And Then There Was One (26 page)

“Yeah, yeah. I need the keys.”

“No, not tonight. Look, I got dinner about ready.” Marge pointed
to the chicken parts she’d spread out on the counter to dip into flour.

“Hmm, chicken. Guess I can wait until tomorrow. I got a buddy who’s got a deal on an Impala.”

“No way, Spanky. I’m only driving Ford cars. Chrysler and General Motors are both bankrupt. I’ve gotta show my loyalty. Besides, I can get a discount.”

“You can’t afford no new car. This one I got in mind’s a beauty. Only got twenty thousand miles, a shiny red. Like you owe them any loyalty. What a crock of shit.”

Just feed him. Let him go out. Tomorrow I’ll have left on vacation.

Marge had the oil in the frying pan ready and when she began to drop in chicken legs, Spanky sniffed. “Guess, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“You’re all sweaty. You go take a shower while I fry this up. Now, go along.”

Marge breathed a sigh of relief as he went clomping up the stairs. She remembered how she’d always made him take off his shoes in the house when he was a little boy.

Marge didn’t like to dwell on it, but Spanky had not been a very nice little boy. Even as a toddler back when they lived with her parents in that cramped house. Back before she’d married Evan. But hadn’t it been all her fault? Getting pregnant when she was only seventeen by that no-good, pimply neighborhood kid. She’d brought shame on her family. Her mother, bless her soul, taking care of the illegitimate baby while Marge got a job on the production line at Ford.

Most kids were cuddly and cute, but Samuel had been mean tempered from the beginning, or at least that’s how Marge remembered it.

Even when Marge’s life changed so dramatically for the better, her son had been a constant worry. That’s when Marge married Evan Spansky, a lovely man, who worked at the Ford plant. She met him when she worked the second shift and found out that he was going to college during the day to be an accountant. He was shy, but smart, and good looking with wavy dark brown hair and eyes the color of copper. From the first time he asked her out for coffee after work, she could tell he really fell for her. Samuel was then five years old, and once they were married, Evan had been eager to adopt him. Samuel had been called “Spanky” ever since then, after trying to explain his
new last name to his kindergarten class. Once Evan graduated from Eastern Michigan University, Marge quit her job, and the Spansky family moved to Evan’s place in Holly.

As always, when Marge thought of Evan, her mind jumped two years ahead to the birth of the twins. Identical, darling little girls with dark curly hair and copper-colored eyes just like their father’s. Evan doted on them, as did she. Later, too much later, Marge realized that she and Evan had been so absorbed by the beautiful, delightful babies that maybe they did neglect Spanky just a bit.

Marge’s last vision of the twins was as vivid today as it was twenty-one years ago, the two of them babbling away in their double stroller, dressed in matching fuchsia outfits with cute little visors. She’d parked the stroller in the sand along the shore of Elk Lake, where Evan’s family had a log cabin.

Now, as Marge stood mashing her potatoes, she had to set down the masher to clutch her heart.

“You okay, Ma?” Spanky was at her side, shaking her. “You havin’ one of those headaches again? Nothin’ wrong with your heart, is there?”

Sometimes Spanky could be so sweet and caring. Like wanting to get her a new car. Like now, leaning over her to show that he cared.

All of a sudden Marge heard a loud clanging. It was coming from the basement. Not now, her mind screamed. Not now. But Spanky had heard it.

“What the fuck’s that?” Spanky spun around. “Somebody at the door?”

“I’ll take care of it, Spanky. Quickly Marge jerked open the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Take this. Go in the living room. Watch TV.”

Marge hesitated a moment to make sure that Spanky would not follow her. The noise below was louder now. What were the twins doing?

Spanky opened the door and poked his head out. “Nobody out there,” he said, reaching for the beer then turning. “Hey Ma, it’s coming from —”

Marge held out both arms to stop Spanky as he bolted for the basement steps.

Norman Watkins, Suspect in Monroe Kidnappings, to be Buried in Tampa.
— Tampa News
, Friday, June 19

“So if Cutty set up the abduction, he’s gone to his grave with their whereabouts.” Streeter ran a hand through his lengthening crew cut, wrapping up a detailed conference call summarizing the Monroe case. When the others hung up, Rusk stayed on.

