“He said he wouldn’t. He promised.”
We took the box into the kitchen, where I placed it on the counter. I lifted the lid and found myself staring at a black case and a box of ammunition. Cold fear shot through my veins. Was I really going to do this? Kill someone? “Did—did he ever—practice with this?” Thank goodness I didn’t say shoot someone, though that’s what I wanted to ask.
Mom’s voice was solemn. “He went to the firing range several times a year. He said if he ever needed it, he wanted to feel confident. He wanted a reliable gun if he ever—you know. Roxy, have you ever fired one of these?”
“Sure.” Technically, I hadn’t lied. The truth was that I’d fired a gun twice at a firing range and came close once in Hawaii. “I went out with this guy who was all NRA. He rode a bike. He wore leather jackets. He even looked like George Clooney. He took me to a firing range both times we went out.”
“You dated a guy who looked like George Clooney? And you let him get away?”
“He got pissed because I could shoot better than him. He had lousy eyesight and a bad case of the shakes from too much drinking. When we met, I thought, ‘This guy’s hot!’ Then I wised up and figured out he was a loser.”
We both laughed nervously. Mom and I had never talked about my dating habits before. Most of the guys I’d dated had “Loser” stamped on their foreheads, which wasn’t a record that made me proud. I guess I just had bad taste in men. I said, “It’s the only way to save Dad.”
“Call the police, Roxy. I don’t want you to do this.”
“The guy who did this, he’s a dead man.”
What little color there was in Mom’s face drained away. “You said you wanted protection.”
“It’s the only way this will be settled. Otherwise, we’ll always wonder if—or when—he might strike again.”
Didn’t Mom get that? Didn’t she understand what criminals were capable of? I sure as hell knew. Firsthand. I knew what I was capable of. I knew others who would do far worse things than I’d ever thought to do. Besides, as soon as the cops started sniffing around my business, I’d be in jail for a very long time. I’d rather live in self-imposed exile on a beach than have to deal with prison politics. In fact, I’d rather be dead than have to deal with prison politics. No matter what happened, I’d never be able to help them again. I needed nothing less than a permanent solution.
The box of ammunition indicated that the bullets were a 9x19 caliber. I checked the owner’s manual for the gun, it was a Glock 17. “Dad wasn’t kidding that he wanted reliability.”
“That’s what he said. I don’t know anything about guns.”
And I didn’t know a whole lot more. Just enough to be dangerous fit my skill set level. And with one of these I could be just that. I heard a car door in the driveway and glanced out the kitchen window. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Mom dropped her gaze to the floor. Her lower lip quivered. “I called him.”
“You what? Why?”
She bit at her lip. “Because we need him. Especially—now.”
“Mother!” I shoved the ammunition back in the box and closed the lid. “Don’t you dare say anything about this. Not a word!”
I didn’t wait for her answer, but marched to the front door. I jerked it open just as Skip was about to ring the bell. I didn’t even look at his face before I shouted, “We don’t need you! Go away!”
The second the words were out of my mouth, I felt awful. He looked like a puppy that had been kicked for the first time. Despite the rejection painted on his face, he held my gaze. Shit, he was either tough as nails or as needy as a newborn.
I said, “I’m sorry. That was rude. Still, you’re off the case. I’m handling this. Thank you, good-bye.”
He reached out and put his hand against the door as I started to close it in his face. “No. I’m not leaving.”
For once in my life, I was speechless. My tongue traced a path inside my lips as I tried to think of something to say. He wasn’t acting mad, not angry, just so damned matter-of-fact. No. I’m not leaving. Who the hell says that? Behind me, I heard Mom.
“Roxy, let Skip in. He’s here at my request.”
I glared at her and saw my own resolution staring me in the face. My bravado fizzled. I had only enough energy to fight one war, if that. My resistance was tanking and I was five all over again, learning my manners with company. I stepped back and opened the door wide. “Come in.”
“You look tired,” Skip said.
“Didn’t sleep much.”
“Me either. Let’s get your dad back, okay? Then, if you want, I’ll leave you alone.”
