In Death's Shadow (19 page)

"Right." I heard a drawer slide open, then another and another before Mrs. Bromley said, "The only corkscrew he seems to have is one of those pull-screw models, and it's mounted on the tasting table."

"Damn!"

"How about this?" From my perch, I turned carefully and looked down into Mrs. Bromley's upturned face. She was holding up a wine funnel.

"Let me give it a try." Holding tight and fighting vertigo, I stretched my hand down. On her end, Mrs. Bromley stood on tiptoe. I captured the funnel between my index and middle fingers and tucked it under my arm. When I was securely in position in front of the air conditioner again, I examined the funnel. The spout was curved, but it was made of sturdy stainless steel.

Holding the funnel end, I used the spout to dig around a corner of the panel. I made a hole, then rammed the funnel between the panel and the wall and pulled. I moved to the opposite corner and did the same.

Hoping to speed things up, I ran my fingers over the wood, feeling for nails I could work on. I never thought my fingers were particularly sensitive, but even in the dark I could tell that the panel was attached with screws, not nails.

"Mrs. B! I need a screwdriver."

If only this guy hadn't been so modern, I complained bitterly to myself. I didn't ask for much. Just an average, run-of-the-mill corkscrew with the name of a liquor store stamped on the side and a stainless steel, foil-cutting blade that folds up inside.

I heard drawers opening and closing again. "I'm not finding anything."

"A cheese knife?"

"No, nothing." A cabinet door opened, then closed. "Wait a minute! How about this?" She held up a thin piece of metal about a foot long. "I think you dry decanters on it. It's got a plastic tip." She grunted. "There, I got it off."

The drying stem was the thickness of a chopstick, much thinner than the funnel. It fit perfectly in the narrow space I had created between the panel and the wall. I crammed the rod in and yanked it toward me.

"It's coming!" With a screech, the screws began to surrender and the wooden panel started to pull away from the wall. I worked my fingers around behind it, stuck the rod in and pulled again. Suddenly, the panel came off in my hands. I waved it in the air like a trophy, and turned to smile at Mrs. Bromley. She stood below me, silently clapping her hands.

Behind the panel was a nest of wires and white plastic duct work. With growing excitement, I tore away the duct work to reveal the window.

It was six inches tall, large enough to accommodate the air conditioning exhaust, but not nearly tall enough for a human body to pass through.

"Damn, damn, damn!" I didn't realize I'd been sweating until the sweat started to cool on my forehead. "Oh, the big F-word!" All the other words I thought of contained four letters, too.

"It's too small, isn't it?"

"Yes," I whimpered. "We could sneak in a pizza, maybe."

"Come down, Hannah. You did your best."

So Pottorff wouldn't be aware of what I had been doing, I shoved the panel back into place, pushing the damaged corners in as best I could. Then I backed down the wall, carefully avoiding the wine bottles that Mrs. Bromley had arranged in neat battalions on the floor.

Outside the room, Chet was still watching
Twister
. From the sound of it, Cary Elwes was about to get his, or maybe the cow had just flown by. We were about to replace the wine bottles in their slots when the room outside suddenly grew quiet. I held tight to Mrs. Bromley's hand, hardly daring to breathe.

Chet's shadow darkened the door. He seemed to be listening, but we kept quiet. Chet grunted, and his shadow moved away. We could have frozen to death in there, for all he cared. I heard the refrigerator door slide open and the clink of bottles. Chet, it appeared, was helping himself to a beer.

A minute later Chet crawled back into the fury of the storm and we began to relax. "Just in case we don't get out of this, Mrs. B, I want you to know how much your friendship has meant to me."

"I feel the same way, Hannah."

"I just wish I could get a message to Paul. The last time I talked to him, he made me promise not to leave the house. When he gets home and finds me gone, he's going to kill me." I chuckled ruefully. "So to speak."

I reached for my purse and started rummaging.

"What are you looking for, dear?"

"Something to write with. I want to leave Paul a note, if they—" I swallowed, unable to continue.

For want of something better, I located my checkbook and tore a deposit slip out of the back. It would have to do. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I wrote Paul a note that came straight from my heart.

When I finished, and had pulled myself back together, I turned to Mrs. Bromley. "Where should I hide it?"

Mrs. Bromley didn't even pause to think. "You could empty out a wine bottle, put the note in, and recork it."

