Stunner (33 page)

“This is pepper spray.” I give Frankie a mock demonstration. “The closer you hold it to your attacker’s face, the better the spray will work to burn his eyes. Then you press this button on top and count to three. Pssst.”

“What if one squirt isn’t enough?” she asks.

“Trust me, one time will work, but you can spray it two times, and then it’s empty.” I give her the small can. “Stick this in your jeans pocket, and let’s see if we can find you something baggy, so if we get caught, the pepper spray won’t be noticed in your pocket. OK?”

I dig around an open duffle bag filled with rumpled clothing and my hand hits something sticky. “Ewww.” I pull my hand out and it looks like toothpaste—maybe a broken tube that got all over the clothes. I smell mint on my hand, but who can be sure. I dash into the cramped and filthy bathroom.

While washing my hands, my eyes settle on the worn, damp toothbrush in a plastic cup. Bobby Taylor’s toothbrush? There’s an unused cup in a clear plastic sleeve. I remove the cup from the covering and use the plastic sleeve to bag the toothbrush. You never know—this DNA could come in handy. I’m still wondering about Francesca’s paternity.

I return to the room and tuck the wrapped toothbrush in my purse. Frankie has found a large tee-shirt in the pile of clothes that covered her on the bed and sniffs at it. “This smells bad, Ronnie.”

“I’m sure it does, Frankie. Turn it inside out, and maybe the creep who tied you up won’t notice you have it on if he finds us. If he does, just say you got cold from being scared. OK?” She nods, and I help her pull it over her head. “Let’s get out of here.” I reach out my hand, Frankie grabs it, and we turn to leave.

Just then we hear the click of the door lock, because someone has used a key card to get in. We freeze. The door opens, and in steps Jimmy, the stoned guy who attacked me behind this motel on my last visit. He’s as shocked to see me as I am him.

“What the f— are you doing here?” Jimmy says as he grabs me, while I yell, “Run, Frankie!”

Which she does. I slam my knee up between Jimmy’s legs, right into his crotch, hard. Bull’s eye! He collapses on the filthy carpet moaning. I turn to leave.

“Hold it, bitch.” Bobby stands between the door and me, holding Frankie, with a gun pointed at her head. “I wouldn’t try anything stupid.”

I stand still. “Don’t hurt her,” I beg. “What do you want?”

“First, your phone,” Bobby says. I hand it to him, and he throws it on the ground, stomping on it and crushing it.

“We’re outta here—you first,” he says to me. “I’ll follow with the kid here. And my gun. So don’t get any ideas. Understand?”

“I understand.” I try to keep a calm tone, as I look at Frankie, who’s shaking she’s so scared. “Frankie, we’re going to do as he says. I’m here with you, and everything will be OK.”

“Jimmy, you stay here,” Bobby says, “and call me if anyone else comes snooping around.” Jimmy grunts but doesn’t get up.

I go out first and glance down the hallway, wondering when the maid will return from her break. Bobby gestures with the gun for me to walk toward the rear of the building, which I do. He and Frankie follow me through the back door, where we see the green SUV with its front windows down. Bobby must have brought it around while I was inside with Frankie.

“The keys are in the ignition, and you’re going to drive,” he says to me. “This little lady and I will sit in the back seat to make sure you do exactly as I say,” he tells me. “Understand?”

“I understand. Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” Bobby’s voice is gruff. “Now move, and remember, I’ve got the gun.”

The two of them climb into the back. I see the scrapes on the passenger side of the SUV that are obviously from the night of the attack on my brother. I make my way around the front to the driver’s side, get in, start the car, and drive through the alley. Somebody’s got to stop this guy. But first I’ve got Frankie to think of.

I pull out of the alley between the coffee shop and motel, make a left turn and observe Juliana crouched on the sidewalk-side of the Meadow Farm Toyota that I drove here. A front door is open—maybe she found the car keys—and she’s quietly speaking to Warrior, who stays down. I look in the rearview mirror at Bobby, and I’m sure he hasn’t seen Juliana next to the Toyota.

The creep is distracted, muttering one obscenity after another, while he jerks roughly on Frankie’s seat belt, trying to secure her so she can’t move. The girl’s clenched jaw and stiff body show me how afraid she is, and she tries very hard not to look at the threatening Bobby recklessly waving his gun around.

