Hostage (9 page)

Cal gave me a sour look, without comment. He must have known how I felt, but he didn't offer to do anything about it.

A blue and white police car pulled out in front of us.

Buddy jerked and hit the brakes, throwing me forward, almost off the seat.

“Be careful!” Cal said sharply. “I thought you could drive this thing!”

Buddy snapped back. “You think you can do any better, I'll pull over and give you a chance
to try it. What did you want me to do, plow into the back of the cops and get asked for the papers on this wreck?”

I was staring hungrily at the police car, only a few tantalizing yards away. Was there any way I could get their attention?

Cal had glanced at me and must have read my thoughts. “Don't get any ideas, kid,” he said. And then, to Buddy, “Where's that duct tape we had?”

“I threw it under the seat,” Buddy said, still seething over the aspersions cast on his driving ability.

Cal leaned over and fished around, then withdrew a roll of the silvery tape people use to mend everything from broken windows to split pipes. I looked at it uncomprehendingly until Cal tore off a strip, twisted around, and plastered it over my eyes.

I yelped a protest before I could stop it, jerking away from him, which threw me against Buddy. He, in turn, swore his own objections, but Cal was pressing the tape down firmly, right into my hair on both sides, leaving me blind.

“Shut up, or I'll
plaster your mouth shut, too,” Cal warned.

I choked, swallowing, gasping for breath.

I could still breathe, but with my vision cut off, I felt as if I'd die of suffocation if he covered my mouth, too. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I struggled to control them. I didn't think there was any way for them even to run off.

I couldn't see the police car anymore, or anything else. Hope, not very strong to begin with, sank another notch. In the dark, determined not to make things worse by crying, I sat numbly, trying to pray. It wasn't likely anything or anyone else could save me.

I knew when we swerved onto the freeway, turning to the right, throwing me against Cal. There was traffic around us—big trucks, by the sound of them. Once again I heard a siren, one of those ringing up and then down, like the ones they use on ambulances. Not a police car, I guessed, when Buddy kept an even speed. Obviously it didn't spook him, which meant no one was going to stop them or save me.

It was hard to judge how long we rode. Cal and Buddy didn't talk to each other, or to me.
I wanted a drink in the worst way, and I needed to go to the bathroom. My nose was running again, and I wished I had my nasal spray, though this time my problem was probably not due to an allergy. My nose always runs when I cry.

They say when you lose one of your senses, your other senses become more acute. I didn't know if that is true or not, but I concentrated on figuring out which way we were going. I wasn't sure what good it would do to know, but I did it just in case it might be helpful. It gave me something useful to think about.

A right turn onto the freeway, going south. Quite a few miles, and then another turn, and down an off-ramp, then climbing perceptibly. A stop. Traffic going by, then a left turn.

We'd gone off the freeway, over an overpass heading east. A few miles going straight, and less traffic. I didn't hear any eighteen-wheelers, and I guessed we were on a secondary road. Getting close to our destination? Closer to the time when they'd have to decide what to do with me—and Mrs. Banducci—if they decided they no longer needed us for hostages?

In stories and movies, if the hostages are the good guys, they usually get rescued or manage to escape. Unfortunately, a writer who likes happy endings wasn't writing this script. Cal and Buddy and Bo didn't care about happy endings, I was pretty sure. At least not for anyone but themselves.

We made another turn, this one to the left. The sound of the tires on the road surface was different. A gravel road, maybe, instead of pavement?

My heartbeat was speeding up, and I could hear my own breathing, as if I'd been running. Oh, if only I could run!

When Buddy braked without warning, I rocked forward again. Cal stuck out an arm to shove me back against the seat.

We bumped over some rough terrain, and then stopped with a lurch.

“Let's get this stuff unloaded and get rid of this rig,” Buddy said, and Cal grunted agreement.

