Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

I pulled off Walt’s hat and his hair stood on end in a startling display of static electricity. I tried to pat it down, giggling. “Any preferences?”

“Shave it off,” Walt muttered.

“You sure? You’ll be cold.” I dropped his hat in his lap and clipped on his cape.

“Maybe you’ll knit me a new, warmer hat. This one has holes.”

“Maybe.” I rested a hand on the back of his neck, gently pushing his head forward and down. “No wiggling.”

Walt relaxed under my touch as I ran the clippers in even lines across his scalp. It’d been the same with all the boys — initial awkward stiffness, then pliancy. It just feels really good to have someone massaging your head. Women know this — I think it’s our main motivator for frequent salon visits. Guys don’t have the same excuse for luxurious attention.

I wondered about all these boys, being raised by a man, with no women in their lives. They were missing out on mom hugs and cuddles — and swats. The little touches you give when you walk by, the tender reassurances, or to emphasize something you just said. They were hungry for caresses, even though they’d never admit it — that and good cooking, apparently.

At orphanages around the globe it was always the same — the kids couldn’t be snuggled enough. They scrambled for places on my lap, and if that was full, they draped on me with their arms wrapped around my neck. If we were walking, they insisted on holding my hands, as though the physical contact ensured I wouldn’t disappear. Too many adults had already failed them — it was what they expected and feared. The world is full of starving kids — in more than one way.

“Longer on top?” I asked.

“Whatever you want,” Walt murmured.

“A dangerous offer.”

He grunted, but didn’t resist as I tipped his head for a better angle.

I finished and stood frowning in front of him, trying to brush the longer section into some semblance of a part. “Better than a crew cut — maybe.”

“It’ll do.” Walt pulled his old hat on, stretching it down to cover the tops of his ears, and stood. But he flashed a mischievous grin. “Thanks, Nora.”

Only Thomas was brave enough for dreads, but Sidonie also performed one set of short cornrow braids and several faux hawks. She drew the line at outright mohawks. She said they were beneath her dignity.

And then we feasted. There wasn’t room at the table for all of us, so we reserved those spaces for our guests, the Gonzales family. CeCe sat on her knees and shoveled in tamales with an earnestness that matched the boys’.

I spent a lot of time moving between clusters of happy boys seated on the floor, dropping scoopfuls of second and third and fourth helpings of mashed potatoes, roast beef, butternut squash and Waldorf salad onto proffered paper plates. Bodie ate enough to fill two linebackers. It was the first time most of the boys had tasted tamales, and the contents of the casserole dish evaporated.

It was a good thing Clarice had prepared two huge pans of desserts — peach cobbler and cherry crisp, or we might have had a few hungry boys left over. I was astounded at all the empty dishes lining the counters. We were going to have to adjust our quantity planning for future meals.

I took my bowl of crisp and melting vanilla ice cream outside to catch my breath and cool off. I was sweaty from all the activity and the cramped conditions in the kitchen.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. This was the closest to a real family gathering that I’d had in a very long time, and certainly more joyful than any since my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. As an only child, I’d missed out on the fun — and frustration — of siblings, the good-natured and not-so-good-natured jostling and sharing. I smiled and leaned against the brick wall under the porch light, listening to the happy voices inside.

I like my à la mode a little soupy, so I twirled my spoon, watching the white creaminess ooze amid the cherries and crumbly topping. I wondered how many decades it had been since Dwayne had experienced a family dinner. He deserved a report on Bodie too. I’d hike to his homestead in the morning to issue an invitation for our next meal and have a chat with him. We had several important topics to discuss, not the least of which was his illegal activities on my property. Of course, I was in no position to cast stones in that matter, but I did want to know what other infractions I might need to add to Matt’s list for possible prosecution.

There was a soft thud and a warm rush of air from my left. I turned my head just in time to see — nothing.

Rough cloth pressed against my eyes. A hard hand yanked on my jaw, and a dry, scratchy wad was stuffed in my mouth before I had a chance to scream.

CHAPTER 22

I threw my bowl of crisp and heard a grunt as it connected with some soft part of my assailant, or one of his friends. Given the number of hands grabbing and shoving me, there had to be more than one. I forced squeals past the wad in my mouth, but they didn’t come out any louder than a mildly irritated chipmunk.

My arms were jerked in front of me, clamped together, and strapped at the wrists. My fingers went numb almost instantly. I was tugged around the corner, my feet tripping stupidly on the rough ground. Even though I couldn’t see, I sensed that I was no longer in the glow cast by the porch light, and I clamped my teeth into the wad to control my violent shivering.

I swung my right foot around, hoping to catch a shin — front, back, sideways. A soft hiss sounded near my ear — a warning — then something bony and hard plowed into my stomach, knocking my breath away, and I was lifted off the ground, middle first.

I flailed as much as I could from my hinged position, glad to still have on my hiking boots with their tough soles. Whoever was carrying me was moving at a full trot, and the hard jouncing felt as though it was cracking my ribs as I struggled to breathe through my nose on each upswing.

He ran for a long time — it’s hard to calculate time when your brain is fighting through flashing pain, but it was ten, fifteen minutes maybe. Then he stopped and dumped me on the ground.

I sprawled there, chest heaving, head throbbing with the blood rush from not hanging upside down anymore. A bright light raked across my blindfold, and I tucked into a ball. I didn’t think I could stand on my own, let alone run — not until I’d recovered my breath. Where to run to? The blindfold was still secure, and my strapped hands were useless. I tried squinching my face to loosen the cloth.

The male voices were low — too low for me to understand, although I was pretty sure they weren’t speaking English. Metallic clanks and then an engine roared to life, followed quickly by another in deafening tandem.

I was hoisted to standing and backed up and pushed onto a seat. A warm body crowded onto the seat with me, his arm tight around my waist. Then his muscles flinched, and we leaped forward.