My heart pounded frantically with enough force to send a message across any distance. He probably couldn’t hear it, but I could. Its message—at least to me—was clear. This man would bring me down. Skip walked past me without a second look and headed straight for my mom. I felt a little surge of jealousy. He was being nice to her, but I got the business tone. They hugged.
“How are you holding up?” he said.
She gave him a weak smile. I knew that meant she wasn’t doing well, but her words were quite different. “Not too bad. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“It’s okay. I want to help.” He glanced at me. “What do we need to do?”
He obviously caught my quick glance at the blue box with the gun because he immediately went to it and lifted the lid, “Please don’t tell me you’ve got the cash in here.”
His face went white as he saw what was in the box.
“Insurance.” I said.
“Against what?” He said as he read the box of cartridges and then the imprint on the case for the gun.
“Losing my money and my dad. I want to be sure we don’t get double-crossed.”
“Glock 17. Sweet.” He pulled a little key thingy from the bottom of the handle and stuffed it in his pocket.
“You know the gun, I’m impressed.”
“Still have mine from my days in the police academy.”
“That’s right. You said you wanted to be a cop.”
He probably thought I hadn’t noticed that he’d pocketed that little key from the gun, but only a blind man could have missed it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted me to miss it. “What was that you stuck in your pocket?”
“The lock for the gun. Your dad was smart and bought a lock. I have the key. The gun’s useless unless you want to use it as a club. Here.” He extended the weapon in my direction.
“Give me the key! I need it.”
“I think I’ll hang onto it so you don’t hurt yourself.”
All right, wise guy. You want to play games? Two can play. I rushed forward and began pounding my fists on his chest. It felt like a good imitation of the classic female in distress move to me. He seemed almost amused by it. Little did he know that I could just have easily broken his arm and flipped him onto the floor, then taken the key from him.
He gripped both my wrists and held them tight, my face inches from his. His hold was firm and strong. It didn’t hurt. In fact, it almost felt—good. His grip made my back stiffen. For an instant I didn’t want him to release me, then I regained my composure. “Let go.”
He smiled and, with that damnable confidence, said, “Are you done?”
An overpowering desire to break the hold and hit him where it would really hurt came over me, but I shook the feeling. Why deck him when all I needed would be a quick distraction? I glanced down. “Yes.”
A fraction of a second—the briefest moment of inattention on his part—and the key would be mine. I hadn’t practiced that particular talent in a while, but it would be no problem. I’d learned to pickpocket when I was twelve.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Skip
For the first time in his life, Skip knew what an overloaded electrical circuit felt like. Every conceivable emotion seemed to course through his veins as he held onto Roxy’s wrists. He’d pocketed the safety key to Richard Tanner’s Glock 17 for two reasons
. First, he’d dropped his .357 Sig into the trunk before leaving the condo and saw no sense in using the lighter caliber weapon when he had the Sig at the ready. Second, he wanted to prevent Roxy from doing anything that would make her predicament even worse.
But now that he supposedly had her locked in his control, he realized that he’d done it for a third reason—to provoke exactly this type of response. But what sent him into complete overload was the “Little Miss Helpless” routine. It was a practiced response to an aggressive situation. He’d felt the almost instinctive move she’d started to make to break his hold when he’d gripped her wrists—then she’d stopped and done that demur little glance to the floor. That glance had sent him into free fall again. He began to wonder if the real reason he wouldn’t give her the key wasn’t that he couldn’t trust her, but that he couldn’t trust himself.
When the standoff had finally played out, they discussed their options. The more they discussed things rationally, the closer he came to returning the key. She’d used a gun before. The situation was dangerous. He could give her the key with instructions to keep it in her pocket. But he kept coming to the same conclusion. He couldn’t trust her.
She’d already lied to him several times. She’d pumped him for information about Nordoff. And now she’d played him again.
It was 10:45 a.m. when Roxy’s phone vibrated and let out a high-pitched, squeaky war cry, “Banzai!”
Skip snorted. “You planning on going to war?”
“I had nothing better to do at four this morning. It seemed quite appropriate to me.”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile of recognition. “I went for a walk on the beach.”
