Hostage (13 page)

Big and brawny from years of training, Lyle had been brought in by Clariton’s publisher to provide security here in Minneapolis. It was an assignment Lyle had been most reluctant to accept, for he was anything but a supporter of Clariton and his politics. In fact, if anyone on Clariton’s staff had inquired what Lyle thought of the congressman, Lyle would have openly and honestly replied that he was at the other end of the spectrum. No one, however, had made an attempt to screen him for his personal views, and so the job was Lyle’s. Oh, well, he’d thought at the time. It was supposed to have been easy enough. This was Minneapolis, after all, and while they had proceeded with caution, no one had expected a repeat of something like the San Francisco debacle or certainly not what had actually happened.

Now riding a taxi out of downtown, he smashed a fist against the soft seat. This should never have happened. He should have posted himself by the door when they had first entered the room. He should have immediately suspected that the smoke could be a ruse and acted more defensively. Instead, the relative tranquillity of Minneapolis had lulled him into a false sense of security and a group of kooks had abducted his ward. And from experience he knew the next few hours would be the most difficult and tense.

“So, you ain’t in any trouble, are you?” asked the driver, a tall guy with a stubbly beard and thick black glasses, as he drove south on Highway 35W.

“What?” asked Lyle, glancing toward the front seat.

“I mean, I pick up some people at City Hall, you know, and they just got let out of jail.”

Disgusted, Lyle shook his head and glanced out the window. The last thing he wanted to do right now was make small talk.

There was no telling which way this would go, but if the kidnappers meant to harm Clariton they could have simply and easily assassinated him right on the spot. They’d had their chance then and there at the restaurant, so they most certainly had other plans. But what? A ransom demand? A political statement? Probably the latter, but there was scant time. With each passing moment the tension would twist tighter and tighter, making the situation worse and worse and Clariton’s chance for a safe release slimmer and slimmer. Already the Minneapolis police force was all over this, and one of the detectives had mentioned that the FBI’s special Hostage Rescue Team was swooping down from Quantico. A United States congressman kidnapped? One of the most talked-about men in Washington, someone who was sure to be a presidential hopeful, abducted by a few drippy thugs? It was an act of terrorism that wouldn’t be tolerated.

Less than ten minutes later the cab driver was turning off the highway and heading east toward Powderhorn Park, Lyle’s neighborhood. He didn’t live that far from the park itself, just a few blocks southeast, and when the taxi pulled up to his small stucco house, Lyle pulled out a ten and a five, threw it at the driver, and hopped out.

“Hey, thanks!” said the cabby, scratching his beard.

Lyle’s vehicle, a Ford pickup, was parked right on the street, just where it had been this morning when the limo had picked him up before getting Clariton. He darted around the vehicle, up the front walk, and entered his screened porch. Unlocking the front door, he charged inside and up the narrow dark-oak staircase, ripping off his tie as he climbed. He ducked into the larger of the two bedrooms, threw his nearly dry jacket onto the brass bed, took off his shoulder holster, and examined his gun.

A sinewy, terribly black creature came slithering into the room. A cat, yellow eyes, short jet-black fur. A little love machine, she trotted over to Lyle, rubbed up against his ankle, purred.

“Hey, Koshka,” said Lyle, bending over and patting her. “Yes, you’re my little girlfriend, aren’t you?”

Two years ago he’d found her and her sister abandoned beneath an elm in Powderhorn Park, a pair of sickly kitties not more than a few weeks old. Lyle had scooped them both up, able to fit them in the crook of one of his large arms, taken them right to a vet, and then in the ensuing weeks learned a great deal about motherhood as he nursed them to health. A doting father, Lyle had raised them both, eventually giving one of the feline creatures to his cousin and keeping Koshka, the seductress of the two, for himself.

Now sweeping down with his hand, Lyle whisked up Koshka, gave her a quick kiss, and gently tossed her on the bed. He then returned to the more mundane matters at hand, and he quickly changed, tossing aside his coat and tie and reaching for jeans and a loose plaid shirt. He next strapped the shoulder holster back on and slipped his gun in place. A sweater, which would be far too constricting, was out of the question.

