked up the phone, willing it to ring. Ten minutes later, just as I was about to jump out of my skin, it did.

STAY INSIDE. OPEN TRUNK.

Out of nowhere, I heard an engine. I looked into my rearview mirror and quickly turned away, momentarily blinded by dazzlingly bright white headlights.

I bit my lip. Gazing into the sideview mirrors, I had a sense that a vehicle was behind me, but I couldn't tell for sure. For all I knew the kidnappers were on a motorcycle holding klieg lights they'd mounted on a fence post to mimic a car's headlights. I knew what I needed to do, but Ellis's warning echoed in my ears.
We don't know how twitchy he is. Your demanding anything may send him over the edge.

I hit
REPLY,
then typed:
NO. ERIC FIRST.

As I hit the
SEND
button, my heart crashed against my ribs and my pulse began pounding in my ears.
Please, God,
I prayed.

LOOK TO YOUR RT BACK ABOUT 300 FT. STAY IN YOUR CAR OR I SHOOT HIM.

I leaned to the right, peering into the sideview mirror. Eric was sitting on the ground in stippled light, leaning against a tree. His wrists and legs were bound. His eyes were open. He was looking in my direction. He looked drugged or injured or both.

Another message appeared.
OPEN TRUNK.

I replied,
THEN WHAT?

He answered,
I TAKE DOLLS AND LEAVE. DONE.

I thought it through. His plan was a good one. He'd be able to back out and disappear before I could get Eric inside the car.

I pushed the button, and the trunk door swung up, blocking my view. The lights behind me went out. I looked in both side mirrors but couldn't see a thing. The night was dark, and my eyes hadn't adjusted. I blinked several times, willing myself to see, but it didn't help. I got a sense of a man's shape, nothing more. I timed him. The bin bumped against the fender. Another bump. A dull pounding. Several seconds of silence. His trunk door slammed shut. His car door closed. His engine revved, not too fast. He was in control, neither anxious nor hurried. Motor sounds, receding. Four minutes from his final text message to his departure.

The second he began to drive, I threw open my door, kicked off my flip-flops, and raced through squishy mud and sharp-edged pebbles toward Eric. The kidnapper's vehicle was already out of sight, and within seconds it was out of hearing, too.

“Eric,” I called as I ran. “Eric!”

Eric's mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, then closed as if he couldn't. He looked perplexed. Before I reached him, his eyes glazed over and he made a horrible rasping sound. His head lolled to the side and he slid sideways, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Eric!” I screamed as I reached him.