Mrs. Million (23 page)

“And who was here first,” Hugh added.

“I’m not forgetting anything,” said Barbaraannette.

“You folks wait right here,” Gordon said. He crossed the lawn to the front step, unholstered his baton and used it to knock on the door, five authoritative blows. After a few seconds, the door opened. Gordon looked down at the smaller man, at the gray tuft of beard and the bright pink cheeks. “André Gideon?”

Gideon placed a delicate-looking hand on his cheek, raised a thin eyebrow. “Yes?”

It was him all right, the pervert professor. Gordon remembered those little monkey hands.

“Can I help you, officer?”

Gordon leaned into the doorway. “Mind if I come in?”

“No, not at all. Please do.”

Gordon stepped inside and looked around the room, his eyes adjusting. It was an ordinary-looking living room. No signs of pedophilia or other deviant behavior.

Gideon closed the door. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? Tea?” He seemed nervous, dancing around in his little suede shoes.

“No thanks. Do you have company, Mr. Gideon?”

“Me? No!” He did a little shuffle, monkey hands fluttering. “Who are those people in my driveway?”

“We’ve had reports that a Mr. Robert Quinn might be on the premises.”

“I’m sorry. Who?”

“Mind if I take a look around?”

“As a point of fact, officer, I do.”

Gordon smiled. “Tough,” he said. He walked past Gideon into the hallway, opened the first door on the left. A bedroom, empty.

“Excuse me, officer, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Gordon opened the next door. The bathroom.

“Ex
cuse
me, but this is highly illegal!”

Gordon turned to tell the little perv to shut his sodomizing yap, but the guy was running at him with his arms up over his head. He had about one fourth of a second to recognize the object in Gideon’s hands. It looked like a chair leg.

“H
E’S SURE BEEN IN
there a long time,” Phlox said.

“Probably got offered some food,” Hugh said. “That Dale Gordon, he’s a fool for anything sweet. Eating a Pop-Tart, some damn thing.”

“Honey, he’s been in there long enough to eat a whole box of those.”

Barbaraannette said, “She’s right. I’m going to see what’s keeping him.” She started toward the front door. The sound of a slamming car door came from within the garage. Barbaraannette stopped. They heard an engine start, then the squeal of spinning tires and a tremendous crunching sound. The garage door bulged, glass popping from the windows and shattering on the driveway. Hugh and Phlox headed in opposite directions; Rodney dove for the bushes. More screeching, and once again the car smashed into the garage door, this time bursting through the wooden panels—Barbaraannette caught a glimpse of a red-faced, bearded man at the wheel—roaring down the driveway, cutting the corner of the lawn and scraping the side of Hugh’s van. The car turned onto Fifth Street at high speed, back end sliding, and disappeared. For a moment no one said a word, then Hugh let out a howl of fury, ran to his van, followed by Rodney, and took off in pursuit. Barbaraannette and Phlox watched the van disappear, then looked at each other.

“I didn’t see Bobby in that car,” Phlox said. “Did you?”

“Not Dale either,” Barbaraannette said, in motion now, running toward the front door.

They found Dale Gordon on the floor, senseless, his hands, feet, and mouth covered with silver tape, an enormous lump growing on his forehead. Barbaraannette pulled the tape off his face. He was breathing. Barbaraannette patted Gordon’s cheeks, trying to rouse him.

“I think we better get an ambulance,” she said.

Phlox, who was running from room to room searching for Bobby, didn’t seem to hear her. Barbaraannette found a phone in the kitchen and called the hospital, then she called the police, then she returned to Gordon and began to untape his wrists and ankles. “You better be all right,” she said. “You better be okay.”

Gordon let out a groan, but showed no signs of awareness.

Barbaraannette said, “I’m sorry, Dale. I swear to God I’m sorry.” She heard the clatter of boots on stairs, turned to find Phlox coming toward her with a gray object in her hands and a stricken expression on her face. “What is it?” Barbaraannette asked.

Phlox held out a lump of crumpled gray felt decorated with bits of silver tape.

“El Presidente,” she said.

Barbaraannette said, “El what?”

“It’s Bobby’s,” Phlox’s voice cracked.

