Finding Floyd (20 page)

She shook her head vigorously.

He relaxed against the cushion. "Didn't think
so. You don't look like the type." He expertly rolled the cigar
between his fingers as he puffed, watching the lit end.

The thick smoke hung in the air as she stared
at the glowing tip. She'd read about thugs using cigars to burn
people.

"You don't look like an asshole, Miss
Vandersmoot. I think you're probably a nice lady. Too bad I might
have to kill you." He grinned at her and then took another drink.
The corners of his mouth turned upward, but there was no mirth in
his dark, heavy lidded eyes.

She nodded her head, realizing how idiotic it
was to agree with his last statement.

He laughed out loud and took another drink.
"This stuff ain't half bad, once you get used to it." He set the
glass down and instantly the pistol was in his hand, pointed at her
head.

Staring wide-eyed, she froze in terror. He's
going to shoot me! I'll never see my friends and family again.
Tears filled her eyes. I love you, Chris.

The gun slammed down on the table and he
laughed at her reaction.

"Next question. Did the FBI or some other Fed
assholes tell you who I am?"

Another nod of her head.

"They show you pictures? That how you
recognized me?"

She nodded.

"I got a little problem here. The way I see
it, I got two choices." He waved an arm toward the door. "I could
take you out in the woods and put a bullet through your pretty
head. Or, I could hold you as a hostage and see if the Feds are
willing to bargain and kill you later. Thing is, I don't know how
valuable you are to those FBI assholes." He watched her
thoughtfully over the top of his glass as he drank. Leaning towards
her, he jabbed the air with the cigar to make his point. "You got
to have some connection there, being from Pippin's Grove, where all
my money went missing. You gotta admit it's a big ass coincidence,
my money disappearing in that pissant little town you're from." In
silence, he blew smoke and sipped from his glass. After a while he
realized the glass was empty. Frowning at it, he reached for the
Mason jar and spun the lid off. His head jerked up suddenly. "You
know who Tony DePalma is? That name ring a bell?"

She nodded. The smell of the strong cigar in
the small room was turning her stomach as she struggled to keep
breathing around the thick layer of duct tape.

"Yeah, I thought so." He filled his glass
again. "Could be maybe you had something to do with my cash
disappearing? You know where it is?"

She shook her head and tried to say no, but
only a moan came through.

He sat back and puffed on the cigar as he
studied her. Eyeing the glowing tip he giggled. "I know how to make
you tell me everything you know."

Diane's stomach clenched.

"I lost a lot of money. I'm thinking somebody
gave it to the Feds, those FBI dickheads, but I don't know that for
a fact. Not yet anyways. DePalma's in jail, probably singing like a
canary. All I got now is you. So tell me, are you worth anything to
them?"

This time she nodded her head slowly, unsure
how she should answer.

The glass, an ancient Flintstones jelly jar,
was empty again. He refilled it, a little unsteadily, spilling some
of the liquid on the table.

It struck her suddenly, that her captor was
becoming intoxicated. He might be even more dangerous when drunk.
She stared at the burning end of his cigar as he smoked and
realized she wasn't only afraid of him torturing her. The alcohol
had spilled over several old magazines scattered across the table.
The old wood frame building would go up like a torch, if the lit
cigar touched the old paper.

He tapped his ashes on the dinner plate and
she relaxed some. She felt for the duct tape where the tear was
started. She had to escape from this madman.

"So that's my problem. Should I eliminate you
now, after you tell me what you know about my 250 grand that went
missing, or should I offer you to the FBI? You think they'd be
willing to make a swap if I give you up?"

She nodded as vigorously as the duct tape
would allow.

"He snorted. "Yeah, but I ain't so sure. They
don't like to deal. I'm thinking it's a lot easier if I just take
you out into the woods and get it over with. Tonight, after dark,
we'll take a little walk." He drank again and held up the glass.
"Hey, you want to try this stuff? It ain't bad, once you get used
to it." He laughed at his own joke. "Oh yeah, I forgot. You can't
eat or drink nothing with that tape over your mouth. Never mind."
He giggled hysterically.