They left me sitting there in the middle of the seat, unable to see, or move my aching arms. It seemed as if they'd been twisted behind
me for a long time and my shoulders would pull out of their sockets if someone didn't loosen the rope soon.

I listened to the men's voices, knew they were moving around, opening up the back of the truck, unloading it. I heard the screech of rusting metal—a sliding door being opened? Cursing, something falling with a crash.

“Maybe,” Buddy said, so close by the open door that I jumped, “we should leave the piano on the truck and see if that buyer you might have will take a look at it. If he'd take it before we have to handle it again, it would save a lot of muscle.”

“No,” Cal said bluntly. “It's too risky to haul it around. And we need to get rid of the truck as soon as we can.”

“I'll second that,” Bo said, also very close. “If that old broad is telling the truth, they'll be looking for us as soon as somebody gets into her house. She says she left a note describing the truck, and that they'll find us any minute. I need to put some of that tape over her mouth.”

There was a moment of silence before Cal swore some more. “You think she really did?”

“Who knows? She'd
say anything if she thought it would spook us. She could have. But she lives alone, doesn't she? Might be nobody'll go into her house for days.”

“Her son sometimes comes on weekends,” Bo said.

Had Mrs. Banducci told him that, or did he know that from some other source? Was he one of the neighbors, someone who had information about the people who lived in our new subdivision? Would that make it easier for them to get rid of anyone who might possibly identify them?

“We'd better not take a chance,” Cal decided. “Unload everything, including the piano. As soon as it's empty, Buddy can drive the truck off a bridge and dump it where there's a chance nobody'll find it for a while. Maybe we can pick up another one right away and hit one more place yet this afternoon.”

“Not in the same area,” Buddy said quickly. “We're pushing our luck already in Lofty Cedars.”

“No,” Cal agreed. “We already cased that Hempstead Lane on the other side of town.
That ought to be safer. Come on, let's get the rest of the stuff inside.”

Was there a chance someone would see me when they hauled me out of the truck? I wondered. Maybe someone would realize that I was blindfolded and tied—

“Come on, sister,” Cal said, practically in my ear. He took hold of my arm and dragged me out of the truck, cracking my head as I stumbled through the doorway. It really hurt, and I sagged down without any way to catch myself. He let me go all the way to the ground, and he swore as I sprawled at his feet, doubling over. He reached past me to get something off the seat, probably the gloves I'd been sitting on.

“Take the duct tape off so she can see to walk,” Buddy growled. “There's nothing she can see here that will matter, is there?”

He didn't even wait for Cal to respond but reached down and ripped off the tape. I yelped again because it felt as if the tape took half my skin and bunches of hair with it, but at least my eyes were uncovered. They were streaming by this time, so that everything around me was blurry.

“Come on, then,”
Cal said, and pulled me to my feet so roughly that I lost my balance and fell against the edge of the seat I'd just left. I blinked hard and took a few extra seconds, as if to catch my breath, while my gaze swept over the odometer. I could just barely see it.

Two hundred thousand and seventy-nine miles.

We'd driven thirty-seven miles since we'd left home. And we were south and a little bit east of town. I twisted to wipe my face on my shoulder as Cal dragged me upright. I glanced around, trying to see as much as I could in case I got an opportunity to flee.

The nearest building was a barn that looked as if it hadn't been used in a long time. Some distance off to one side stood an apparently abandoned farmhouse, dejected and run-down.

We were way out in the country, with no close neighbors. So much for my hope that someone would spot me and call for help.

“You'd better just leave us behind and go,” Mrs. Banducci's voice said sharply, and I turned my head to see her being pushed ahead
of Buddy in our direction. She, too, had her hands tied behind her. “You aren't going to get away with this, but if you left now, you could try to outrun the police. They're after you by this time.”

Buddy's irritation seemed mixed with nervousness. After all, she could be telling the truth about having left a message with a description of the truck. He didn't respond to Mrs. Banducci, however, but spoke to Cal.

“We had to get her out of the way so we could unload everything. What do you want me to do with her?”

