Foreign Éclairs (18 page)

Sparkles danced before my eyes. I struggled to regain control of my breathing as the smoking man—the man in the gray pea coat—stepped into my view. He’d been the one to incapacitate me, and now he and the priest yanked me to my feet as they jabbered in a foreign language.

Wheezing, I strained for breath even as I fought to break free from their hold. But, like that day in the park a week ago—had it been only a week?—there were two of them and both were bigger and stronger than the one of me.

I gurgled incoherently. Pain seared my throat—the sharpest I’d ever felt. Or so I thought until Gray Pea Coat jammed a needle into the soft flesh just above my collarbone. I felt myself try to scream, but all I could do was bleat.

My strangled moans intensified, my brain raced, but I couldn’t figure a way out. Not this time. As the smoker guy injected a substance into my neck—a drug I knew would kill me—I thought of Gav.

My husband would blame himself for not being here.

At that moment, the front door of the building opened again and Altergott came back out. “How much longer will you be?” he asked. Then, one second later, “Hey, what’s going on here?”

Waters—or whatever his real name was—shouted to the other guy. I’d begun to lose control of my legs and felt myself slump toward the ground.

The funeral director clumped down the two steps. “Is she all right?”

My attacker wrenched the needle from my neck and launched himself at Altergott, jamming the same needle into the large man’s neck. Stunned and surprised, the funeral director was slow to react. When he did, he backed up fast, losing his footing. His eyes went wide and his thick arms pinwheeled. His slack lips moved, but no more than a whimper came out.

Through it all, the smoker guy never lost control of the needle, and I watched as he wedged himself up against Altergott’s back to keep the man upright while plunging the remaining liquid into his body. Why wasn’t he fighting? Why wasn’t he calling for help?

My breathing had begun to even out. Why wasn’t
I
fighting? Why wasn’t
I
calling for help?

It took a long three seconds for me to realize I couldn’t move. Whatever they’d injected me with had completely immobilized my limbs. A quick glance at the funeral director confirmed he was paralyzed as well.

The fake priest held me with both hands, bracing me from behind. I had no feeling, no sense of my own body. I could see, I could hear, but I couldn’t move any of my extremities. And I couldn’t conjure a sound.

The only control I retained was my eyes. I stared across
the six feet separating me from the slack-jawed funeral director. His head had lolled to one side, but his eyes met mine, conveying the same fear and helplessness that twisted my gut.

The two Armustanians—I had no doubt at this point—never stopped moving. From the moment they’d sent me sprawling, it was clear they had a plan and intended to see it through.

The fake priest deftly twisted me around, bent at the knees, and hoisted me into his arms, my feet dangling at his left side, my head drooping backward like a rag doll’s on his right. He took off at a brisk pace the opposite way I’d come.

I couldn’t see anything but the dark sky above, but I could hear Gray Pea Coat grunting and muttering and could imagine he was doing his best to get the funeral director’s body out of sight.

The fake priest turned right; above me, the stars spun. He whisper-shouted to his partner and twisted back, resettling me in his grip like one would a sack of mulch. As we rounded the building—or so I deduced from my view of its top corner, I caught sight of the pointy evergreen tree tops lining the property.

I’d admired them earlier. Now I wished I’d never seen them, that I’d never come here tonight. There were no floodlights in this area of the property and the tall trees provided my captor ample cover. I stared up at the sky and tried to focus on a star. One star. The first star of the night.

Like I had when I was little, I wished with all my might.

As my captor quickened his pace, my body bounced and my head jerked side to side. I lost sight of my wishing star before I could complete the poem in my head. I wondered if the drug they’d administered was affecting my mind. I knew I should be coming up with a plan or figuring out how to escape, but I didn’t know where to begin.

Whatever had stilled my limbs had probably slowed my brain. Either that or the shock and loss of hope had strangled my will.

The priest dropped me to the ground. My back hit a wall that made a hollow sound when I was slammed into it, and his messenger bag whacked me in the face. As soon as I’d been unceremoniously dumped, he took off again.

I rolled my eyes around looking right, left, up, down. Below me, asphalt. Behind me? No idea. I seemed to be at an annex of sorts because the funeral home’s main structure sat to my left. A driveway and more tall trees were to my right.

The priest had been gone for no more than ten seconds when gravity flexed its muscle. My torso shifted and I began to slide sideways along the wall to my left. With no power to control anything but my eyes, I could do nothing to halt my movement or brace myself for impact.

Friction between my jacket and the wall behind me slowed the process some but I continued to slide sideways. On my way down, my torso swiveled enough to lose its connection with the wall, and I slammed to the ground, taking the brunt of the hit with my face and left shoulder. I imagined it was a solid collision, but I couldn’t feel a thing.

Panic skewered my insides, drilling curlicues of fear up from my stomach into my heart. Now
that
I felt. Or at least imagined I did. For as many close calls as I’d endured these past few years, I’d never been faced with a predicament like this where I was unable to lift a finger—literally—to help myself.

Sluggish or not, I forced myself to engage the logical part of my brain. I couldn’t just lie here and do nothing. Though my fear didn’t abate, I couldn’t let it consume me. I had to dig deep to find that spark of ingenuity that might keep me alive.

I strove to take in as much as I could.
You never know
, a
familiar corner of my brain reminded me.
Think, plan, hope. Don’t give up.

Swinging my gaze upward to my right, I realized that the wall I’d been propped against was actually a vinyl overhead door. It was one of two sitting side by side, creating between them a giant four-car garage. Something like that would provide a nice, echoey hollow noise if I banged on it hard enough. I desperately wanted to kick at it to attract attention.