He reminds me of the Wizard of Oz munchkins
when he does that. Where are all these crazy thoughts coming from?
She began to desperately fear for her life. A trickle of sweat
oozed from under her hairline and ran down behind her ear.

"I gotta think. Yeah, gonna think
about...think bout this," he said, slurring his speech. There was a
long silence, finally broken when the glass slipped from his hand
and rolled across the floor. The Blowtorch was out cold, sprawled
on the couch with his legs splayed wide. The cigar still clamped
between his fingers.

When he began to snore, she realized that
this was her opportunity. The only one she'd get. Rearranging
herself on the chair, she found the spot where the tape was
splitting and began worrying it against the nail head, while the
snoring continued.

Desperate to free herself before he woke, she
redoubled her efforts, stifling a sob of frustration. Each pass
over the nail increased the gap. Her hands had grown numb, but she
could at least now work them apart slightly. She pulled on the tape
and felt it give just a little. Returning to the nail, she repeated
the action several times. Finally, taking a deep breath, she pulled
as hard as she could and the remaining quarter inch of tape parted.
Her hands were free.

Allowing herself the briefest moment of
congratulation, she bent down and with hands tingling as the
circulation returned, she worked at the tape binding her ankles to
the chair legs. Another minute and she was free and standing before
her snoring captor.

She'd concentrated so intently on freeing
herself that she hadn't noticed that the sun had gone down.
Stumbling on numb legs, she felt her way around the coffee table
and the chair on the other side. Her hand connected with her purse
and she snatched it up. Extending one hand behind her she felt for
the door.

In a panic to be gone, she searched for the
handle, praying that she'd get away quickly. When she found the
knob and slowly turned it, she opened the door only as wide as she
needed to slip out sideways, closing it gently behind her.

At the top of the stairs she clutched the
rail and began her descent in the dark. She knew that to avoid the
creaking steps she had to keep to the side of the treads. Despite
her caution, the stairs creaked all the way down. At the bottom she
stopped to listen, but heard nothing.

She felt her way along the clapboards on the
side of the building until her feet encountered gravel. Her eyes
were accustomed to the dark now and she could make out dim outlines
of other buildings, but there were no lights in the distance. With
a pounding heart she began to walk, cautiously at first and then as
briskly as she could.

This gravel must be a driveway or country
lane. Sooner or later it had to reach a main road. I've got to get
as far away from him as possible.

She began to jog along until she felt the
surface change to pavement. The road stretched in both directions
through the dark silent woods. The temperature had dropped and she
shivered in the cold. Please God! Which way should I go? She took
off at a slow run and realized that she still had duct tape wrapped
around her head and covering her mouth. Angrily, she hooked her
purse over her shoulder and wrenched at the tape with both hands.
It came away from her face, ripping out hair and burning her
cheeks. She cried out in pain.

"That son of a bitch," she yelled at the
night sky. As if in response, the cloud cover parted and moonlight
lit up her world. She could see clearly now. Why didn't I grab that
gun while I had the chance? It probably doesn't matter. I don't
even know how to use a pistol. And if I'd hung around any longer,
he might have woken up.

Diane began to run as fast as she could. She
was angry now and determined to live. I want Chris to put that
bastard in jail for the rest of his life. He's shot at us,
kidnapped and threatened to kill me, scaring me half to death.

She ran aimlessly until her breath began
coming in ragged gasps. Slowing, she continued until she came to an
intersection and again made an arbitrary turn. She wondered what
time it was, but without her phone, had no way of knowing. Alone in
the darkness, her anger cooled and once again, she succumbed to
fear. What do I do if an animal, a bear or something, comes out of
the woods?

There was a faint sound. She stopped and
stood still listening. It was growing louder. It was a car coming.
Please God. Let it be a friendly person willing to help me.

Headlights appeared around a bend in the
road, blinding her. She waved her arms and yelled, as the vehicle
slowed and came to a full stop. She ran to the driver's window as
it lowered.