ATVs, probably quads. They’d learned their lesson. I was pretty sure my captors were the finger message people, just more of them and better equipped this time. And I’d made it easy for them.

But they’d only taken me. The boys were safe. Clarice. Walt. Sidonie, Hank and CeCe. Only me. It could have been so much worse.

I relaxed against the man’s chest. If I’d known him in any other context, I would have thought his scent comforting — a mix of wood smoke, leather, motor oil, and cooked onions. It was like a record of what he’d been doing that day, before it came time to kidnap me.

I could try to throw myself off the ATV, but they’d probably stop, pick me up and keep going. I needed all the wits and physical strength I could muster for what was coming next.

oOo

They stuffed me in a shallow place, small and hard, by the way their bumps and grunts echoed quickly. They removed the now soggy gob from my mouth and left me.

They didn’t go far, though, because I could hear low voices and the occasional crackle of firewood sap igniting. I scooted in each direction until my shoulder bumped hard, cold wall on three sides, and a thick wood door on the fourth. I laid my cheek against the wall and felt the ridges of concrete block construction. Dampness seeped through the uneven floor.

They’d have never removed my gag if they thought my screaming would be a problem, which meant we were miles and miles from the nearest source of help. So I saved my breath and propped myself in a corner.

My mind was racing, but I wasn’t coming to any conclusions. The cold got to me first — seeped into my aching muscles until time moved with agonizing slowness. Everything became stagnant — my heartbeat faded, the men’s voices outside slurred, icy fingers crept over my limbs.

And I must have blacked out, or dozed, because slamming car doors jolted me to consciousness.

The door swung open, and someone pulled me to my feet. Pain prickles rampaged through my cramped legs as I staggered through the opening, the man prodding me in the back.

“Cut the ties,” a surprisingly tenor voice said.

My arms were pulled down at an angle, and the bands popped off. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out as blood flooded into my hands. I flexed them carefully.

“I want to see her,” said the same voice, and my blindfold was yanked off.

I squinted against the firelight, then slowly raised my eyes to the ring of faces of the men standing around the fire. No one I recognized. Dirt Bike Man was not part of the group, although most of the men could have been his siblings for similar appearance.

Except one. The shortest man separated himself from the group and strolled toward me. Light flickered off his rimless glasses. His hair was sandy brown and tightly curled close to his head. His eyes were lighter, hard to tell the color exactly in the dim, uneven firelight.

“So you’re Nora Ingram,” he said in the high-pitched voice that matched his stature.

“Nora Ingram-Sheldon,” I corrected him.

He snickered, not a pleasant sound — nasal, almost wheezing. “I am Giuseppe Ricardo Solano.”

“Numero Tres,” I whispered.

He scowled. I think he would have preferred a higher rank. “I go by Joe.”

He was dressed in an expensive pullover sweater — I guessed cashmere or very fine merino — and tailored slacks with wingtips. No wonder he’d had his henchmen do the dirty work of careening through the woods to abduct me. But he was broad-shouldered and thick through the torso with a crude toughness lurking below the designer clothes that was never developed in a board room. If he was scratched, he would bleed like a street hoodlum, his true colors.

“Since my men have been unable to locate your husband,” Joe said, “I decided to pay you a visit.”

“You
and
the FBI,” I said, forcing bitterness into my voice. “Why does no one knock these days, or call first? Uncivilized.” I glanced at the other four men who were clustered close to the fire but whom I suspected were also listening intently.

“What does the FBI know?” Joe’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“Less than they need to, more than they realize.”

Joe barked an unamused laugh. “I might like you, Nora Ingram, which is a pity. Where’s my money?”

“Are you a good Catholic?” I figured with a name like Giuseppe, his mother was, even if he wasn’t.

Joe frowned slightly and rocked on his heels. “When it suits me.”

“What’s the going rate for a confession these days?”

“Ahh.” A smug look crossed his face, and he cracked the knuckles of his left hand, flashing a glitzy pinkie ring in the process. “I thought you’d have something you wanted to tell me.”

“You’re the one who needs to confess. I’ve made the first payment on a get-out-of-purgatory layaway plan for you. Widows and orphans. Remember, Joe? I suspect you’ve made plenty of them when we’re instructed to care for them.” I stared at him.

“You’ll get my money back.” He made the statement flatly, as though the deed were already accomplished, and stepped closer.

I shook my head. “Too late. Your contribution is already well invested — on nutritious food for growing children and contractors for new dormitories and clean water wells and metal roofs and teachers and goats. Not the sort of currency you can recall.”

Joe’s fists balled at his sides and almost disappeared into the too-long, bunched-up sleeves of his sweater. His eyes glinted as he glared hard at me through his lowered pale lashes.

I arrowed my gaze straight back. No wavering — he must not see me flinch. He had to believe what I said was true — because it was true. I’d never be paying him back. He could kill me over the money if he wanted to, but that wouldn’t make it reappear. But he might need to send a message to his associates to save face, just as he had with the fingerless subordinate. My heart was thumping so wildly, I was sure he could hear it.

He finally spoke through stiff lips, still frozen in his menacing stance. “You’re more like your husband than I expected for being so recently married.”

“What did he do for you, exactly?” I murmured.

“If you’ve been talking to the FBI, then you know,” Joe snarled. “When I find him — and I will — I will kill him.”

“Are you asking my permission?” I knew it was a smart aleck response and a huge risk, but I couldn’t let him think I was beaten.

He whirled and smacked me across the cheek with the back of his fist. My neck snapped sideways and cracked, and I lost all feeling, all control. I fell flat, staring, my eyes dry. I couldn’t even blink.

Feet walked past me, doors slammed, engines roared, and I was left in silence with the dying embers of the fire.