As I pass the Toyota, my dog’s head pops up to look at us. My eyes meet Warrior’s, and I put my finger up to my lips telling him to be quiet. Then my eyes connect with Juliana’s, and I think
Call Frank
as hard as I can. A lot of good that’ll do…

Driving down the road, I look in the rearview mirror again and see Juliana and my dog pull out in the Toyota to follow us.

Bobby Taylor directs me to drive to an area filled with industrial buildings. We approach one with an old sign that says
Henderson Manufacturing
. He then instructs me to turn in and park as close as possible to the back entrance of the building. I look up and count six stories high and then glance at the clock on the dashboard. It took us ten minutes, driving west from the motel to arrive here.

“We’re getting out,” Bobby says. “Don’t try to pull any shit on our way to that door, or else someone will get hurt.” He brandishes his gun at me. “You hear me, bitch? I don’t know your name, so I’ll just call you bitch.”

Francesca pipes up. “Her name is Ronnie.”

“Hey, what did I tell you before?” He shoves Francesca’s shoulder. “Stay quiet, you little shit.” Frankie looks scared again, and I try to beam thoughts of safety and confidence that we’ll be all right from my eyes directly to hers.

The three of us get out of the car and enter the building, only to find the elevator not working. Bobby slaps his hand on the button and then the elevator door and lets out a new string of obscenities.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To the roof,” he snarls. “And it looks like we’re walking up.” The door to the stairway is jammed, and Bobby kicks it repeatedly until it opens. “Let’s go.”

I enter first, followed by Francesca and Bobby. He slams the door behind us.

He sure makes a lot of noise for someone in the midst of a kidnapping. I wonder that he isn’t worried about alerting all the other tenants and someone calling the police. “What kind of companies are in this building?” I ask, as I begin the six-story climb to get to the roof. The air is stale in here.

“None of your business who’s in this building,” he barks. “Now move it.”

Frankie runs up faster than Bobby until she’s alongside me and can grab my arm and then my hand. I look at her with a smile and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

As we pass doors on our way up, I read out the names on the signs showing who’s doing business on that floor. Seems to mostly be storage companies of one kind or another, so probably not many people are around who could help us.

“I remember you now,” he says with a sneer. “You and your friend were at that mixed martial arts fight by the airport when I worked security there. You’re the bitch who almost got me fired.” He looks down the barrel of his gun as though he’s aiming at me. “Bang!” He cackles—it’s a mean sound.

“And you were the creep banging that drunk guy’s head on the concrete. What were we supposed to do? Let you kill him?”

“Well, I’ve got plans for you—”

“Yeah?” I cut him off. “What kind—”

“Ronnie, shhh.” It’s Francesca, and she’s tugging on me. I settle down.

By the time we climb from the sixth floor to the roof, all three of us are huffing and puffing. I push through a heavy metal door, and we walk onto the flat roof. Francesca and I breathe in the fresh air.

The first thing I notice are a lot of cooing sounds coming from a good-sized shed halfway across the rooftop. It’s a nonstop chorus. Walkpads on top of asphalt lead straight to the shed.

“What’s that?” Frankie asks of no one in particular.

“Those are my brother’s pigeons,” Bobby says, “and you two are going into their shed.” I remember Joe Taylor talking about Teresa’s father having homing pigeons and then giving them to Joe and Bobby when he left.

Bobby uses his gun as a pointer indicating we should walk on the pads toward the shed. Keeping his weapon on us, he then unlocks the door and pushes us inside. We stand in a shabby wooden passage that provides access to two pens filled with pigeons sitting in their nesting boxes or perches, or flying about. A third pen is filthy with old pigeon droppings but empty of birds, and Bobby shoves us inside that one. He latches the door with a tight-looped rope over a hook, so we’re effectively locked inside the pen.

Bobby’s phone buzzes, and he answers, “Yeah?” He shoves the gun into his waistband and listens. “How much longer?” He listens some more. “An hour and a half? You better hope Joe doesn’t get here first, ’cause he’ll be really pissed.”

I whisper to Francesca, “He’s talking to Juliana.” She nods.

Suddenly Bobby bursts out at the caller, “Don’t give me that shit. No excuses. Call me when he’s at the coffee shop with the cash, and I’ll tell you what to do next. Bottom line, you better have all the money when you come here, or, well, you know—the kid.” He looks straight at Francesca when he says the last bit and then ends the call to go outside and sit on a bench by the door to the shed.