"I like that idea."

"I used it in a novel once.
The Broken Promise
."

"Really? I don’t know how I missed that one. When we get out of here, I'll have to read it." Tucking the note into my pocket, I crossed the room. Starting at the lower left-hand corner nearest the door, I counted nine slots up and seventeen over. I pulled a wine bottle out of the slot and carried it over to the door so I could see the label more clearly.

"Michael LeBois Pinot Noir Santa Maria Highlands 2001," I read aloud.

"Sounds complicated, but lovely," Mrs. Bromley said.

"I'm sure he's waiting for this little beauty to mature." I took the bottle over to the decanting table and positioned it under the corkscrew. "Well, too effing bad!" I pulled down and rammed the corkscrew home. I lifted the handle to release the cork, then held the bottle over the sink.

"Want a taste?"

"Are you kidding?"

I tipped the bottle to my mouth. "God, this is good." I took another swig and swished the wine around in my mouth before turning the bottle upside down and watching every last ounce of Michael LeBois's finest gurgle down the drain.

I rolled my note into a tube, stuck it in the bottle, and replaced the cork, pushing it all the way in with my foot. Then I returned the pinot noir to its proper slot.

"In case something happens to me, Mrs. Bromley, remember: nine up and seventeen over. It's my birthday."

From her position on the floor, Mrs. Bromley looked up at me and smiled. "Under the circumstances, Hannah, don't you think it's time you started calling me Naddie?"

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

"Naddie," I said, trying it on for size. "Naddie."

Next to me, Mrs. Bromley began to weep quietly. "If anything happens to you, Hannah, I'll never forgive myself."

"Please, Mrs. B, uh, Naddie." I wrapped my arms around her, wanting so much to comfort her, to reassure her that everything would be okay, but at that point, neither one of us was likely to believe it.

Tears glistened on her cheeks.

"Here," I said, "let me find you a tissue." I plunged my hand deep into my purse. I had a packet of tissues in there somewhere.

I pushed aside my wallet, my lipstick, an appointment book, my car keys—fat lot of good they were going to do me now. I found an old AAA battery, a stick of gum, and somebody's business card. Then my hand touched something soft and squishy.

Squishy? I tried to think. I felt it on all sides. Something squarish, in bubble wrap.

Bubble wrap. Paul's global positioning system was wrapped in bubble wrap.

Carefully, lovingly, realizing the potential of this miraculous discovery, I pulled the GPS out of my purse and laid it gently on the blanket.

Carefully, lovingly, I began to remove the bubble wrap, praying, as I did so, that the GPS had been returned from the West Marine repair shop operationally complete, including fresh batteries.

"What's that?" Mrs. Bromley asked as the device began to emerge from the plastic.

"This, Mrs. B, may be our salvation." I looked straight into her eyes. "And if not our salvation, at least a means of bringing these criminals to justice after we're gone."

"What? With a PDA?"

"No, not a PDA, Naddie. It's Paul's GPS." I turned it around so she could see the screen. '"I lift up mine eyes—'" I quoted. "I
knew
there was some reason we needed that window!"

Naddie looked puzzled. "Does it send out some sort of signal?"

"No," I explained. "Just the opposite. It picks up satellite signals and tells you exactly where you are. Paul uses it when he's sailing, to navigate."

"Well that's all well and good," Naddie said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, "but knowing exactly where we are isn't going to help us get
out
of where we are."

"No, but when we
do
get out, it will tell us how to get back."

"Get back? Why on earth would we want to come back?" And then she got it "Ah, the police! I must be senile."

I got to my feet. "Here, hold onto this—carefully!—while I climb back up to the window."

"Why do you need the window?"

I eased a toe into an empty wine slot and began to pull myself up the wall. "It needs to see the sky in order to pick up satellites."

When I reached the ceiling, I used the decanter drying rod to remove the panel, laying it aside on top of the Whisperkool.

Light poured into our prison cell.

Naddie handed me the GPS, and I held it as far out the little window as I could before turning it on. I waited, watching anxiously for the screen to light up. When it did, I said a silent prayer, thanking God and the Energizer Bunny. Then I cheered as, one by one, the device glommed onto the satellites orbiting overhead.

When the GPS was done acquiring satellites, it beeped.

"Now, to save our position."

