Nicole Graves 04: The Ransom

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Twelve

  Something woke Stephanie from a dream that evaporated as soon as she opened her eyes. It was morning. She’d been coughing all night and didn’t feel well enough to get out of bed. All at once, the front door slammed and footsteps clattered overhead. She could hear men’s voices, loud and argumentative, although it was hard to make out what they were saying.

  She forced herself to get up. Maybe her captors were here to deliver food and coffee or tea. If they did, she was going to drink whatever beverage they brought. If it put her to sleep, all the better. Anything would be an improvement over lying in bed all day, coughing and agonizing over her fate.

  She grabbed her flashlight and crept up the stairs. At the top, she put her ear to the door. She could make out voices of two men. It had to be Ryan and the guy in the suit. Matt was probably laid up with his injured arm.

  “No way I’m doing it,” one said. His voice was high pitched and nervous.

  “Well, it’s not going to be me.” This voice, deep and a bit gravelly, she recognized as Ryan’s. He sounded calmer and more assertive than before. “No way I’m cutting a finger off. Just the idea of touching her—”

  “It won’t be that bad because—” There was a loud shushing sound, and they lowered their voices. Now all she could hear was mumbling.

  The hairs on Stephanie’s neck stood up, and she found herself trembling. They were talking about her. They were planning to cut off one of her fingers and were fighting about which one had to do it.

  The shock almost made her step backward. Just in time, she remembered the missing step. She grabbed the doorknob to catch herself. The near fall made her stomach somersault, and she felt as if she were going to be sick. She hurried down the stairs, looking for a place to hide. She went into the bathroom, but the lock was broken. Besides, the door was too flimsy to hold. One good kick would break it down.

  She paused only long enough to grab the flashlight before dashing under the stairs. She shone the light around. There was nowhere to hide. All she could think of was to crouch in the shadows at the far side of the freezer. She put her back against the wall and sat down, crossing her legs in front and pulling them toward her. She listened for the basement door to open. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she could hardly breathe.

  It wasn’t long before one of the men clambered down the stairs and stopped at the bottom. “Hey,” he yelled. “She’s not here!” Then apparently realizing his associate couldn’t hear, he ran back up, shouting, “She’s gone! She escaped!”

  “That’s impossible,” the one named Ryan said. “She’s got to be here. There’s no way out except through that door. It was locked and nailed shut.” This time both of them came down the steps.

  Stephanie could see a powerful flashlight beam moving around the basement and into the crawlspace. Meanwhile, a second flashlight clicked on. The person holding it ducked under the stairs and moved the light around. It was the tall guy who’d been wearing the suit and tie, now dressed in a hoody and jeans. His light rested on her a moment before he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. What surprised her was that he looked every bit as frightened as she felt.

  “Ow,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

  He eased his grip slightly, forcing her out of the stairwell. “I found her!” he said.

  “All right,” Ryan said. “Let’s tie her up and get this over with.”

  “Right.”

  Sobbing, she tried to resist as they pulled her along. When Stephanie’s shins hit the side of the bed, Ryan said, “Lie face down and shut your eyes. Do as I say or I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  “Ye—yes,” The word came out in a stutter because her teeth were chattering. She felt her hands being tied. This struck her as odd. Why would they tie her hands together if they were planning to cut off a finger? The grip on her arms was released.

  “I’ve got a gun,” Ryan said. “Keep your head down. Don’t move or I’ll shoot you.” She did what he said, crying into the blanket. She was shaking with fear, thinking of what they were about to do. Could someone bleed to death from a severed finger? She remembered their last visit when the guy in the suit had argued Ryan out of throwing her down the stairs or tying her up. He’d protected her that time. Was it possible he’d step in and rescue her now? Her thoughts bounced back to the conversation she’d overheard about cutting off her finger. Both men sounded as if they’d bought into the plan, although neither wanted to actually do it.

  She held her breath, waiting for them to start. To her surprise, they walked away. It sounded as if they were headed for the area under the stairs. There were scuffling noises, a click, some creaking, then what sounded like the rattling of plastic. All was quiet until one yelled, “Damn it!” After that, they started muttering in a way that indicated profound frustration with whatever they were doing. They seemed to be struggling with something. After more rustling of plastic, there was a loud snap.

  “See how easy that was?” Ryan said, giving an unpleasant snort of laughter. The other man didn’t answer.

  The door of an appliance, either the refrigerator or the freezer, was then slammed shut. When she heard footsteps approaching, she started trembling again.

  One of them used a knife to cut the rope from around her wrists. He tried to grab her left hand, but she snatched it away and, out of sheer panic, rose up on her hands and knees, trying to resist.

  “Stop struggling, you stupid bitch,” Ryan said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Don’t just stand there,” he told his partner. “Hold her down.”

  Someone pressed on her shoulders and put a knee in the middle of her back, forcing her to lie flat. One of them grabbed her left arm, pulling her hand out from under her. He opened her hand and stretched out her fingers. She screamed, bracing herself for what was to come.