For the first time since leaving Tucson, Phlox felt cold, unfiltered fear. This was not an adventure anymore, it was not a game. She’d been cruising on beer and adrenaline, not allowing herself to think that Bobby might really be in danger. At least not the kind of danger that would make him dead. She’d half believed that he had disappeared willingly, that he was messing with her head, or maybe trying to figure out a way he could keep the money for himself. But finding his hat, his El Presidente sticky with duct tape and filthy from the furnace room floor, and the stain on the floor that looked a lot like dried blood—these things were truly frightening.

He’s dead, she thought, forming the words in her mind, tasting them for truth, feeling her stomach drop as the concept became real.

Barbaraannette said, “But no Bobby?”

Phlox shook her head. She noticed the sleeping policeman. “Is he…?”

“I think he’s all right. He’s breathing fine, and his pulse is strong. I called the hospital.”

“Maybe Bobby’s alive, too.”

Barbaraannette seemed surprised. “Of course he is. The man can’t get my money without Bobby.”

Phlox nodded, pushing the fear down deep, gathering her forces. “You got that right, honey,” she said, forcing bravado into her voice. “I wonder if this kidnapping son of a bitch keeps any beer around the house.” She went into the kitchen and found a bottle of Heineken in the fridge. Sipping the beer, she walked through the house keeping her thoughts close to the surface. She could hear a siren. One of the bedrooms contained a desk with several piles of neatly stacked papers—letters, bills, and so forth. She picked up a small address book, flipped through it, put it in her pocket. She sat down and looked through the unpaid bills, paying particular attention to the one from the telephone company.

The siren was closer. She heard the growl of a male voice. She pocketed the phone bill and returned to the hallway. The policeman was on his feet, saying, “I’m all right; I’m all right. Jesus, what the hell happened to me?” Touching his forehead, wincing.

Barbaraannette said, holding his arm, “Take it easy, Dale.”

“Easy, hell.” His hands went to his waist. Suddenly clutching at his belt, the cop said, “Hey! My gun!” Looking down, groping at empty leather. “My cuffs!”

André drove at random, turning this way and that, heading away from Cold Rock but with no clear destination, hearing his own voice saying, “I am an outlaw now,” feeling the weight of the police revolver on his lap.

“I am an outlaw now,” he said again, turning onto County Road 235, cutting the corner, raising a cloud of dust. The gun slid off his lap and fell between the seat and door. André picked it up, set it back on his lap.

He was a few miles west of Rush City when he first noticed the maroon van.

Rather to his surprise, he did not experience a heart-pounding, panicky feeling. He felt peaceful, as if events to come were preordained. The moment he had clubbed the policeman, a calm had settled within him. He was a skydiver on his way down, or an astronaut on his way up. The moment of truth had come and gone, his choices were delineated, his decisions made. The incident with Jayjay had sent him along this path, but until now there had been a chance he could go back. Not anymore.

He turned at an unmarked dirt road, followed it past a small farm, then stopped the car. Twenty seconds later the van came into sight, slowed, then pulled up behind his car. He could see two men, large and angry-looking. André opened the door, got out, aimed the revolver with both hands and fired. The gun slammed into his hands, wrenching one thumb back; the sound of the explosion was much louder than he had expected. A hole appeared in the windshield, about a foot to the left of the driver’s head. The man’s mouth fell open. The other man ducked out of sight. Gripping the revolver more tightly this time, André aimed and fired again. A headlamp exploded. The driver’s head disappeared and the van began to move rapidly backward. André pulled the trigger twice more, getting the hang of it now, but not sure where his bullets were going. On the last shot the van turned suddenly into the ditch and tipped onto its side.

André stood watching. One of the front wheels was spinning and steam rose from the grille. He got back in his car and continued down the road. Every few seconds he would lift the barrel of the gun to his nose and inhale the aroma of gunpowder. Was this the smell of freedom? His mind roamed through a European future peopled with expats and fugitives and squinty-eyed, cigarette-smoking men named Raoul and Gunther. Soon he, too, would be wearing dark shirts beneath pale jackets. He would develop a tic. When asked what he did he would make vague representations concerning import-export. He would be an art dealer, surreptitiously bringing antiquities out of the Baltic nations, dealing with the great Old World museums. He liked that.

