No Gun Intended (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The mattress kept me from rolling too far from side to side when the van turned corners, or from sliding toward the front when it came to a stop. I tried to concentrate on the direction of the turns and the number of stops. I started counting off seconds in my head, too, so that when we got to wherever we got, I could estimate how long it took to get there. Plus I was trying to worm my way out of the blindfold and the tape.

The blindfold was easier. I was able to roll onto my side and rub my face against the mattress, easing the cloth down my nose enough to see.

Pitch black. No windows. That had to mean the back of the van was a separate compartment from the front.

I couldn't see the kidnappers, but they couldn't see me either.

I gave up on the directions, but kept counting, probably too fast. I started working on freeing my hands. Because I had crossed my wrists, I could maneuver them into a looser position. I twisted and turned them back and forth, trying to wrench one hand free, all the while counting.
Seven hundred twenty-two. Seven hundred twenty-three. Seven hundred twenty…

I yanked my right hand out from behind me. “Take that, Houdini,” I muttered, grateful for the self-defense class I took in New York where I learned that tip. I pulled the blindfold off and freed my left hand, ripped the tape off my mouth in one quick move without screaming, and unwrapped my ankles. I rubbed my wrists, red and scraped from the tape, and huddled on the floor.

Now what?

Seven hundred forty-seven. Seven hundred forty-eight.

The van exited the freeway. I had no idea of the direction it was heading anymore. Several turns later, it slowed down considerably and made a hard left. I figured we had reached our destination.

I crouched by the side of the two back doors, feeling for the hinges on each. They opened outward. I had two things in my favor. One was the element of surprise. All I could hope to do was to bust out of there as soon as a door opened.

Running fast was the other thing.

Except that I was wearing heavy socks. No running shoes.

And flannel pajamas.

I changed my position so that I was balanced on my butt, with my legs bent and in the air, my feet close to the doors, and my arms supporting me behind my back.

I heard footsteps, and took a deep breath.

When the door opened I jabbed my legs straight out with as much force as I could muster and was lucky to connect with the face of one of the kidnappers.

“Fuck!” he yelled as he fell to the ground.

The other guy wasn't there.

I jumped out and fled down the driveway of what looked like an industrial warehouse. I heard the guy on the ground shout, “Jules! She's getting away!” I turned slightly to see the other coming from the building, where I guess he had gone to unlock the door while his partner was getting his kisser kicked.

I rallied all the speed I could, racing like Francois Cluzet, the lead character in the French film based on the Harlan Coben novel
Tell No One,
when the police are chasing him because they suspect him of murder.

Favorite movie scenes can be truly inspiring for saving one's ass. Trust me.

I cut through parking lots, crossed streets, and found myself in a wooded area, where I stopped to catch my breath and pull off some pebbles stuck to my socks, which were soaked from the damp ground. My feet were killing me, but I sprinted off again.

I ran and ran until I eventually reached what seemed to be a major road. It was so late, there was no traffic, but this would be my best bet. I crossed it to see what was over its far ledge.

I leaned over, resting my hands on my legs while I panted and gazed at the mighty Columbia River.

I was somewhere in north Portland, and if I remembered correctly, not all that far from the airport.

A car had to come by soon.

I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering.

Jules. Julius. Biker Dude.

“Fuck you, Greta!” I screamed it over and over, louder and louder, until I was exhausted.

That's when a truck saw me and pulled over. It was a semi. The driver rolled down the passenger window and yelled out to me. “Hey, you all right? You need a ride?”

I wasn't climbing into any more vehicles with strangers that night. “Would you make a phone call for me? Then my friend can come and pick me up?”

“Sure, but you're going to freeze out there in the meantime. Don't you want to get in…?”

“Please? Just the phone call.” I gave him Mickey's cell number. He called and then hung up. He reached behind him, grabbed a blanket, and tossed it out the window to me. “I'll sit right here in the truck until he gets here. Okay with you?”

I nodded. “Thank you.” Most of me wanted to climb inside to get warm, but an insistent nagging bit of me was not going to risk in any measure ending up like William Macy's wife in
Fargo
—kidnapped and dead.

***

Mickey sat in the backseat with me. Dad was driving, Luis was in the passenger seat. Mickey held me close while I tried to direct Dad to where I thought the warehouse was. But a lot of the buildings in the industrial park looked the same, and there was no sign of the van. We pulled into a parking lot.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm not sure anymore. It was dark, and I was running.”

“Shall we wait here, call the police, tell them to meet us out here?” Dad asked, looking at Mickey in the rearview mirror.

Mickey rubbed my arm. “Annabelle's so cold.”

“I'm warming up. The trucker's blanket was a big help. What a nice guy, huh? Thanks for thinking to bring my jacket and my sock-monkey hat, Dad.”

He twisted the mirror so that he could see me, and smiled weakly. “Nothing to thank me for, Bea. That back door was unlocked. I can't believe I didn't check it.”

“Any of us could have checked it, Jeff,” said Luis. “It is not your fault.”

Dad didn't respond.

