Mrs. Million (11 page)

“I’ve got to.”

“You got to be someplace you just sit back and let me do the driving.”

“You’re drunk, too.”

“Me?” Phlox laughed. “Honey, I’m just getting warmed up.” She stood and hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “You coming? You better be, ‘cause I haven’t got a clue where we’re headed.”

Barbaraannette opened her mouth to object, then gave in to Phlox’s self-confident momentum.

Phlox said, on the way out the door, “So where is this tree, sweetie pie, and why the hell does your mother want to climb it?”

Hilde headed into the loop at sixty miles per hour. She could feel the tires, hear them squealing, the sound changing pitch as the rear tires broke loose. Her hands gripped the wheel; she eased back on the accelerator, keeping the slide under control, then punching it hard as she came up over the bridge, bringing the speed back up to sixty as she entered the next leaf of the clover, heading down now. The cloverleaf south of town was the only such interchange within fifty miles. It had been built in the 1960s during a period of high accident rates and low employment, despite the fact that the traffic volume in no way justified the multimillion-dollar project. Hilde remembered when it had been built, but she could not remember where it went.

On the other hand, what did it matter? She was having fun. She hadn’t had a lot of fun lately. This cloverleaf was better than the craziest carnival ride, and free! How many times had she gone around? Twenty ramps, or leaves, or whatever they were, at least.

Under the bridge, then up and around the next leaf. What’s this? A white car with red lights on the roof, chugging along, getting in her way. She leaned on her horn, swerved around it, inches to spare, catching a glimpse of a young man’s startled white face. She smiled at him and kept going.

Any moment now her destination would come to mind.

Mary Beth answered on the first ring.

“Any luck?” Barbaraannette asked, pressing the pay phone receiver against one ear, holding a hand over the other to block the sound of a pneumatic wrench hammering from the service station bay.

“No. I swear, Barbaraannette, teaching Hilde to drive was the dumbest thing you ever did.”

“I thought you said offering the reward for Bobby was the dumbest thing I did.”

“I was wrong.”

A few years back, before it became apparent that Hilde’s grip on time and space had begun to soften, Barbaraannette had dropped by Hilde’s house one afternoon to find a sporty-looking new car in the driveway. She’d wondered who was visiting her mother, but Hilde had been sitting alone on the front porch, absorbed in a thick booklet. This had surprised Barbaraannette, as her mother rarely read anything other than
Vogue.

“What are you reading?” she’d asked.

In answer, Hilde had held up the booklet:
Toyota Celica User’s Guide.

“Why are you reading that?”

“Well, I bought one is why.”

“You bought a car? That’s
your
car?”

“That’s right.”

“But you don’t drive!”

Hilde jabbed a forefinger at the booklet. “I’m learning, aren’t I? And it’s about time!”

After some discussion and a couple of family meetings Barbaraannette had volunteered, over Mary Beth’s objections, to act as Hilde’s instructor. There had been a few unsettling moments, but Hilde had learned quickly, and for the next four years she and her red Toyota had terrorized Cold Rock and amassed a notable collection of traffic citations. Barbaraannette had loved to see her mother running wild, though she’d had to conceal her pleasure from Mary Beth.

Barbaraannette said, “It wasn’t dumb, but I know what you mean.”

“We’ll probably find her in Rochester again. Or Fargo.” Those were two of the places Hilde had gotten to in her Toyota, both times lost and unable to remember her own address. The second time, after Barbaraannette had flown up to Fargo to drive her mother home, Hilde had been diagnosed with a chronic brain disorder that might or might not be Alzheimer’s disease. That had been Hilde’s last legal road trip. A few years later, after a series of nearly disastrous kitchen fires, the girls had been forced to sell the homestead and move Hilde to Crestview where the kitchens had smooth-top electric ranges, smoke detectors, and someone to check on her.

“As long as we find her,” Barbaraannette said. She hung up the phone. She walked back across the service station island to Phlox’s pickup and climbed inside.

A few seconds later, Phlox emerged from the office. “This is the place Bobby took off running,” she said as she slid in behind the wheel. “He hasn’t been back.” She started the truck. “The guy says that the guys Bobby was talking to were Rodney Gent and Hugh Hulke. You know them?”