Below me, Mrs. Bromley was bouncing up and down on her toes. "How do you do that?"

"Remember when I said Paul used this for sailing? Well, what we do is push the man overboard button." With my thumb, I mashed the M.O.B. down. "If we get out of here alive, Naddie, this little baby will tell us exactly where we've been. It'll even lead us here, like a mechanical bloodhound."

I kissed the GPS, tucked it into my waistband, and scrambled back down.

"You know what?" I said as I re-wrapped the GPS in its protective plastic. "I'm tired of waiting. I think we need to make it happen."

I tucked the device tenderly into my purse, slipped the strap of my purse over my head and positioned the bag comfortably against the small of my back. "You know what else I think? I think Chet's waiting for instructions. He doesn't have
permission
to use that gun, otherwise he would have shot us already."

"Perhaps we should get his attention." Naddie squared her jaw and grinned. She picked up a bottle of chardonnay, and when I nodded, she smashed it on the floor.

We stopped to listen. Chet had switched channels. He seemed to be watching a stock car race.

I picked up another bottle of chardonnay and hurled it against the wall. It crashed into a bin of merlot with a satisfying
thwack
.

The television went silent.

Just to make sure Chet was listening, I threw another bottle of wine against the door, hoping to shatter the pane. Surprisingly, the bottle broke, but not the glass. God only knew what kind of space age material it was made from.

A shadow appeared on the other side of the glass. "Hey, you ladies, cut it out. I know what you're trying to do."

I stood to the left of the door, well out of pistol range. "Aw, Chet. We're just having a little fun! There's wine in here, Chet. Lots and lots of wine! What do you think we've been doing in here, Chet? We've been drinking wine! Lovely, lovely wine!" I dashed another bottle against the tiles.

"You can break every goddamn bottle in there, I don't give a fuck. It's not
my
wine."

"C'mon, Chet," I wheedled. "Let us go. Before your friend gets back. We'll never tell."

"No fucking way."

Chet's shadow disappeared for a minute, and then it returned, dragging a chair. He positioned the chair directly in front of the door and sat down in it. I imagined him with his arms folded across his chest, a deputy sheriff in a spaghetti western.

I used the corkscrew to open a bottle of merlot, then poured it carefully under the door. Chet seemed to be ignoring the wine that had to be wicking into the carpet at his feet. Every few seconds he'd tip his head back, and I could see the vague outline of a bottle. Chet was drinking beer.

"Chet," I called through the door. "You really should let us go. You know why?" I giggled drunkenly. "Because my brother-in-law is a policeman, that's why! You don't believe me? His name is Rutherford, Chet.
Lieutenant
Dennis Rutherford. You can look it up. And if anything happens to me, he's going to come looking for you. And he's going to find you, and when he finds you he's going to cut off your balls and feed them to his cat!"

On the other side of the door Chet drained his bottle. I saw him set it on the floor next to his chair. Then he paid another visit to the refrigerator. I heard the door slide open and the
psssst
of a bottle being uncapped.

"You know something, lady? You are full of shit!" Chet faced the door defiantly. He tipped the bottle up and took a long swig. "I gotta do what I'm told. Ain't no independent thinking in this outfit. Last time I tried, he ripped me a new one."

I turned to Mrs. Bromley and rolled my eyes. "If Chet ever had an independent thought, the
New York Times
would report it."

"Boss not very understanding, then, is he?" Naddie was getting into the act.

Chet plopped down in his chair. "No way. Don't ever want to screw up with this dude or you could end up a floater."

"It can't be that bad," she drawled.

"Wanna bet? Kee-rist!" He snorted and upended the bottle. "Was supposed to get papers back from this broad. Ended up capping her instead. Didn't mean to. Was he
pissed
!”

The image of Gail's body swam before my eyes. I clapped my hand to my mouth, trying to suppress a scream.

Naddie touched my arm. To Chet, she said, "Why don't you get out of this business, then. Do you have a mother, Chet? Go home to her. Get a job at Wal-Mart."

"I don't usually work with guns," he mused, ignoring her. “Too fucking loud."

"Messy, too, I'll bet," Naddie said.

The refrigerator door slid open.
Psssst
. However this comes out, I thought, it'd probably be the last time Pottorff stationed Chet next to an unlocked refrigerator door.