“Same goes for Norman Watkins,” Rusk added. “I don’t think he’s our man. Unless he had a streak of revenge that he’d hidden from everybody. Everybody we interviewed was all hero worship. It’s like the joint turned the guy into a saint. The rumor is that his wife has a case against the feds? Like your agents up there provoked a police suicide?”

“The way this case is going, who knows? Watkins panicked, I guess. Either that or he did snatch the kids and — any way about it, it happened in Detroit, so I’m taking the heat. I’ve got three daughters in Michigan. They try to transfer me to a remote outpost, I’m out of the bureau.”

“You divorced?”

“Yeah,” Streeter said. “They live with their mom. Classic FBI. She couldn’t take the job. I couldn’t give it up. But if I don’t break this case, I just don’t know —”

“About the ransom tomorrow —”

“It’s bullshit, but we have to go through the paces. So far we’ve kept it out of the press, but who knows what’ll blow tomorrow. Chances are we’ll snatch the guy and be no more the smarter as to what happened to those girls.”

When Streeter terminated the conference, he took a call from Clarence Plummer at the Hills Mall. The two had kept in touch on a daily basis since this all started last Sunday, and Plummer was doing all in his power to find that middle-aged white woman who’d taken the Monroe girls out of his mall.

“There was a guy in the mall today who heard that I was still asking questions about the kidnapping,” Plummer reported. “He stopped by my office and told my assistant that he had delivered a couple of twin beds on Monday. To a woman who lives out near Pontiac. Didn’t give the address. He said that she looked a lot like the lady in the police drawing and that he saw a brownish Escort parked on the property and he remembered a couple of numbers from the license plate. He said that his wife had called the FBI hotline before, but that was before the picture of the woman was on the wire.”

Streeter vaguely remembered the report. Thousands of callers, suspicious of something ridiculous. Something about twin beds. Nothing relevant, of that he was sure.

“I was off-site,” Plummer went on. “This guy told my assistant that he remembered seeing me on TV and he wanted to talk only to me so the information wouldn’t get ignored. He refused to identify himself, but said he’d call back in the morning. You can bet that I reamed out my staff for letting an informant leave without contact information. Of all things, dropping the ball — Streeter, you know how bad I want to find those little girls.”

“I’ll check into our database for that report,” Streeter said. “We should be able to locate it and pinpoint the source. Sounds like a long shot, but we’ll jump on it. And thanks, Plummer. If this guy gets back, give me a call, direct.”

“You got it,” Plummer said. “My wife and I are still praying that you find those little girls.”

Mystery Woman Who Left with Monroe Children Still at Large.
— Evening News, Friday, June 19

Sammie couldn’t tell by the light coming in from the small rectangular windows up by the ceiling whether it was getting late or whether it was just a cloudy day.

“Wish we had a Hershey Bar. Remember the first day down here, she brought us one.”

If only Alex would stop talking about food. But what else was there to talk about? They didn’t know anything about what was going on. Were their parents still looking for them? Was Jackie okay, or was she really vomiting blood like Maggie said? And what did Maggie want with them?

“Sammie,” Alex interrupted. “I hear something.”

Sammie jumped up. They were ready. They rehearsed like they were going to be in a school play. If only Alex didn’t lose her nerve.

“Put your shoes on,” Sammie said, leaning into the door. “I hear a man’s voice.”

“Okay.”

Alex was at Sammie’s side, sneakers tied, clutching the spade. Or was it a hoe? Sammie grabbed the shovel.

They both waited.

“It’s that same man’s voice.” Sammie took a deep breath. Another look at Alex, and with her nod, they began. They’d figured hitting the shovel and the other garden thing on the pipes would make the loudest clamor.

They started to scream, “Help! Help Us!” That’s what they’d decided. “Help!” over and over.

Beyond their shouts and the clunking of the iron, they heard Maggie’s voice. Much louder than she’d ever talked to them. She yelled, “No, Spanky, don’t go down there.”

Sammie flashed Alex a hopeful look. Somebody was coming to help them.

Loud footsteps on the stairs and the girls stopped clunking the shovel and hoe. They kept calling for help. “Down here,” Alex screamed. “We’re in the basement.”

Alex started to put the spade down, but Sammie shook her head, “No, remember, like we planned.”

Before Alex could respond, the chain on the door clanked and they heard the bolt slide.