“They were friends of Bobby’s. They were having some problems.”

“Those the dude ranch guys?”

“Bobby told you about that?” Barbaraannette pressed a hand to her forehead.

Phlox asked, “You feeling okay?”

Barbaraannette shook her head. Whatever small pleasures the alcohol had brought had now devolved into disorientation and fatigue. Blades of reflected sunlight cut at her; dust motes flashed like microscopic novae. A knot had begun to form behind her right eye. “I could use a bite to eat. And some aspirin.”

“You want to stop back at your house?”

“No.” Barbaraannette swallowed. Nausea, too. “Let’s keep on looking. Let’s try the Bingo Hall. She used to go there a lot…wait…” Barbaraannette cocked her head and leaned out the window. “Hear that?”

“What? The siren?”

“I think it’s coming from the highway.” She pointed south.

“Say no more.” Phlox spun out of the service station.

“T
HE THING IS, PERFESSER,
you have to do it right or they don’t pay the reward. You have to call and talk to the right cop so when you bring him in you get credit. A thousand dollars.”

“I don’t understand. If the man is wanted, why can you not simply call the police and have them come pick him up?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But you’re supposed to call first.” Jayjay leaned against the door jamb, one bare foot atop the other. Black jeans, no belt, no shirt.

André shook his head. “It seems a rather unsavory way to make a living, Jonathan. You never told me you were a bounty hunter.”

“It’s sort of a sideline. Don’t worry, though. I’ll have him out of here real soon now.”

André frowned and removed the leg of lamb from its butcher paper wrapping. “I certainly hope so.”

“I’ll call again.” Jayjay turned to the kitchen phone and dialed. His jeans rode low on his hips, almost ready to fall to the floor. André began to hone his cleaver on a sharpening steel. Frowning, Jayjay worked a finger into his navel as he listened to the phone, then hung up. “No answer,” he said.

“How strange.”

Jayjay shrugged. “It’s a special number. They don’t always answer. I’m gonna go watch some TV.”

André watched the boy leave, considered following him, then decided that his advances would not be welcome at this time. Jayjay was more acquiescent in the evening hours. He returned his attention to the lamb.

The lamb that had once owned this leg, André thought, must have stood waist high at the shoulder. Mutton for sure. He hacked through the tendons with the cleaver, his nostrils flexing at the rich, tallowy smell. Ah well, a few extra cloves of garlic, two tablespoons of his homemade masala, a handful of dried curry leaves, and three hours on the range would overcome the pissy smell and restore the lamb to the tenderness of its youth. He set aside the cleaver and went at the leg with a boning knife, removing strips of bright red meat and trimming them of all visible fat. Every minute or so he stopped cutting, jogged from his rhythm by a thunk or a rattle or some other peculiar sound drifting up from the cellar. The duct-taped man slowly destroying his chair.

The cold lamb felt both sticky and slippery. André felt a stirring low in his gut, and he shuddered. Fear, hunger, nausea, or lust? Rather than analyze it further, André snatched up the cleaver and hacked energetically at the defatted meat, chopping it into bite-size pieces. He heard the sound of canned laughter from Jayjay’s room.

The thumping sound ceased. The man in the cellar had tired, or given up. André could hear only the gentle murmur of the stock simmering in the Dutch oven, filling the air with a rich, chickeny fog. He forced himself to evaluate his situation. Stripped to its most basic components, it was simply this: Jayjay had captured a man and duct-taped him to André’s antique Windsor chair. He claimed that the man had a price on his head, and that he was going to turn him in for a reward. Those were the facts, as supported by the presence of the duct-taped man in the cellar on the one hand, and by Jayjay’s testimony on the other.

Nevertheless, several vexing questions remained: What crime had the man committed? Jayjay had been vague on every particular. André understood that the law was flexible where bounty hunters were concerned, but he knew nothing of the specifics. Did one have to be licensed with some government agency to bounty-hunt? If so, he was fairly certain that Jayjay, having spent time in prison, was not properly certified. And at what point was the bounty hunter required to present the criminal to the proper authorities? Clearly, one could not hold a man captive for weeks or months, but what about holding him for a few hours, or days? And if the man was being illegally detained, how did this impact André’s own legal status? If he stood by and did nothing, would he become an aider and abettor? Was it already too late?

