And Then There Was One (23 page)

Marge looked at the clock again. Chassis still moved methodically down the line — 11:56 a.m. Four more minutes. Her stomach growled, and she thought about the chicken breast sandwich in her lunch pail. Mmm. And those chocolate chip cookies she’d baked last night.

Marge rushed to the ladies’ room as soon as the foreman stopped the line, and emerged with a smile of relief. “Whew, I just had a close call,” Marge confided to her best friend, Janie. “Oops here comes Beatrice. Remember, I don’t want her to know about my pee problem.”

Janie nodded, opening up her lunch bucket and slowly removing the contents. “Carrot cake. Enough for two if you give me one of those chocolate chip cookies.”

Beatrice and Elmira had arrived and taken their usual places around the cafeteria table where the four girls had lunch every day. A quartet of Ford assembly line ladies well into their mid-fifties, they’d hung out for lunch and a weekly after-shift beer ever since they realized they had similar life circumstances. All had been divorced, raising kids on their own, too melancholy to attract men, and not motivated to change. As the years passed, talk of growing kids morphed into talk of grown kids — all had offspring with problems — and change-of-life issues became front and center.

For Marge this was her only social circle. She had no non-Ford friends and no outside interests. The others all had their hobbies and looked forward to the big “R.” Marge never thought about retirement. What would she do without her job?

Elmira handed a piece of newspaper that was ripped out of a full page to Beatrice. “I clipped this out. Just in case you didn’t see it. Front page of the paper. Now, doesn’t this lady look like Marge?”

Janie leaned in to take a look. “No way. Marge isn’t that fat.”

“Hmm,” said Beatrice, “looks like the kind of dresses you wear. I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those.”

“Just ’cause you spend all your money on clothes. Some people actually pay their mortgages on time,” Elmira said. “When you gonna
pay me back that hundred bucks I loaned you last month? It was only going to be ’til payday and payday was two days ago.”

When Beatrice handed her the wrinkled paper, Marge thought her heart would stop.

“That … woman doesn’t look like me,” she stammered. “She’s … too … fat.”

“Come on, Marge, Elmira didn’t mean to insult you.” Beatrice said. “Neither did I. That woman doesn’t look anything like you. Look, your hair is much prettier, and you have such a nice smile. She looks awful. Now, what’s the story here? Who is this Marge lookalike?”

“The woman who took those little girls. Two of the triplets. They have a witness who said she saw this lady put them in a car.”

Marge tried to fold the newspaper in half, but her hands shook.

“Is this an actual photo?” Janie reached for the paper, unfolded it for one more look. “Or is it one of those police artist things? They never look anything like anybody.”

Marge reached out to grab the paper back and started to refold it.

“Marge, defend yourself,” Beatrice said. “It even said that those girls got into a brown Escort. Isn’t that what you drive? I mean, you’d better clear this up.”

Her voice shook, but Marge managed to repsond. “Escorts used to be … the best-selling car in the country.”

“Very funny, girls,” Janie added. “Now we’d better get back to the line.”

Elmira put her arm around Marge’s shoulder. “Can you imagine? Our Marge, a kidnapper? You know we were just kidding.”

Marge did not say one more word. When her shift was over, instead of going out with the girls for their Friday beer, she went straight home to her daughters.

FBI Press Release: New Witness in Monroe Kidnappings. Identity Not Disclosed.
— Friday newspapers, June 19

The ransom demand came, a letter addressed to Don Plese at his New York Yankee office.

Streeter studied the copy as it came off the scanner, amid the buzz of computers and printers and fax machines. The New York field office verified the postmark: Auburn Hills, Michigan; the date stamp, yesterday; overnight mail with no return address. A single sheet of white paper, computer generated, in a blank envelope inside the package. The content:

Scott,

Your daughters are safe with me as long as you bring the money and do not tell the cops or the FBI. That’s why I sent this to your employer. To keep it between you and me. Bring one million dollars in hundred dollar bills to where I tell you. I will have your daughters. You get them only after I have the money. If I see any cops, I will leave with your daughters and you will never see them again. You have to trust me on this, man. If you want your daughters back, don’t screw up.