He’d been very direct and precise in what he’d told the police, recounting just what had happened, exactly what he’d seen. With an eye trained for this type of situation, he’d recounted details he was sure the others—Carol and those two guys from the television station—had missed. Not simply the clothes, the hair, or even the shoes, but the scar on the skinny guy’s jaw, the woman’s mangled fingernails, where the bald guy had nicked his head with a razor. Lyle had told the cops everything—everything with one exception. And that he couldn’t reveal. If he did, a million cops would be barreling down the same trail; it’d be like leading an entire platoon down a tiny footpath.

Right, he thought as he charged downstairs, where he called the office and checked in with his boss. He had one strong sense of where the trail to Johnny Clariton might begin, and he, by God, was going to follow it.

It was the perfect
spot to hide someone like Johnny Clariton, a room behind a room within a space beneath the surface and below endless piles of crap. Entering these windowless chambers—two small rooms with tall ceilings and an adjoining bathroom with a big sink and toilet—Matthew locked the door behind them. Who in their right mind would ever think of looking here? It was both the least and the most obvious place for them to hide, and over the past week they’d gone undetected as they stocked it with food, sleeping bags, almost an entire apothecary worth of drugs, a small television, and of course all the video equipment they would need.

“Shit,” mumbled Matthew, staring at the key in his hand.

He couldn’t remember if he’d just locked the door, so he did so again, twisting it tight. When he turned back around, his head spun. Grab on, he told himself. Grab on to the door frame. Take a deep breath. You can’t fucking lose it, not now, you moron. Wishing to God he was still on the suppressant therapy for cryptococcal meningitis, he closed his eyes and stood still.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely,” exclaimed Elliot, looking around as if he’d never been there before. “I’ve always wanted to live in a sterile, anonymous environment. Don’t ya just love white on white on white on white?”

Tina immediately started digging in the laundry cart in which they had reburied the congressman for his trip from the van into the building. Pulling him up, he again emerged red-faced and sweaty. Using the tip of one of her fingernails, she picked at the corner of a second piece of tape that Elliot had plastered over Clariton’s mouth, then pulled. This time Johnny Clariton cried out.

“Come on, let’s get him out of this thing,” said Tina, referring to the laundry cart as she blotted her own forehead.

Noting the beads of sweat on her brow, Matthew demanded, “You all right?”

“No, not really. I’m exhausted and my stomach feels like it’s about to fall out.”

“Just hang in there, babe.”

But she did look like shit, he thought. So thin, so pale. What the hell, they were all horribly run down, and this had been the most major day any of them had experienced in some time, if not ever. Usually their days were an endless parade from bed to doctor’s office to lab then back to bed, and Matthew could now see that Tina’s adrenaline was going to last only so long, that the excitement was only going to take her so far. Without a doubt they had to secure Clariton before he realized how weak all of them actually were.

“Come on,” ordered Matthew, “let’s get him locked up.”

Elliot nodded. “Right, right, right.”

With his hands still bound behind his back, Clariton pleaded, “What are you going to do? Where are you—”

“In there,” snapped Matthew, waving his gun through the doorway.

They led him into the adjoining room, an empty storage space not larger than ten by eight feet, the walls blank, a couple of large pipes in the corner. Elliot dashed to the side, where he opened a canvas bag and pulled out a set of shiny handcuffs. The metal things dangling from his left hand, he spun around and bashed right into Tina, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Oh, sorry, doll. Didn’t see ya.” He looked at the cuffs, glanced at Clariton, then looked around the room. “Golly, I think I’m losing my mind. How were we going to do this?”

“The pipe,” said Tina.

“Right, the pipe!” Elliot dashed to the corner, attached half of the device to the pipe, then just stood there. “Now what?”

“His wrist.”

“Right, his wrist!”

Matthew and Tina pushed Clariton toward the corner, and then Elliot pushed up Clariton’s left sleeve and locked the cuffs.

“Guess you aren’t going anywhere for a while, huh, Johnny boy?”