  Thirteen

  Nicole got out of bed just as the sky was beginning to show light. Her sheets and blankets were on the floor, as if she’d been struggling with them all night and the bedding had lost the battle. She was even more exhausted and depressed than when she’d gone to bed.

  She was in the kitchen, making her morning coffee when she heard the burner phone ring in her bedroom. She ran to get it.

  “The bastards didn’t show,” Arnault said.

  “Oh, no!” Then, after a moment of shocked silence, she added, “Do you think they spotted the drone?”

  “I don’t see how. I made sure it was the same color as the sky. At the last minute, I had them paint it a lighter shade of gray because it was cloudy. Clouds reflect city lights and make the night sky brighter. By the way, I had someone on my team pick up the ransom package from the location on Mulholland. We decided it would be best if you stick to your normal routine in case the perps try to get in touch with you.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But answer this for me. If they didn’t know about the drone, and the police weren’t anywhere around, how did they find out you were watching?”

  “I can only guess they had another source of information. Maybe they managed to hack the burner you’ve been using. Have you gotten any calls that hang up right away?”

  “No. The only caller I’ve had is you.”

  “Throw the phone away and get another on your way to work. Be sure to call and give me your new number. I’ll have our techs give your place a sweep in case it’s bugged.”

  “Do you need me to leave a key for the techs to come in?”

  “Just your permission.”

  “Of course you have my permission. The note said the drop on Mulholland was our last chance to save Steph.” Nicole’s voice trembled, and she was on the verge of tears.

  “This isn’t over,” he said. “These guys are desperate for money so they can get away. They’ll be back with another demand.”

  “How can you be so sure? Maybe they’ll kill Steph or abandon her and kidnap someone else. I mean, the second victim is still missing; so is Ashley. What’s happened to them? Do you think th
ey’re still alive?”

  “Believe me,” he said. “They won’t attempt another kidnapping. It’s too risky. You’ll be hearing from them again.”

  “All right.” She was too upset to argue. “I’ll let you know if they contact me.” She hung up without waiting for his response. She was sick of his “believe me’s.” She was sick of him.

  She opened the French doors and went out onto her small balcony as she did every morning to get an idea of the weather. It was overcast with the cloud cover left from the previous night. She gazed out at the city. Except for the occasional palm tree, the view was uninspiring. Some of the rooftops were in bad need of repair; many were cluttered with air conditioning units, satellite dishes, clotheslines, and battered lawn furniture.

  Although the mail wouldn’t arrive for hours, she decided to get dressed and go down to check her mailbox. If Arnault was right, another message might be waiting. The hallway was eerily silent. Less than a year old, the place still had traces of the bitter smell of new carpeting and building materials.

  As she’d expected, her mailbox was empty. She took the elevator back up to her floor. Turning the corner from the elevator alcove into the second-floor hallway, she stopped. A brown cardboard box, about a foot square, was sitting in front of her door. Whoever had delivered it must have just left. The messenger couldn’t have used the front door or she would have seen him. That meant he’d entered through the garage. As she thought it over, she realized that all he had to do was wait for someone to drive out and duck into the garage before the door closed. As for leaving the building, that was easy. The doors were always unlocked from inside in case of fire.

  She picked up the box and shook it. It was light, and nothing rattled. She went into her place, locked the door behind her, and set the box on the kitchen table. Whoever had packed it had used copious amounts of tape, and it took a while to open. The box was packed tight with Styrofoam peanuts. She pulled them out by the handful and piled them on the table, although some rolled onto the floor.

  Nested in the Styrofoam was a smaller cardboard box. She pulled off the lid to find it stuffed with crumpled newspaper. Growing more impatient, she dug into it. All at once she felt something that made her recoil and pull her hand out. It was cold and clammy, like a tiny, dead, hairless animal. It took her several minutes to gather enough courage to proceed. She drew in a deep breath, then kneeled down and dumped the box’s remaining contents on the floor. Out fell what looked like a human finger. A second later, a ring tumbled out, hit the floor, and rolled into a corner.

  The sight of the finger made her dizzy. Her legs gave way, and she was abruptly sitting on the floor.

  She scooted back, putting some distance between herself and the finger. It looked real enough. The thought of where it must have come from, the pain involved, made bile rise in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to take a closer look. Instead, she got up and went over to where the ring had landed. Just as she’d feared, it was Steph’s engagement ring, yellow gold with a square cut ruby. She picked it up, then forced herself to go back and look at the finger. The first thing she noticed was that the fingernail was painted bright red and carefully manicured. Steph’s nails were always a mess. She bit them to the quick and never bothered with a manicure.

  Using some of the newspaper packing, she picked the finger up and examined it closely. The skin had an odd blue cast. She’d never seen an amputated finger before and had no way of knowing if this was normal. Bits of white bone were visible where it had been cut at the joint. There were no traces of blood.