Saturday morning at eleven. Walk with the money in a roller bag to Hamilton and Woodward in Birmingham. Leave the bag with the money outside the door of The Blue Martini. Then go to the Caribou Coffee on Old Woodward and sip your chai tea. If the money is all there and clean of marks and
bugs, I will release your daughters, unharmed. They will join you within the hour at that table. But if I see anything unusual or any cops hanging around, you will never see your daughters again. That, I promise, man. This time you are going to pay for what you’ve done.

“Whoever wrote this has a grudge against Scott,” Streeter said, already on the phone to Camry at the hospital. Again, he secondguessed himself. His gut told him to push harder on Scott yesterday, but he’d backed down after seeing Jackie lying so still in that hospital bed.

“The Monroes will want to follow these directions exactly,” Camry said. “No matter if we think it’s a hoax. Those two are trying to hold it together, but they’re an emotional implosion about to happen. Makes me glad I don’t have kids. I mean, what could be worse?”

“If the girls were dead; I mean, that would definitely be worse. But the way it is, not knowing.”

“It’s almost like they’re facing their death, over and over.”

“Any way about it, the hostage team’s ready to roll.” Streeter gave an uncomfortable cough. “Meantime, I’m on my way to Children’s Hospital.”

“I’ll wait until you get here before I tell them, but doesn’t this have to be the work of an amateur? I mean, the setup is foolish. No offer of evidence that he has the girls. Just leave a bag of money, and ‘trust me.’ We’ll get this guy, Tony.”

Sketch of Woman Last Seen with Alex and Sammie Monroe Released.
— Breaking News, Friday, June 19

As Camry had predicted, the Monroe parents were adamant. They would go ahead with the ransom money. Scott would carry the money, leave it wherever he was told to. A million dollars in hundreds. Streeter and Camry explained all the reasons they thought this was a phony. The lack of an assurance that whoever wrote the note had the girls. All the Monroes asked is that the FBI not impede the safe return of their children. They wanted to believe that the exchange would occur the next day, that they would have Alex and Sammie back in twenty-four hours. Before Streeter left he inquired after Jackie.

“What Jackie needs is Alex and Sammie back,” Scott said.

“A couple of things I’d like to ask.” Streeter pointed to Scott’s copy of the note. “The reference to chai tea?”

Scott’s hand trembled as he read, his voice a raspy whisper. “How does whoever wrote this know I drink chai tea?”

“And why does he say, ‘this time you are going to pay for what you’ve done?’” Katie said. “Baby, whoever wrote this knows you!”

“Chai tea?” Streeter asked. “Who all would know about that?”

“Everybody who knows me,” Scott said. “Everybody gives me a hard time. I’m supposed to be a beer-guzzling jock.”

“That doesn’t limit the circle. Funny how that small detail worked its way into the note. Add that to the ‘pay for’ comment, and whoever wrote this note seems likely to know you. Does anything here ring a bell? Anything at all?”

“I must have done something to somebody, I just don’t know —”
Scott raked his short hair with both hands. “I need to go over everybody. But, we don’t want the FBI to jeopardize the safe return of our daughters.”

“The credibility of this demand is low,” Streeter warned. “No proof has been offered. The collection plan is amateurish. He provided unnecessary clues.”

“Somebody from the Yankees. Somebody I must have harmed in some way.”

“We have twenty-four hours to try to identify and locate this
somebody
,” Streeter said. “Best if you came in to the field office.”

Ali Khamenei Announces Ahmadinejad Won the Iranian Presidential Election by 24 Million Votes.
—
International News, Friday, June 19

Marge drove straight home, not even stopping to check the mailbox at the end of her long driveway. She parked her car in the garage and, once inside, she went to her daughters’ room and laid down on the daybed. This room was her sanctuary, a place she came to for solitude. But today there would be no solace. Today, Marge had to think logically.

She figured that she had two immediate problems. First, somebody must have seen her leave the mall parking lot last Sunday. Who was she kidding — that picture looked like her. Second, Spanky would be home tonight from his Miami run. She’d been hoping that he’d stay somewhere else, but he’d called from the road yesterday. She wondered if Spanky had seen the newspapers. Probably not, since he never read anything, but he did watch TV at those truck stops. Would that picture be on TV?