Standing on each side of the door, holding their implement, they waited for only an instant before a big man pushed though the door. Right behind him was Maggie. She had a scared look on her face, but the man looked surprised.

Sammie hesitated and Alex froze. Was this bald man with the ugly little beard going to help them?

“What the shit?” The man’s mouth was so wide open that Sammie could see that his teeth in the back were black. She shrank back when his bulging black eyes stared at her. Still, she couldn’t tell if this man was going to help them or not.

“What the —?” The man spun to face Maggie. “What the hell is goin’ on here?”

Maggie stood perfectly still. “What do you mean, Spanky?”

“The hell you say! What’re these girls doin’ down here?”

Sammie was trapped between the man and Maggie, but Alex was close to the door, which was wide open. Sammie cut her eyes to the door. She wished she could yell, “Alex, run.” But Alex was staring at the big metal thing the man held in one hand. Sammie had helped her dad around cars enough to know that it was a pipe wrench.

“Ma, what are you, crazy?”

Then with his free hand the man reached for Sammie’s shoulder. Sammie tried to shrink back as far as she could against the wall, but before he could grab her, Maggie lurched forward and grabbed his arm.

“Spanky, don’t,” she yelled, but the scary man with the stupid name shoved Maggie back, toward Alex, pinning her against the wall.

“Ma,” he said, grabbing Sammie’s shirt and staring at her with really black eyes. “What the fuck are you up to?”

“Let us out of here,” Sammie finally found her voice. “She locked us up in here. We want to go home.”

“Well, you do, do you?”

“Look, Spanky, it’s Jennie and Jessie,” Maggie said, grabbing Alex’s hand and leading her closer to him.

“No!” Alex opened her mouth for the first time. “We’re Alexandra and Samantha Monroe. She locked us up down here, but we’re not supposed to be here.”

“What the fuck?” Spanky turned and stared at Maggie. “You’re crazy as a loon.”

“Spanky, let me explain.” Sammie watched as Maggie took a step away from Alex.

If the big man would just let go of her shoulder, Sammie would jam the shovel into his knees. If only she had a baseball bat, it would work better.

“Let go of me,” she cried, but the man only squeezed her more tightly.

If she could just make a move, Alex would follow. The door was still open.

“You’re fucking crazy, Ma. I gotta give it to you though.”

“Spanky, watch your language,” Maggie said.

“You’re the one that took them? Whole fuckin’ world’s lookin’ for these girls. And I come home and find them in my basement. Holy shit.”

Sammie looked at Alex. Her sister looked like she was paralyzed. Sammie wondered whether she’d heard him say that the whole world was looking for them.

“Let’s just go up and talk, Spanky,” Maggie said in a shaky voice. “You and me. We’ll leave the girls down here. They like it here with me.”

“No we don’t! Please mister, make her let us go,” Sammie said, trying to sound nice so he’d feel sorry for them.

“Well, well,” he said. “You wanta leave my nice mama, huh?” The man let go of Sammie’s shoulder and took the shovel out of her hand. “I gotta think about this.”

Then he set the pipe wrench down and walked toward Alex.

“Give me that thing.”

He stepped forward to take the spade Alex clutched protectively in front of her. Sammie stared at Alex. She looked so scared. She’d never seen her eyes so wide, but she didn’t make a move.

“Give it over,” he repeated.

Maggie moved closer toward Alex as the man demanded again, stepping closer, “Give it over.”

Then Sammie saw just the tiniest flick of Alex’s eyes toward the open basement door. She took less than an instant to react.

Marge’s gaze fixed with dread on Spanky as he approached Jennifer with his brawny arms outstretched. When his back was fully turned on Jessica, Jennifer suddenly jerked the spade she was holding out of Spanky’s reach. She raised it up and with one big gulp, swung it as hard as she could against the side of Spanky’s knee.

“Oh my God,” Marge screamed. What should she do? Spanky was so big; Jennifer so small.

“Little bitch!” Spanky yelled, shaking and rubbing his leg.

That’s when Marge snatched Jennifer out of his reach.

Enraged, Spanky wrenched the spade out of Jennifer’s hands and hurled it to the ground, smashing the card table, sending pieces of Risk flying.

Jennifer cowered behind Marge and broke into convulsive sobs. As Marge bent to comfort her, she knew that something was very wrong. Where was Jessica?