“But…” Clariton shuddered and looked away. “You know, I really could help you if you let me go.”

“Don’t worry, we are going to let you go. That’s part of our plan,” said Matthew. “But until we do, let me make a couple of things clear. First of all, we’re in a place where no one can hear you, so don’t even bother trying anything. If you make any noise, shout out or anything, we’re going to put the tape right back over your mouth. Got it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Second, we’re going to cut the flex-cuffs off your wrists. That will leave just the metal handcuffs on your left wrist, but again, any trouble and we’ll strap the flex-cuffs back on both hands and around your ankles too. Got it?”

“Yes, but don’t you see that I—”

Matthew snapped, “Do you understand or don’t you, asshole?”

Clariton hesitated, then nodded.

“Here’s a sleeping bag,” said Tina, pulling one out of the duffel. “You can sit on this or whatever.”

“And here’s a coffee can,” offered Elliot, pulling out a large red can. “You gotta go potty, use this. Sorry, it’s the best we can do.”

“Elliot, where are the clippers?”

“Oh, right.”

Elliot dashed out of the room, returning seconds later with a pair of garden snippers. Matthew gave him the signal, and Elliot pushed Clariton around and cut the plastic binding his hands.

“Remember, asshole, don’t make any trouble.” Matthew turned to Tina, “What do you think, time to do the—”

Clasping one hand over her abdomen, Tina spun around and darted out of the room. She raced through the next and into the large rest room, slamming the door behind her.

“Oh, dear,” muttered Elliot.

Of course Matthew knew what was up. Like Tina he’d been plagued with wasting syndrome and had had trouble with almost every kind of food; all three of them were living on almost nothing but graham crackers, bananas, mashed potatoes, and Coke. He just prayed that was all, that there was nothing more serious.

Turning back to Clariton, Matthew waved the gun and yelled, “Just sit down and keep quiet! If you do anything to make me mad I’m going to… going to…”

“Yeah, so just watch it!” seconded Elliot.

Matthew stormed out, followed by Elliot, who slammed the door shut.

Great, thought Matthew, going up to the bathroom and pressing his ear against the door. This was all they needed. He tossed his gun on a pile of clothes, then ran his right hand over his stubbly scalp. Christ. Standing there, he heard her moan, and then the next instant came the distinct passing of gas and liquid as Tina’s bowels exploded. A moment of silence came next, followed by her very slight but pained crying. Staring at Elliot, Matthew waved him toward the door.

Elliot edged right up to the doorjamb. “Tina? Tina, hon, you okay?”

“There’s blood.”

Matthew had been there, and he snapped, “How much?”

“A lot,” she moaned, stifling a whimper.

“Great,” muttered Matthew, starting to pace. “Absolutely fucking great. This is all we fucking need.”

What if she passed out? What if the bleeding didn’t stop?

“Tina, hon,” began Elliot, his voice gentle, “I think you’d better drink something. Will you do that for me?”

She coughed. “Sure.”

When Elliot didn’t move, Matthew barked, “Well, don’t just stand there, you fool! Get her… get her some Gatorade or a Coke or something!”

Elliot jumped, rushing across the room to a large red and white cooler.

“And I hurt,” came her small voice.

Matthew yelled, “And get her a Percodan! Make that two!” He moved right up to the closed door and said, “It’s okay, babe.”

Hearing her moan in pain, Matthew placed a hand flat on the door, wanting, wishing to send her comfort, release, but forbidding himself to do anything more unless asked. He was sick of people asking him what they could do for him, tiptoeing around, themselves horrified by what they were witnessing, this terrible disease that was attacking his skin, his lungs, his stomach. Fuck it, he was mortally ill, they all were, no doubt about that, but he hated being treated as if he were a fucking two-year-old. He was just so sick of people—these grown, healthy adults—whimpering around him, wanting to know if he wanted a glass of water or a cold washcloth for his burning head or a cookie. Matthew, want a cookie? Shit. Yet now that he heard poor Tina literally flushing her life down the toilet, all he wanted to do was hold her, rock her. Oh, God, he begged, banging his head against the wall, let this be over soon, this torture of life.