A few minutes later he stopped the car again, got out, and opened the trunk lid.

“Get out,” he said.

Bobby, staring at the gun in André’s hands, said, “What are you going to do?”

“I am not going to shoot you. Just get out.”

“I don’t think I can.” His arms were taped to his sides.

André cocked the revolver. “If you do not get out I
will
shoot you,” he said, enjoying the feel of the words passing over his lips.

Bobby twisted, got one leg over the edge, and slowly dragged himself over the lip of the trunk. He fell heavily to the dirt surface of the road. André watched him writhing like a worm, trying to get his feet under him.

“Get up,” André said, even though the man was clearly doing everything he could. “Hurry up,” he said.

After a few abortive attempts to throw himself upright, Bobby managed to brace his shoulders against the rear bumper and push himself into a standing position.

André said, “Now get in the car.”

“I can’t open the door,” Bobby said. His hands flapped uselessly against his thighs.

André opened the passenger door and Bobby climbed inside. Seconds later, they were driving down the road.

“What happened?” Bobby asked. “I heard shooting.”

“Two men were following us. I neutralized them.”

“Oh.”

“Your situation has grown precarious. I thought you should know where you stand.”

“Where I stand?”

“You are in desperate straits.”

Bobby nodded. “Where are we going?”

“I have not yet decided. Your wife is not a trustworthy woman. She called the police. That was not a part of our agreement.”

Bobby nodded. “Barbaraannette’s got her own mind.”

André looked at his passenger. “You know her better than I. Perhaps you could suggest a course of action?”

“Sure. I suggest you leave the state and change your name. Like I did.”

“But you came back.”

“Yeah, and look at me now,” Bobby said. “And you know how come?”

André took a moment to think. He said, “No I do not.”

“Barbaraannette. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here. The woman is like a jinx around my neck.”

“Albatross.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me ask you something. Do you believe that you wife intends to pay me the money?”

“Barbaraannette? You don’t know what she’s going to do.”

“She called the police. That was foolish.”

“Maybe. But I’ll tell you something. You don’t want to piss her off.”

André laughed. “I would say it is too late for that.”

“You think so? With Barbaraannette it’s hard to say. She teaches second-graders, and I never once heard of her getting mad at one of them. She’d tell me stuff they did and I’d ask her how she kept from slapping the kid upside the head and she’d say to me, ‘Do you shout at the rain?’”

André looked at his passenger, a little startled.

Bobby continued. “See, you just don’t know about Barbaraannette. She would never get mad if she, like, hit her thumb with a hammer. But one time her mother bought her a shirt at Foreman’s department store. I think it was a birthday present.”

“Her mother?” This gave him an idea.

“Yeah, but the shirt’s not exactly her style so she takes it back to the store to exchange it, and the saleswoman looks at it and then she sniffs the armpit and makes a face.”

“How rude.” André turned east on County Road 23, trying to think of what would be the best route to Diamond Bluff. He would probably have to take the interstate through the Twin Cities, or around them, and pick up Highway 61, and then cross the river at Prescott. There was simply no good way to get there from here.

Bobby said, “That’s what Barbaraannette thought.”

“I would take my business elsewhere. Do you know how far it is to I-35?”

“I don’t even know where the hell we
are.”

“A few miles east of Mora.”

“It couldn’t be too far, then.”

“Good.” They came up behind a truck loaded with manure. Holding his breath, André pulled out to pass, then thought better of it. The driver might look down and notice that his passenger was wrapped in duct tape. He slowed down and fell in behind the truck, then slowed down more to get some fresh air between the two vehicles. As soon as he could breathe freely again André asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“What?”

“The story about the blouse.”

“You were asking about Barbaraannette. See, the woman wouldn’t take the shirt back because she claimed that it had BO. So Barbaraannette drives straight over to Rolling Hills Country Club and finds out where Billy Foreman is—Billy owns the store where the shirt came from—and she finds him in the lounge with a bunch of his friends playing bridge and she goes in and pulls up a chair next to him and sits down and plops the blouse down next to his scotch-and-soda and says, ‘Smell that.’