Mrs. Million (30 page)

Mary Beth knocked on the window.

Barbaraannette hesitated, momentarily held in thrall by her big sister’s commanding gaze.

“Barbaraannette, we have to talk. I won’t let you do this,” Mary Beth shouted through the glass.

“I don’t have time for this,” Barbaraannette muttered to herself. She set her jaw and dumped the clutch. The car shot backward out of the driveway, sending Mary Beth staggering, falling onto her rear on the wet brown grass. Barbaraannette shifted into first and took off, catching a glimpse of Toagie’s wide eyes as she rocketed past the Lincoln. A glance in the rearview showed Mary Beth back on her feet, running toward her car, nearly getting hit by a little red car that had come racing around the corner.

Barbaraannette hunched her shoulders and accelerated. She would not look back again.

“Pookie?” Phlox whispered.

“What?”

“What’s that I feel pressing up against me?”

“What d’you think?”

“You got a funny sense of timing, Pook.”

“I guess I’ve been missing you.”

“I got a bad feeling. He’s talking to himself again.”

They could hear André’s voice from the front seat, muttering.

“I think he’s crazy, Pook.”

“No shit.”

“What was that stuff he was talking last night? That was definitely crazy. I don’t think he’s gonna let us go, Pook.”

“Barbaraannette’s gonna pay him. She has to.”

“I don’t think that matters anymore. Do you know what I think we should do? Next time he opens this trunk we should just run. Take off fast and hope he doesn’t shoot us.”

“He’ll shoot us.”

“Better that than listen to another lecture. You know something, Punky? Ever since this whole thing started you’ve been acting kinda wussy. Where’s Bobby Steele, that macho man I knew back in Tucson?”

“He’s in a trunk half starved with a woman won’t shut up.”

Phlox did not reply for several seconds. André’s muttering faded, but they could hear him moving around, clearing his throat.

She said, “What’s he doing?”

“I dunno.” Bobby sniffed. “Do you smell cheese?”

André spread a slice of Wisconsin Saga Bleu Cheese onto a cracker with a plastic knife. He set the knife on the dashboard and, balancing the cracker on his fingertips, took a delicate bite and chewed thoughtfully. He could hear the man and woman whispering in the trunk. Probably discussing some of the ideas he had introduced to them last night. He smiled, shaking his head. Those two were no more equipped to understand structural analysis than most freshmen. At best, they would retain a word or two of terminology, and the next time they heard someone using structuralism to support an argument, they would be a word or two closer to comprehension. This was his goal as a teacher. It was all one could reasonably hope to achieve.

“I do what I can,” he said to his cracker.

The Taxidermy & Cheese Shoppe occupied one of Cold Rock’s choicest locations, a high knoll just off the highway at the north end of town. From the parking lot, André had a commanding view of the surrounding area. Anyone leaving town would have to pass across his field of view. Turning his head in the other direction he could see downtown Cold Rock, including four of the six bridges. It was the perfect spot from which to engineer a ransom payment. He had the view and a pay phone on the outside wall, and the cheese was not bad either.

André was on his third cracker when he saw a blue car cross one of the bridges. The car followed the river road to the next bridge, then crossed the river again. The passenger side door was brown. André smiled. “Very good, Mrs. Quinn.” He returned his attention to the first bridge, where he spotted a small red car and, a few moments later, a long silver car.

For two minutes, André lost sight of them, then the procession reappeared on the northernmost bridge. The blue car with one brown door. The red car a few car lengths back, and twenty seconds later the silver car. André frowned as he prepared another cracker. This was not how things were supposed to go.

Kum & Go, a convenience store and gas station chain, had opened its Cold Rock store five years ago, shortly after Bobby had disappeared. Barbaraannette had always been somewhat offended by the name. She preferred to buy her chips and fuel at the Pump-n-Munch at the other end of town, but this was no time to be persnickety. She pulled up to the pumps nearest the door and got out, lugging the briefcase. She fitted the gas nozzle into her tank and started pumping. She did not see André Gideon anywhere, but a few moments later Mary Beth pulled up in her Lincoln and parked at the next pump.

She rolled down her window. “Barbaraannette!”

“Go away. You’re going to get Bobby killed.”

“I doubt that. You are not being rational, Barbaraannette.”

“How is that any of your business?”

“I’m your sister, dear.”

“That’s your problem.” Barbaraannette watched the numbers roll over on the gas pump. “What are you going to do? Tie me up? Call the police again?”