Somewhere out there, close by, are Juliana and my German shepherd, but if she knows where we are, I hope she doesn’t rush in with Warrior, the way I usually would, and do something stupid. Please let them wait until Frank and Will arrive.

~~~~~

Francesca and I stand by the one small window in our pen and kill time watching the pigeons in an outdoor area that’s caged in with wire. I guess it’s a safe way for the birds to exercise without getting picked off by a hawk or some other predator. It feels like an hour or more since Bobby stuck us in this disgusting place.

But the door to the roof suddenly bursts open, and we hear Bobby jump up, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Hey, big brother—”

“You idiot,” the other voice says. “How could you bring the girl here of all places?” I know that voice. Joe Taylor. I remember it from my meeting with him to learn about his drug prevention program for school kids. Nice guy.

“You mean—here in Moosic, Joe, or here to the pigeon coop?”

“Loft, Bobby. How many times do I have to tell you it’s called a pigeon loft, not a coop.”

“Things were getting messed up at the motel,” Bobby whines. “I didn’t know what else to do, Joe.”

I hear a string of obscenities from Joe, and the sound of someone kicking a garbage can, probably Joe, too, and the can crashing on its side and rolling around. “This is my special place, Bobby, from Uncle Tony.”

“I thought these were
our
pigeons from Uncle Tony,” Bobby protests.

“They were ours until you went away to prison and stayed there most of your feeble life,” Joe says. “Anyway, Uncle Tony’s pigeons died a long time ago, you idiot. But why are we talking about these f—ing pigeons? Where’s the girl?” Francesca’s eyes look at me with fear, and she grabs my arm.

“I’ve got them in the empty pen in the back—”

“Them?” Joe asks.

“Yeah. The kid and the broad,” Bobby says. “I think her name’s Ronnie.”

“Mother f—er.” Joe slams through the door to the coop—uh, I mean loft—making a racket as he strides to our pen. I shield Francesca with my body, and I feel her shaking.

Joe Taylor peers in, and a look of recognition comes over his face as he stares at me. “You! What are you doing here?” He notices Francesca’s arms grabbing mine even though she hides behind me. “How the hell are you connected to the girl?”

Bobby stares at me and then at Joe. “You know her?”

“Mrs. Ronnie Lake.” Joe shakes his head at me. “I knew something was off when you came to my office saying you were from that foundation wanting to give my program money.”

“I am on the board of that foundation,” I insist. “Although, if you’re involved in this kidnapping, I would imagine your chances aren’t great to get our approval—”

“Shut the f— up,” Joe yells at me. “Come on, Bobby. This changes everything. I need to get some air and think about what to do.” He drags his brother outside with him.

“Joe, we can still get the twenty-five thousand. Teresa said she’ll have it in a little while.”

“Bobby, shut up. I need to figure this out.” I hear feet pacing back and forth.

“Joe,” Bobby whines. “When do you need the money for the deal with Eddie? Isn’t the shipment coming in soon—”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

While Joe and Bobby think, I pull from my pocket the little Swiss army knife—thank god that tattooed dimwit didn’t decide to check us for weapons back at the motel—and I stretch it through the narrowly spaced slats at the top of the pen door. I try repeatedly to catch the rope that’s looped over the hook, holding the door closed.

After a half-dozen tries, I snag the rope and carefully saw the knife back and forth against the loop. It’s slow going and on one of my passes, I drop the rope.

Nothing else to do but try again. I’m getting better at it with my knife and hook it after three tries this time. I start up the sawing again in the deep cut I’ve already made in the rope. Back and forth I continue.

“Joe what do we do?” Bobby sounds nervous. “This is our chance to be part of some really big money—”

His brother’s answer is too quiet to understand. I continue with the knife. Back and forth. Almost got it.

Just as the rope loop gives way with a quiet
snap
, I hear a door creak open. Is it the same one we used to get to the roof? I signal Francesca to stay quiet, as I carefully open the door to the pen that holds us. We tiptoe down the corridor of the loft.

I can hear commotion on the roof outside the shed. “What the f—? Teresa, is that really you?” Joe laughs. “My, my, you’ve come a long way since we were kids. Just look at you now,” he says in a scornful tone. “How did you know to come here? And who’s this guy with you?”