Marge’s heart began to pound, and the harder she tried to think, the harder it pounded, spreading to her neck and to her head. She laid there for a long time, trying to reassure herself that she’d be able to handle her responsibility.

How easy it had been. Marge had spotted the girls just outside the entrance to the movie theatre. Three of them, all gabbing with an older black girl. She’d edged toward them, close enough to hear their conversation. She needed to take two of the three, but she wasn’t clear how she’d do that. She listened carefully to catch their names. The
older one was Danielle and the one in yellow was Sammie. Then as if reading her mind, they’d split up. Two went to one movie, and the other they called Jackie went with the older girl. Marge had been upset that they were dressed so differently. Shouldn’t identical triplets be dressed alike? She thought so.

Marge had been clever. She’d waited about twenty minutes after the movie started. Then she worked her way through the dark theatre. The audience was mostly kids, and all eyes were glued to the screen. No one noticed as she made her way to the seat in back of the two girls. Leaning forward, Marge had tapped the one in the yellow top on the shoulder, gently so as not to spook her. “Sammie?” she whispered, hoping that she had the right name for the right girl. How shameful to name a little girl Sammie. Then she remembered
Bewitched
. Sammie, short for Samantha.

The girl handed the box of popcorn they’d been sharing to her sister and then both turned around, their dark eyes wide, questioning.

“Sammie?” Marge repeated in a whisper.

“What?” the child sounded annoyed. “Who are you?”

Here Marge had to be careful. She needed to get them quietly out of the theatre. She couldn’t risk a commotion.

“It’s your other sister,” she whispered, inserting her head between the girls’ shoulders, feeling her teased hair brush against their faces. “She got sick. Uhh, Danielle said to hurry. Come on. Both of you.”

Again Marge held her breath, hoping that she’d gotten the Danielle name right.

The one in lavender, got wide-eyed. “Jackie’s sick?”

The yellow top turned her attention back to the big screen. Something scary was happening in that museum.

“Yes,” Marge said, trying to sound urgent, yet not loud. “We have to go. Follow me.”

The one in lavender started to get up. “Sammie?” she tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

Yellow top gathered her popcorn, kicking over her drink as she begrudgingly followed her sister. Marge met them in the aisle and ushered them out into the lobby.

“Who are you, anyway?” yellow top demanded. “Where’s Jack?”

“They took her, uh Jack, to the hospital. I’m supposed to take you
there. My car’s out here,” Marge said as her eyes darted around for hidden cameras. Whenever she thought back about that very moment, her head pounded louder.

“We can’t leave the mall.” Yellow top stopped dead, hands planted on hips. Marge had to think quickly. She inserted herself in between the twins. Grabbing a hand of each, she tugged them forward.

“Who are you?” Yellow top started to resist.

For a moment Marge hesitated, asking herself,
are these the ones
? Why was their skin so tan? “I’m a friend,” she said, bending to face the stubborn little girl. “Look, I hate to tell you this, but your sister is vomiting blood. Lots of blood. They had to rush her to the hospital. We have to hurry to get to her. Let’s not waste time.”

“Blood?” both girls exclaimed loud enough that Marge again looked about. Was anyone watching? But her improvisation had the desired result. A look of horror passed between the girls, and they started to bolt for the exit, practically dragging Marge between them. Whew, thank God she had said the right word,
blood
.

Marge led the girls to her brown Escort and put one in the front seat and the other in the back. She locked the doors, cursing herself for not even knowing if she had those kid-safe locks.

“Did anyone call my mom?” the one in lavender asked, poking her head over the seat.

“Jackie wasn’t even sick,” interrupted yellow top. “What did you say happened to her?” Marge decided to call this one Jessica. She had known right then that this one was going to be a handful and she’d been right.

Marge had had to concentrate hard on the way home. On the way, she’d stopped at a Kmart. With the girls thinking they had a sister in the hospital, she’d told them that she had to pick up some pajamas and a bathrobe for their sister so she’d have something nice to wear in the hospital. “What’s her favorite color?” she’d asked.

“Turquoise,” said the one she’d call Jennifer.