"So, Chet, if you don't like guns, how come you got one stuck in your belt?" I asked.

"That?" He snorted. "Adds to my street cred, you know? Gets respect."

"So, what do you usually work with, Chet?" I hiccupped. "I really want to know. Knives? Poison?"

Chet laughed. "Nah. I make it look like natural causes, you know, like those geezers at the nursing home."

Naddie's fingers dug into my arm.

Chet was on a roll, so I pressed him. "And just how did you do that, Chet?"

"I burked 'em," he said simply. He tipped up his bottle and took another drink.

Somewhere a horn blared. Chet arose from his chair. When the horn blared again, Chet disappeared.

I turned to Naddie. "What the heck is burking?"

"My God," she said, grabbing onto the edge of the tasting table for support. "It dates back to nineteenth-century Edinburgh," she whispered. "Burke and Hare were these two fellows who dug up bodies to sell for anatomical dissection. When digging got to be a lot like work, they decided to streamline operations. They'd get a victim drunk, and while Burke sat on his chest to keep the lungs deflated, Hare would cover his nose and mouth, neatly asphyxiating him. It's extremely difficult to detect," Naddie continued, "unless you're looking for it."

"Jesus," I said. I thought about Valerie and Clark and those other poor folks at Ginger Cove and felt an overwhelming urge to force a pillow over Chet's face and hold it there until he quit squirming. Then I'd let him breathe. Then I'd mash the pillow over his face again. And again.

"Quick! Before he gets back!" In the light coming in from the window, I was able to identify the bin holding the champagne. I rushed over and pulled out a magnum. I held it in both hands and was about to use it like a club to smash down the door when I realized Chet was no longer alone.

"Hey, Nick. What's happening, man?"

"What the fuck?" It was Pottorff. His shadow, shorter and bulkier than Chet's, blocked the light coming in through the door. He was lifting his feet, examining his shoes. He'd stepped in the wine.

"Asshole! I thought you were supposed to be watching them?"

"I am watching them. They didn't go nowhere."

"Son of a bitch!" Stepping high, Pottorff's shadow receded.

"I didn't break them bottles, Nick. Them bitches did." Chet sounded desperate.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Look at this mess!"

"Look, man—" Chet began.

"Just get rid of them!"

I wrapped an arm around Naddie and dragged her with me as I retreated to the far corner of the wine cellar. I handed her my magnum and picked out another one for myself. Whatever happened, we'd go down fighting.

I braced myself, expecting Chet to burst in at any moment, gun blazing.

Then, from somewhere upstairs, a new voice shouted, "Not here, you morons!"

"Who is that?" Naddie whispered.

"I don't know!"

We heard muffled conversation, and within minutes the door opened and Pottorff slunk in, followed by Chet.

I raised the magnum to my shoulder like a baseball bat and got ready to swing.

"Drop the bottle, lady." It was Chet, backing up the order with his gun pointed directly at Mrs. Bromley. "You, too," he snarled.

Prudently, we did as we were told.

Pottorff grabbed my arm and dragged me roughly out of the wine cellar. Chet escorted Naddie, a bit more courteously. Maybe he hadn't emerged fully formed out of the primordial slime. Maybe he had a mother after all.

Retracing our steps, they hustled us back through the family room, up the stairs, through the kitchen and into the garage, where they shoved us into the back of the van and slammed the door.

Once again we heard the garage door grind open, and with Chet at the wheel and Pottorff riding shotgun, the van peeled off into the late afternoon sunshine.

The plan, apparently, was to pummel us to death.

Traveling at a high rate of speed, the van lurched through our captor's neighborhood with Naddie and me ricocheting off the walls as it careened around corners and joggled over potholes.

Naddie held onto the lawn mower. "Can you get the door open?"

On my hands and knees, I crawled to the cargo door and tried the handle. "It's locked!" I yelled over the roar of the engine. "But even if I could get it open, they're driving too fast. We'd be killed if we tried to jump."

Chet slammed on the brakes and I slid forward into a bag of grass seed. I looked up to check on Mrs. Bromley. She was still hanging onto the lawn mower, but under its tie-downs the mower had shifted alarmingly. I crawled forward, dragging the grass seed with me. Before the van began to move again, I helped Naddie into a corner on the passenger side of the van and cushioned her on both sides with seed bags. "You okay?"