It occurred to André that he might talk to the man and get his side of the story. He looked at the glistening pile of lamb chunks, and at the remains of the leg on the cutting board. Perhaps another quarter-pound of lean meat remained to be coaxed from the bones, but the thought of slicing through more sinew and membrane had lost its appeal. He scooped the meat into the Dutch oven, stirred in the chopped garlic and spices, applied the iron lid, adjusted the flame, then took the boning knife and walked purposefully down the cellar stairs.

The man was sitting quietly when André entered the furnace room, but became agitated at the sight of the knife.

André said, “Please do not be alarmed, I am simply going to remove the tape from your mouth so we can talk.” The man stopped straining against his bonds, but his eyes remained wide. André examined the layered duct tape, trying to decide where to cut—or should he simply find the end and begin unraveling the man? How many layers were there? What had Jayjay been thinking of? Why tape the poor man’s hat to his head? Maybe that was the place to start. André wriggled the thin blade between a strip of tape and the hat, cut through the tape. He grasped the cut end and slowly pulled. It came away from the felt easily, but adhered with greater force to the man’s cheek. André pursed his lips, gave it a yank. Tears erupted from the man’s eyes. Once again, André felt the stirring low in his abdomen, and this time there was no doubt it was of erotic origin. He ignored the sensation as best he could and set about cutting and peeling away enough of the tape to free the man’s lips.

“Are you able to speak now?” he asked, setting the knife atop the furnace.

The man licked his lips and worked his jaw up and down, then said in a hoarse voice, “Something to drink?”

André nodded. The man had been bound and gagged for hours, of course he was thirsty. “I will get you something shortly, but you must promise me something, ah, what did you say your name was?”

The man stared back at him. “You don’t know?”

“I do not.”

“It’s Bobby.”

“Excellent. Bobby. Now, Bobby, I do not wish to hear any shouting, carrying-on, or other noise-making. And please do not rock to and fro, or bang the back of the chair against the wall, or otherwise strain against your bonds. That is a very valuable chair, Bobby. It is more than two hundred years old.”

“I didn’t ask to sit here.”

“Be that as it may, there you are, though I hope for not terribly much longer.”

“I gotta take a leak.”

André frowned. This had not occurred to him. “You may have to hold it a while longer.”

“I may have to piss all over your chair.”

André pursed his lips. He did not like this Bobby. He said, “Do you want me to put this tape back on your face?”

“No.”

“Then tell me, Bobby, why are you wanted?”

“Wanted?”

“What crimes did you commit?”

“Crimes?” He appeared to be genuinely surprised. “I didn’t do anything.”

Perplexed, André crossed his arms and regarded Bobby. “You must have done something or you would not be a wanted man.”

“I’m not wanted. All I know is, your friend psycho boy hit me over the head with a pipe wrench and taped me to this goddamn chair. Are you gonna get me a glass of water?”

André flexed his jaw. He did not care to be ordered about by this Bobby. “Not until you answer my questions,” he said.

“Well, hell, I’m trying!”

“What do you mean, you’re not wanted?”

Bobby hesitated, then flexed his torso in a way that in an unbound man might have become a shrug. “I mean, you make it sound like the cops are after me. Well, they’re not. It’s just Barbaraannette.”

“Who?” The name had a familiar sound.

“My wife,” he said. “That’s why your buddy cold-cocked me, ain’t it? For the million bucks?”

“Million dollars?” André experienced a moment of disorientation, then it hit him. The lottery winner, that ridiculous woman who wanted her husband back. He’d seen her on the television. This was her husband? André stood in stunned silence as his mind absorbed and collated this new information. Jayjay was planning to collect the million-dollar reward. Collect the money, then move on. André felt his face glowing with shame and anger.

Bobby said, “Hey, you didn’t know about this?” Pressing his advantage, he continued. “Well you won’t be able to spend it even if she gives it to you, which she probably won’t if you’re in jail for kidnapping. You better cut me loose right now or you’re gonna be in big trouble.”

André took a step back, seeking a clear channel of thought. He feared that the man was correct. If he was not wanted by the law, not a fugitive from justice, there could be no excuse for duct-taping him to a two-hundred-year-old Windsor.