“Call the police, Mickey. Are they looking for me already, or are they with Mom, or…?”

“I'll call.” Mickey got out of the car, and I saw him pull a cigarette out of his pocket and light it.

Dad saw it, too. “Mickey smokes?”

“News to me, too. Apparently he used to, and now he does under stressful situations, although I never saw him smoke in Las Vegas. Did you, Luis?”

Luis shook his head.
“Nunca.”

Now, I'm not a no-smoking Nazi. I like it that restaurants and airplanes and nail salons aren't filled with tobacco smoke these days, but if someone wants to smoke without blowing the fumes all over me, who am I to judge them? I mean, we all have our addictions.

I tugged my sock-monkey hat tightly over my ears. “Greta's involved, Luis. I'm pretty sure that one of the kidnappers was Julius. She must have had him follow us home.”

Luis shifted around in his seat. “
Amiga,
she seemed glad that I threw him out.”

“She lied about everything, I'm sure of it. I told you, she made a phone call while we were leaving. Probably told him to follow us.”

“Makes sense, but why kidnap you?”

We were all quiet for a while, waiting for Mickey to hang up. He did, then stubbed out his smoke on the pavement, and pocketed the butt before getting back in the car.

“Cool.”

He frowned. “Smoking? It's so not cool.”

I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. “No, that you picked up the butt. I hate litterbugs.”

Luis suddenly sat up straight. “Greta. You said she lied about everything.”

“No reason to trust her at this point.”

“You remember, she said that she spoke to the police?”

“Yes.”

“But remember,
amiga
, Perry at The Rowdy Yeats? He said that he had only just remembered that Hank Howard told him that he liked a girl at the Uptown Billiards Club.”

“Uh huh. He did.”

“So, he didn't tell the police that. The police wouldn't have even talked to Greta.” Luis looked from me to Mickey and to Dad, and then back at me.

Mickey snapped his fingers. “Excellent, Luis. Greta learned about the gun from us. She was clueless otherwise.” He paused. “Maybe she sent Julius after you to get the gun. Figured you still have it.”

Dad was silent through all of this, his head leaning against the headrest. I saw him adjust his glasses, and noticed his hand was unsteady.

“Dad. It's okay. We're making progress. I'm fine. We're all fine.”

He held that hand in the air, signaling that he heard me. But it was still shaking.

Soon a police car rolled into the parking lot, and we all got out, me a little weak-kneed, Mickey and Luis tough and ready, and Dad looking like he had been hit by an age-inducing virus that infected him faster than you could say rheumatoid arthritis.

“Dad.” I put my arm around his waist. “It's not your fault. I'm fine.”

“It
is
my fault, but that's not the problem.” He stopped and turned to me. “I just got a text from your mother. Loren Scranton called her on our home phone.”

“What did he say?!”

“I'm not sure. But her text said she let him have it and hung up.”

“Go, Mom.”

“Right. But…”

“Are you worried that he's coming back to the house and we're not there?”

“No. She's gone over to Sal and Drew's.”

“Good. So why do you look like you're about to pass out?”

Dad held his hand to his forehead. “Darling, do I really need to explain that to you? My daughter was kidnapped tonight, and my wife is being stalked. How are you so calm?”

I didn't know how to answer that. I just shook my head.

He took my hand. “Let's join the conversation with the police and Mickey and Luis, and then let's get the hell home.”

We walked hand in hand the few steps to the others. When Mickey met my eyes, I thought I might lose it. But maybe for the first time in my life, my father seemed to be relying on
my
strength, and no way was I going to let him down.

Chapter Eighteen

Dawson and Monroe weren't on the case this evening. The officers who arrived were very accommodating and professional. I gave them a full statement with as many details as possible. I knew the van was dark green, but I hadn't been able to determine the make. Mickey and Luis told them all about Greta and Julius and suggested that they get in touch with Dawson and Monroe to fill them in on the case. They nodded, wrote everything down, and said they'd take a few turns around the area to see if they could spot the van.

I filled Mickey and Luis in on the way home about Loren Scranton. Dad drove a little too fast, but we didn't get pulled over.

When he parked in front of the house, we all jumped out and sprinted up the steps of Sal and Drew's, whose front windows were blazing with light. Before Dad could knock, the door flew open.

“Friends! Come in, come in. All is well. Sylvia is having some calming tea while Drew, I'm afraid, is wearing a path in our living room carpet, pacing like a caged tiger. He's quite upset, as we both are, you all getting such a scare.”

We walked into the living room. As soon as Mom saw me she rushed to give me a hug. “My brave, brave daughter. Let me look at you. Are you hurt at all?”

I kept my arms wrapped tightly around her. “No, a few bruises, and I'm chafed from the duct tape, but I'm fine.”

That's when I finally lost it. I started sobbing. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fit as a fucking fiddle and mad as a hatter. Don't you worry about me.”

I wiped my eyes when I disengaged and looked around for Mickey. He was leaning against the doorway, watching me with the most mournful eyes I had ever seen.

“Sal, if you don't mind, do you have any more bourbon?” I asked.