It was too dim to make out more than a tiny fraction of the door’s embossed rectangles. Why was it so dark here? As I allowed my gaze to wander up and around the structure, I noticed floodlights. They’d either never been turned on or someone had taken the time to disable them.

Scraping noises, coupled with the sound of human exertion, came from beyond the top of my head. My brain sent signals to turn and stretch to see what was happening, but they went unheeded as my body remained paralyzed.

Moments later, the priest and the other guy dragged the funeral director’s limp body into view. They dropped him onto his back in a position that didn’t allow for eye contact between us, but I could tell that his eyes were open. I hoped that meant he was still alive.

Through it all, the two Armustanians argued. Or, more accurately, the priest barked hushed orders and the other guy answered and complied. Though I couldn’t understand any words beyond
Kern
, the two gesticulated with such fervor that the essence of their conversation wasn’t difficult to deduce.

Clearly, the funeral home director’s unexpected involvement had thrown off their plan. What subsequently became apparent was that they’d intended to drive away with me as soon as I was immobile, but Gray Pea Coat had lost the keys in the grass while dragging the funeral director across the home’s front lawn.

The fake priest grabbed the other guy by the collar of his pea coat, baring his teeth and whisper-shouting into his face.

Slowly I began to notice that only one of the two men used the word
Kern
, and every time he uttered it, he did so in obedient response to the fake priest’s commands.

Could this man with the white hair and clean-shaven face
be
Kern? Why wasn’t he in custody? Had he managed to escape? Unlikely. If he had, Gav and Yablonski would have been instantly at my side.

I studied him as the other guy dug through his pockets for the third time in thirty seconds. The only photo I’d seen of the Armustanian leader had been out of focus and not face-on. Gav had said they thought he was thirty-two. Yes, that was about right.

He used the word
Slager
repeatedly as he chastised his accomplice. I gathered that was Gray Pea Coat’s name.

The futility of their predicament gave me hope until Kern came up with the idea of digging through Altergott’s pockets. The two of them rocked the large man’s body as they pulled open his suit coat, searching it thoroughly, then started in on the pants.

With a quiet exclamation of triumph, Slager hoisted a set of keys into the night air. Sorting through them, he raced around the building and out of sight. I heard the muffled sounds of metal against metal and then a soft slam. A moment later, the large overhead door behind me whirred open, revealing two vehicles, both shiny black hearses.

Kern scooped his arms under the funeral director and dragged the dead weight backward into the cavernous garage. When they passed me, I detected awareness in Altergott’s eyes. He stared as though pleading for help, asking me what was going on. I hoped my silent commiseration helped him, but I doubted anything would.

With effort, Kern dragged the man between the two sleek vehicles and out of sight.

From my vantage point on the ground, I watched Slager make a quick circuit of the garage. I assumed he was searching for car keys. Every second the two Armustanians delayed was another moment in my favor, offering the slim chance that we’d be noticed. But before I could count to twenty, I heard his muffled shout and the subsequent jingling of keys. He hurried toward the nearest hearse.

Don’t start. Don’t start.

Slager turned the key. The engine purred to life.

From the ground, I watched the car’s tires roll forward until the vehicle was roughly parallel with my position. Leaving it to idle, Slager jumped out of the car and hurried around to open the back hatch.

Kern stepped over my bent form. I wanted to kick and trip him; I wanted to scream and alert the quiet neighborhood to the terror that was happening in the shadows of this funeral home. But I could do nothing as Kern took my arms and Slager came around to grab my feet. I remained limp and lifeless as they lifted me like a human hammock and shuffled around the car.

With my head hanging forward this time, I had a partial view of Slager as he walked backward. I couldn’t see the funeral director, but I could hear his labored breathing as the two Armustanians transported me to the rear of the hearse. With a grunt of effort, they tossed my broken body into the long, lonely compartment of death.

I landed mostly on my left side with my arm pinned beneath me. My body lay on an angle with my face low and my backside high. I imagined my fat purse was wedged underneath my hip. Half my face smashed into one of the metal rollers built into the floor I assumed was to facilitate the transport of
heavy caskets. I couldn’t see out the windows, but if this hearse was like most I’d encountered in my life, it had been fitted with curtains, meaning no one could see in, either.

My right arm had landed atop my hip and my hand bounced as Slager peeled out of the funeral home parking lot and away. I had no idea what position my legs were in. I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t see them.

The drug they’d administered hadn’t killed me. Not yet, at least. They were keeping me alive. I wondered why.

The two men talked quietly in their native language, and I got the impression that now that they’d gotten what they wanted—me—they were more relaxed. That scared me most of all. While they’d been scrambling at the funeral home because of the unexpected complication of Altergott’s presence, there had been hope. With every lighthearted lilt in their cheerful banter, my outlook dimmed.

Gav was out of town with Yablonski, and no one would miss me until tomorrow morning. Bucky and Sargeant knew that I’d planned to attend Margaret’s wake. But they wouldn’t have any reason to confirm my arrival. Why would they?

I had to face it: I was on my own.

I took in as much of my dark surroundings as I could. How strange, I thought, that my last car ride alive be in the same type of vehicle as my final ride deceased. For the first time ever, I had no doubt: I would not get out of this one alive. There were no means to save myself and I could see no one riding to my rescue.

I missed Gav. Knowing I would never see him again cut my heart to shreds and made my eyes hot. Sorrow overwhelmed me, making it hard to breathe.

We drove for what felt like a long time. More than an hour. Maybe two. Although I tried, I couldn’t keep track. My brain still felt foggier than usual. I hated that.