“For right now, they can both sit here where we can see them.” Cal shoved me down onto the ground near the front of the truck. “From what we've seen so far, one of 'em might hot-wire this rig if they get loose. I don't want them to be where they can do anything we won't notice. We'll get rid of them when we're ready to leave.”

My eyes met Mrs. Banducci's as she was also pushed onto the ground. She looked more angry than scared. “If you harm us, the sentence will be more severe,” she told our captors. “Life in
prison. Or execution. We have the death penalty in this state, you know.”

“She's getting on my nerves,” Buddy said.

“Forget her. Let's just get this stuff off the truck as fast as we can.”

They left us there, where they could see us as they worked, and I let out a long breath. I hurt all over. “Do you think they intend to kill us?”

“I really did leave a note on my desk,” she informed me. “With a description of the truck. My friend Sarah was coming over for lunch, and when I don't answer the bell, she'll walk in and find the note. The police will be looking for us by this time.”

“How will they know where to look, though? We're thirty-seven miles from home, and the police car we passed paid no attention to us.”

She considered this, then turned her head to look me over. “You've got a red mark on your forehead, but I hope your brain isn't addled. We've got to think of a way to escape if the police don't get here soon enough.”

“We're tied with our hands behind us,” I pointed out. “We could get up and run, but I don't think we could outrun them. There's no
place to go that isn't right out in the open where they could see us.”

Mrs. Banducci pursed her lips, as if that helped her think better. “Can you reach that little stem thing behind you?”

“Stem thing?” I echoed stupidly.

“On the front tire. It must be almost directly behind you. That's what I used to let the air out of the other tire while the truck was parked in front of your house. If we could make this one go flat, too, they wouldn't be able to move the truck and run it into the river or whatever they were talking about doing. If they can't hide it, the police will find us sooner. They'll put out an APB with my description of it, and somebody will spot it and report it.”

“We're way out in the sticks,” I said. “Far enough off the main road so it could be a long time before anybody notices it.”

“Still, it's in plain sight if anyone drives by.” Mrs. Banducci squirmed into a more comfortable position. “We don't have much time. Can you reach that valve thing?”

I wriggled my aching hands and felt for the tire behind me. “Yes, I can feel it. But I don't know if it's
a good idea to give them another flat tire. It would make them madder than they already are. That might not be very wise.”

“If they're already talking about putting us back in the truck and running it into the river, how much nastier could they get?” the old lady demanded.

My breath caught painfully in my chest. “Is that what they're planning?”

“That Bo and Buddy were talking that way. I don't think the other one—Cal is his name?—has decided, and he's the boss. But he's a mean one, too. So let's give them another flat tire.”

“I don't know how to do it,” I said. I felt as if I'd fallen into a nightmare and couldn't wake up from it.

“My son told me once how to do it. You have to take the cap off; can you manage that? And then you have to stick something down inside to hold it open while the air leaks out.”

“I don't have anything,” I told her, feeling less competent by the moment. I glanced toward the rear of the truck, where the men were carrying boxes into the shadowy interior of the barn.

“There's
a nail right behind you. I saw it when I sat down. Feel around for it.”

Feeling around for anything when your hands are tied behind your back isn't easy. I was sweating and slightly nauseated, but I followed her directions. The cap on the air valve resisted my efforts at first, and then gave way. I found the nail and prayed it wouldn't be too big to fit into the valve in a way to release the air.

When the air whooshed around my fingers, I stifled an exclamation. “It makes so much noise! They'll hear it!” I almost panicked all over again.

“They're talking and making their own noises. Just let it sit that way until the tire goes flat.”

I glanced furtively toward the rear of the truck, where our captors had begun to maneuver Jeff's precious piano onto the lift that would lower it to the ground. They were all grunting and swearing, and as the lift came down it made noises, too.

The escaping air seemed horribly loud in my ears, but the men didn't seem to notice.