  Only now did she notice something else: this finger was too small to be her sister’s. Steph, who was five-eleven, had big hands for a woman. But this finger was even smaller than Nicole’s. She held the ring next to the severed finger. The ring was much too big. It would have fallen off the first time the wearer lowered her hand. The idea that the finger wasn’t Steph’s made it only slightly less horrifying. It had been taken from someone. But who? Were the kidnappers holding several women? Had they decided to spare Steph and chop off someone else’s finger? It didn’t make sense.

  Something else struck her as odd. The severed finger must have been meant as a threat and should have been accompanied by a message. Where was it? She went back to the box and shook it out. Nothing. But when she dumped the remaining peanuts from the outer box, a folded sheet of paper dropped out. She caught it before it hit the floor and unfolded it:

  “You made the mistake of involving the police again. We’re giving you one more chance. Be warned. Next time her head will be in the box. Go about your day as usual. Bring $30,000 in a checkable bag to Union Station by 9:00 p.m. Buy a ticket out of town from Amtrak. The destination doesn’t matter. You need a ticket to be able to check the bag. After you check it, go directly to the station’s south patio and put the claim ticket in the planter box closest to the front wall. Come alone and, above all, do not bring the cops. Follow these instructions to the letter, or your sister dies.”

  She stared at the note, realizing she really had to do this on her own without letting Arnault know. But how? The police were watching her. How could she take money out of the bank without them knowing about it? How could she check a bag in a crowded train station without being observed?

  With these questions dogging her, she glanced at the clock. It was 8:30 a.m. She was due at work and hadn’t begun to get ready. Even if she hurried, she’d be late. She reached into the cupboard and got down the big, round Quaker oatmeal box where she hid her diamond earrings and the ring from her now defunct engagement. The box was three-quarters full of oatmeal. She put Steph’s ring in a snack-sized baggy, sealed it, and buried it under the oats before returning the box to the shelf.

  Next, she wrapped the finger in a paper towel, sealed it in a baggie, and put it in the refrigerator. She’d read that a severed finger could be refrigerated for several days and still be reattached. Of course, she had no more idea of when they’d cut it off than she did of whose finger it was.

  She skipped breakfast, unable to think of food after handling the contents of the box. She was getting ready to leave when the phone rang.

  “Hi,” Arnault said. “No word yet, I assume?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Not too well.” Her voice was shaky. She found herself wishing she could tell Arnault what had happened, lay her burden at his feet and have the police deal with it. But that wasn’t an option.

  “How about lunch?” he said. “It might help being with someone who knows what’s going on.”

  No way, she thought. Best to spend the day avoiding him. “I have a huge amount of work waiting for me. I appreciate the offer. But talking about it isn’t going change the fact that this is bad news.”

  “I have to admit it’s worrisome,” he said. “We’d expect you to have heard from them by now. But they might just be stalling to scare you into dealing with them directly. That’s what they want: the cash down payment on the ransom and you in their hands to make sure you make the wire transfer. Don’t fall for it.”

  “I won’t,” she said. “I promise. If I hear from them, I’ll call you.”

  After she hung up, she thought about what came next. Once she got to work, she’d have to figure out a way to withdraw the money without being observed. If the police saw her go in the bank, Arnault would immediately hear about it and know what she was up to.

  As she was on her way out the door, she had an idea. It was 8:35. The bank’s staff would already be at work, even though the branch didn’t officially open until ten o’clock. She went back inside, called the bank, and asked for the manager. The woman who answered the phone said he wasn’t expected until late morning.

  “How about Kevin James?” Nicole said. “Is he there?”

  “May I say who’s calling?”

  “It’s Nicole Graves.”

  Kevin was immediately on the line. “What’s up, Nic—” he stopped himself and started
again. “How can I provide excellent service?”

  “Is that the script they make you say when you answer the phone?”

  “That’s right,” he said. His cheerfulness sounded forced. She thought how humiliating it must be to have to say that every time the phone rang.

  “Listen, Kevin. I have to make a rather large cash withdrawal, and here’s the thing. I’m tied up in my office all day with back-to-back meetings. Is there any way we can arrange to have this done by messenger? I can download a withdrawal slip, fill it out, and have it delivered to you. I’ll include a note authorizing you to let a messenger pick it up. You can call me when it’s ready, and I’ll arrange for pickup.

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  She hesitated only a moment before saying, “thirty thousand dollars.”

  “For that much cash, I’m afraid you’ll have to pick it up yourself. We can’t entrust that amount to a messenger. I’m really sorry, but it’s bank policy.”

  “All right. What if I send in someone from my office with a note authorizing her to pick up the money?”

  “That would work. Have this person bring a valid photo ID and a note with your signature. But make it before eleven o’clock. That’s when Blagg is supposed to arrive. You’re in luck that he has a dental appointment. He’s taken a special interest in you and your account. If he were involved—well, it could get complicated. He’d go into his rule book and find an obscure paragraph forbidding large cash withdrawals unless the account holder picks it up in person.”

  “Could you pack up the money so it isn’t obvious what it is? I’ll have someone down there as soon as you open.”

  “I’m on it,” Kevin said.

  “Thanks so much, Kevin. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “For you, Nicole,” he said, “anything.”

  Fourteen