Mary Beth clicked her teeth. “I’m coming with you,” she said. “Toagie and I are coming with you.”

Barbaraannette said, “I don’t think so.” She racked the pump nozzle.

“This man won’t dare do anything with the three of us there.”

Barbaraannette ignored her, went into the store and paid the cow-faced man behind the counter. She asked him if there were any messages for her.

“Messages?” The man mooed, blinking enormous brown eyes.

The telephone behind the counter rang.

“That might be for me,” said Barbaraannette. The clerk answered, frowned, handed her the phone.

“Once again you have betrayed me,” said André Gideon. “Shall I simply kill your husband now, or would you like to talk about it?”

“I haven’t betrayed you. I’ve done everything you asked.”

“You are not alone. You were followed.”

“My sisters. I told them not to.”

“I counted two vehicles following you. A big silver car and a very small red car.”

“Oh.” She had noticed the red car back in town, but had thought nothing of it. “My sisters are in the silver car. I don’t know about the other one.”

“You will have to get rid of them.”

“I can do that. Then what?”

“Do you know where Miller’s Road is?”

“Sure.”

“Once you have eluded your pursuers, you will take Miller’s Road west to the Sorenson Lake boat landing, where you will turn around and drive back toward Cold Rock. This will permit both of us to ascertain that you are not being followed. If all is well, we will proceed.”

“Proceed how?”

“When you see a white paper bag in the middle of the road, you will throw the briefcase out of your car and continue driving. Once I have confirmed that the money is all there, I will call you at your home to tell you where to find your husband. You will do as I say, or you will not see your husband alive.” The phone went dead.

Barbaraannette hung up but kept her hand on the phone. “Mind if I make a quick call?” she asked the clerk.

The cow man shrugged his assent. Barbaraannette dialed the phone, looking out the window. Toagie was pumping gas into Mary Beth’s car. Mary Beth remained behind the wheel.

The phone rang. “Where do you keep the sugar?” she asked the clerk.

“We have brown and white and powdered,” the man said, pointing at one of the shelves;

Barbaraannette nodded, listening to the telephone. On the third ring she got an answer.

“Cold Rock Savings & Loan.”

“Sally? It’s Barbaraannette. Could I talk to Art, please?”

Toagie came to a decision. She would finish doing this one last thing for Mary Beth, pumping her gas for her, and that was it. If Mary Beth wanted to keep following Barbaraannette she could do it alone. Barbaraannette could take care of herself, and so could Mary Beth, and so could she, for that matter. Mary Beth could pump her own fleeping gas from now on.

Toagie’s mouth tilted in a smile, trying to picture it. No, Mary Beth would never pump her own gasoline. She would always find someone to do it for her.

The pump clicked off. Barbaraannette came out of the store carrying the briefcase in one hand and a pink box of C&H sugar in the other. She walked directly up to Toagie, her jaw set.

Toagie said, “This wasn’t my idea.”

Barbaraannette nodded. “I know. Excuse me.” She tore open the box of sugar, and poured it into the gas tank. Most of the sugar spilled down the side of Mary Beth’s car, but a fair amount went down the pipe.

“You think I got enough in?” Barbaraannette asked.

Toagie smiled. “I think so. I don’t know how much it takes.”

“It ought to slow you down, anyways.” Barbaraannette tossed the empty carton into the trash barrel, returned to her car, and drove off. Toagie replaced the gas cap and got back into the Lincoln.

Mary Beth asked, “What did she just do?”

“She just told us to stay put.”

Mary Beth wrinkled her nose. “Not likely,” she said, turning the ignition key.

“
ARE YOU GOING
to lunch already?” Sally asked.

“Just out,” said Art. He didn’t trust himself to look at her.

“When will you be back?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Just go to the car, start it, get it moving. There are times to think and times to do. If he thought too hard about what he was doing he would do nothing at all.

The trees looked different in daylight. It took André ten minutes of driving back and forth on Miller’s Road to find the overgrown entrance to the logging road where they had attempted to bury Jayjay. André drove up the rutted dirt path until his way was blocked by a fallen elm tree. He got out and jogged quickly back to Miller’s Road, carrying the white paper bag that read
Taxidermy & Cheese Shoppe.
When he reached the road he concealed himself behind cedar bush and waited.