“Bea, it's three o'clock in the morning. Are you sure you want a drink?” Dad sounded so tired.

“Very sure.”

“Me, too.” He smiled, and everyone managed a little laugh.

“Drinks all around. However, at this hour, I insist on brandy. Sit down everyone, and let's hash out this awful business.” Sal was off to the kitchen.

Mickey stayed standing, easing his way around the room, following the conversation by squinting at whoever was talking. His cop demeanor was raging. I had seen it before.

“Drew has been telling me about a stalker he dealt with once,” Mom said. “Terrible business.”

“It was a long time ago. He was convinced I was corrupting his son.” Drew fidgeted with the tie on his bathrobe. That's when I realized that of the seven of us, four were in sleepwear. Dad, Mickey, and Luis looked like slumber-party crashers.

“Like, you were a perv or something?” I asked.

“Sort of. It was because we had a discussion in class one day about pornography, how standards have changed, and while one might think a book is pornographic, another might deem it literature.”

“Sounds like a class I would have liked to have taken in high school,” Sal said, entering the room carrying a tray of brandy snifters. We each took one and sipped.

Drew continued. “This kid went home and told his father that he should let him read all of Henry Miller's books, because they were literature.”

“Well, they are, right?” Mom asked.

“Today, yes, that's how they are considered. Originally, complete porno. Anyhoo, I told the father that it was a complicated issue but that I would be happy to meet with him.”

Sal perched on the arm of the wingback chair where Drew was sitting. “He refused, thank goodness.”

“Yes. Turned out he preferred to send threatening letters to me and try to get me fired.”

“I don't think he has much in common with Scranton,” muttered Mickey.

I flashed him a look that I hoped told him to cool it.

Drew took a large swallow of brandy and stood up. “Then he tried to assault Sal.”

“Holy fuck!” exclaimed Mom.

Mickey's squinting was even more pronounced than before. I wondered if he could even see.

Sal waved his hand in front of his face. “Oh, Drew, really. You can be so dramatic. That bivalve did not mean to assault me.” Drew plopped back down in the chair while Sal took over. “We were cooking together. I went outside to snip some basil leaves from our herb garden right when the jerk hurled a copy of Miller's
The Tropic of Cancer
at our door, and it hit me in the head.”

I smiled. “Death by porno. Or literature.”

“Yes, sugar. We got a restraining order, and he left us alone.”

“What happened to the son?” Luis asked.

Drew grinned. “Got his MFA in creative writing. Served daddy-dear right.” With that, he got up and poured himself some more brandy from the decanter on the tray. “Perhaps your stalker is only armed with weapons similar to books, Sylvia. We can hope so, anyway.”

“Sylvia, what did Scranton say to you on the phone?” Dad asked.

“He said ‘Hello, this is Loren Scranton,' and I said, ‘You have a lot of nerve, you sick prick, calling at this hour, and I don't know why you're stalking me and my daughter, but don't you ever come in my house again or I'll drop you quicker than a fucking hot potato.' He didn't respond, so I hung up.”

Drew clapped his hands. “That's our Sylvia! Well done, honey!”

I was watching Mickey, whose expression had not changed. He clearly found none of this amusing. He also looked exhausted. It dawned on me that he must have been awake for well over twenty-four hours by now.

I stood up. “I need to go to bed.”

Dad joined me. “I think we all do. Sal, Drew, thank you for opening your home to Sylvia, and to us.” He held up his brandy snifter as a toast and then downed its contents.

Sal and Drew hugged all of us, even Mickey, though his response was perfunctory. Then we all crossed the street and went home.

***

Mickey and I were in bed. I was on my side, my head propped up on a couple of pillows, contemplating him. “You okay? You've been very quiet.”

He was lying on his back with his arm folded over his eyes. “I'm okay. I need to sleep.”

“You're going to quit smoking, right?”

“Never really started. I threw the rest of them in the garbage.”

“Mick…”

“Not now, Annabelle. Let's talk in the morning.”

I rubbed his chest. “Fine, but…”

He rolled over and turned me onto my back. He brushed my hair out of my face. “I thought you were dead.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“And now people are making jokes and telling silly stories.”

“People handle things differently.”

“Do you trust Sal and Drew?”

I nodded again. “I absolutely do. You will, too. I promise.”

He kissed me, and then rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes again.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” I asked.

“Fly to New York. With you.”

“Can't do that,
compadre
. I'm wanted in these here parts. Others might say that I've got parts that are wanted.”

“Don't try to cheer me up.”

“
Bueno, hombre
, as long you understand that I'm not going to stop talking until you tell me one thing.”

“What.”

“That I did real good getting away from them outlaws.” My voice choked on the last word.

Mickey quickly took me in his arms and held me. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Yes, of course, I'm so proud of you. You did everything right. You are brave and strong and quick thinking and quick running.”

I nestled close to him. “Is it okay if you hold me for a while?”

“As long as you want, babe, as long as you want.”

So I lay there awake, listening to Mickey's even breaths of deep sleep, staring at the white ceiling, afraid to close my eyes.