"Holy cow! Is that you Miss Diane? What are
you doing out here all alone? You okay?"

The voice was familiar. She knew this guy.
Her mind was going fuzzy now that she was finally safe. Who was
it?

"Help me please. I'm lost...I was kidnapped.
I know you, don't I?" Unable to think clearly, she sagged against
the pickup truck for support.

"It's me, Kyle. You know me Diane. It's Kyle
Evans." He was out of the truck in an instant and lifting her onto
the passenger seat. "What in God's name are you doing out here? And
what happened to your hair?"

Sheriff Boone McAndrew was looking forward to
a large pizza topped with the works. His long aggravating day had
finally come to an end. He was hungry and tired. One of his
deputies had taken off to attend his grandmother's funeral and two
others had called in sick. There was a nasty stomach bug going
around. With fewer people, it always seemed that the phones rang
with greater frequency and the emergency calls, most of which never
quite managed to rise to something worthy of the name, were more
numerous. In a few minutes, he'd be at home with his wife, Sally,
in front of the television with a slice of hot pizza and a cold
beer. He could almost taste it.

He parked his white and gold police cruiser
in the Italian Bistro's parking lot, lowered his windows, and sat
for a moment enjoying the cool night air that carried with it the
scent of tomatoes, herbs, and yeasty bread. He checked his watch.
The pizza probably wouldn't be ready for another five minutes.

Small groups of people drifted in and out of
the glass double doors in front. He knew most of the residents of
the tiny town, so he wasn't surprised to see two familiar faces
emerge from the restaurant. Preston Hardwick and his wife stepped
into the parking lot. Boone waved, opened his door and eased out.
Standing, he hitched up his belt, adjusted the holstered revolver
on his hip, and tucked his uniform shirt back into place. Got to
lose a little weight, he thought, making his way toward
Preston.

"Evening Pres, Sarah," he said nodding a
greeting.

"You getting something to eat, Boone?" asked
Preston. They've got some great specials tonight."

"Just picking up a pizza to carry home. Sally
had to take her mom to the doctor. She's been gone all day, so I
told her I'd stop in here to get something for our supper. How've
y'all been?"

"Can't complain. Yourself?"

"If I were doing any better there would have
to be two of me," he said with a wry grin. "Sarah, how's your
grandma doing? She still out there all alone in that big
house?"

"Nobody can get her to budge, but she's not
alone exactly," said Sarah. "We all check on her, take leftovers
out, or pick up anything she needs in town. We get her out to
church and such, once or twice a week. Granny's not often alone for
more than a day or two."

"That's good. I'll try and set things up so
one of my deputies can drive by and check on her now and again. I
reckon she's happier there than she'd be anywhere else."

"Yeah, that's so, but poor old Granny is
getting a bit confused," said Preston. "I gotta say, last time we
stopped by she claims she's been seeing Henry. Says she's been
talking to him too."

"Hasn't he been gone for a number of years?"
Boone's brows inched higher in surprise.

Preston shrugged. "Funny isn't it, how old
folks get queer in the head? They start forgetting things, see and
hear things that aren't there. I know my own grandma got like that
before she passed on."

Their conversation was interrupted by the
screech of braking tires as a pickup truck roared to a halt beside
the Sheriff's car. The door was flung wide and Kyle Evans spilled
out. He ran toward them, arms waving.

"Sheriff! Sure glad I saw your vehicle here,"
he panted.

Boone sighed. This looked like bad news. Any
time someone like Kyle was coming at him on the double-quick like
this, something unpleasant was sure to follow.

"Sheriff, I gotta report a crime. Good thing
I saw your car in the lot."

Wearily, Boone held up a hand." Slow down,
Kyle. Now tell me, is anyone dead, or bleeding?"

"No sir, it's not something like that, not
exactly. Listen Sheriff there's something real bad happened."

"Okay, relax." He glanced at his watch,
pulled out some bills, and then asked Preston, "Would you mind
running in and picking up my pizza?" He sat down at one of the
deserted outdoor tables in front of the bistro, leaned back, and
said, "Okay, shoot."