Barbaraannette took the highway south to Miller’s Road, pulled over and parked on the shoulder just before the intersection. Miller’s Road ran west from Easton Creek and continued thirty miles through a checkerboard of rocky farmland and state forest to Highway 169. Because of its many twists and turns and roller-coaster hills and wooded pullouts, it was a favorite with local teenage drivers.

The little red car zoomed past her—she recognized Hugh Hulke in the passenger seat. It disappeared over the top of a rise. Seconds later, she saw the top of the red roof peek up over the rise on the other side of the road. Barbaraannette watched her rearview mirror, waiting. Five minutes later a gray Plymouth appeared, slowing as it approached. Barbaraannette waited until she could recognize Art Dobbleman’s face. She waved, put her car in gear, and turned onto Miller’s Road. Art followed. A quarter mile up the road, as she topped the first hill, Barbaraannette caught a glimpse of the red car coming up behind Art.

“Who’s that?”

“I dunno.”

“What’s he doing? Go around him!”

Rodney veered to the left, trying to pass, but the man in the Plymouth swerved in front of him.

“He won’t let me by.”

Hugh reached over and leaned on the horn. Rodney batted his arm away. “Jesus Christ, Hugh. Lemme drive, would you?”

“Go around him! You want to lose her?”

“I’m trying!” The Plymouth, in the middle of the road, had slowed to a crawl.

“Now! Punch it!”

Rodney punched it. The Isuzu groaned and slowly began to pick up speed. Rodney faked a move to the left, then, as the Plymouth moved left to intercept, wrenched the wheel to the right. They were suddenly abreast, both cars accelerating, the undersized four-cylinder engines clattering and moaning.

Hugh leaned across Rodney’s lap and gave the guy the finger. “Up yours, asshole!” he shouted.

Rodney flailed at Hugh with his elbow, swerving onto the shoulder, then back onto the roadway. “F’Chrissakes, what are you—” He swerved again, this time to avoid hitting the guy in the Plymouth. “—Jesus! You trying to get us killed? I—shit!” He steered the car toward the shoulder again. “—The guy’s a maniac. What’s he think he’s-” The Plymouth slowly pulled ahead, then cut in front of him and abruptly slowed. Rodney stood on the brake pedal; Hugh slid forward, his knee smashing into the glovebox. Rodney grappled with the wheel, tromped on the accelerator, managed to pass the maniac on the left. Hugh was gasping in pain. Rodney said, “Look what you did to the car, man!”

The door of the glovebox was crushed. Hugh, agonized and gripping one knee, looked back. “You better hit it, Rod Man, he’s right behind us.”

“I’m going! I’m going! This thing don’t go all that fast, man. Jesus Christ. My wife is gonna kill me.”

“Here he comes again.” Hugh leaned over the back of his seat.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting my goddamn shotgun. I—oh, shit.”

“What?”

The Plymouth slammed into the rear bumper. Hugh’s seatback collapsed, sending him sprawling into the back; the Isuzu careened across the opposite lane and onto the far shoulder. Rodney wrenched the wheel to the right. The Isuzu spun three hundred sixty degrees and came to rest on the right shoulder.

The Plymouth pulled over ten yards ahead, the reverse lights came on, dust exploded from beneath its front wheels and it headed toward them, picking up speed. Rodney covered his face with his arms. The Plymouth smashed into them, sending the Isuzu lurching back a few yards. Hugh, still tangled up in the back seat, let out a howl of rage. The Plymouth drove forward a few yards, then stopped. Rodney pressed on the gas pedal and tried to turn the steering wheel, but his efforts produced only a metallic shriek, and then the engine died.

André remained hidden as Barbaraannette Quinn drove by in her blue car. He waited, watching, but no other cars appeared. Good. Everything was going according to plan once again. She would drive to the landing, another couple miles, then drive back. She would throw out the money, he would retrieve it, get rid of the couple in his trunk, and head for the airport. He would be rich and free, and he would be Adam Grappelli. He walked out to the center of the road, placed the weighted
Taxidermy & Cheese Shoppe
bag on the centerline, then returned to his hiding place.

Art stared into his rearview mirror at the mangled front end of the Isuzu, his hands dancing on the steering wheel. He’d done it! He’d stopped them. This was better than winning a race. Better than bumper cars at the fair. He wanted to do it again. Maybe he should, just for the hell of it. The back end of his car was ruined anyway. Had he hit them hard enough? They weren’t moving. His heart rate had to be up over two hundred. He felt great.