Roxy’s fingers darted over the screen of her phone. “At four?” A second later, “It’s from him. He’s giving me an account to wire the money to.”
“We’re not sending anything until we have your dad back.”
“That’s what I’m telling him.” Here, read this. She stood next to him.
Skip’s pulse raced when her hip bumped against his shoulder. He shifted position as he took the phone.
“Sorry,” she said, then walked away.
He read her text, “Hv $, mst hv xchng 2 snd, meet where?”
He turned and saw her sitting at a dining-room chair, staring off into space. “That’s good. Proactive, I like it.”
“Go ahead and send it, if you know how.”
He sent the message. “You’re not the only one with a smartphone.” He connected to the GPS tracking web site he’d told the Nordoffs about.
“What are you doing? Give me that!”
“I’m downloading an app I recommend to parents to help them track their kids.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” She tried to take the phone from him, but he twisted away from her. “Whatever. Mom! We’re going to have to leave in a few minutes.”
Evelyn came into the room. Skip felt his heart sink. She had a dazed look that telegraphed sheer exhaustion. Her face was chalky and she clasped her arms in front of her.
“I think I fell asleep on the couch.” She rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Skip tried to console her. “No need to explain. We understand.”
He glanced at Roxy. She nodded and winked. He felt his pulse jump. What was it about this woman that he found so damned desirable? If he could understand that, maybe he could regain his control.
Roxy approached her mother and took her into her arms. “We’ll be back later. We’re bringing Dad home, safe and sound. You just remember that, okay?”
Skip wanted to caution her not to get her mother’s hopes up, but the words caught in his throat. There’d be time enough for Evelyn to grieve if their plan didn’t work. She’d have the rest of her life. Why not give her just a few moments solace? “That’s right,” he chimed in.
As if on cue, Roxy’s phone screamed, “Banzai!”
She read the message silently, then said, “We’re supposed to meet him in thirty minutes on the bridge over the jetty on Carlsbad Blvd.”
Skip blinked. “What? Why there?” That was the spot where he’d spent the morning watching the ocean.
Roxy handed him the phone. “Make sure I got it right.”
He read the message. “Shit. He’s not going to hand off your dad there. He’s making sure we don’t have any cops. We’re going to be chasing our tails for a while.”
“Not us, me. He’ll run if he sees more than one of us.”
“Then I’ll go. Text him back, tell him it’s me, not you.”
Evelyn added, “Please, honey. I couldn’t bear that.”
Roxy shook her head. “No. I have to do this.”
He recognized the signs. Her resolve was an obvious, impenetrable shield. He knew it would do no good to caution her. Her eyes had glazed over. Her lower lip pulsed with anticipation. She had an adrenaline rush he couldn’t overcome or compete with. He couldn’t stop her. He knew it.
He capitulated. “Do you want the gun? And the key?”
Roxy smiled. She held up Richard Tanner’s Glock 17 safety-lock key. “This?”
Skip swatted at his pocket. He jammed his hand down deep. His jaw fell as he stared at her. “What the hell?”
She winked at him. “I have a very light touch. Don’t I, Mom?”
Evelyn shook her head and let out a nervous laugh. “Skip, my daughter has been incorrigible since she was seven.”
Roxy corrected her. “Eight. I was eight when I grabbed the Rolex.”
Evelyn gazed at her daughter with admiration. “I never thought I’d say this, honey, but I’m glad you were so difficult. It might just save your father’s life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Roxy
As I stood on the bridge over Agua Hedionda Lagoon, my knees felt weak. My stomach churned. If possible, I was even more scared than when I’d been thrown into the trunk of that man’s car. Maybe it was because there were two lives on the line this time.
Walkers ignored me as they passed. Beneath the bridge, seawater surged through the channel to feed the lagoon. Groups of people walked, talked, and laughed. I, on the other hand, was alone. My only comfort—and it wasn’t much—was that Skip watched me from a parking spot further down Carlsbad Blvd.
It made sense that the kidnapper would have me come to this location, then send me somewhere else to make sure I was alone. Skip and I had agreed that this might happen several times before I made personal contact with him. At least I could see Skip from here. He looked like any other guy taking in the ocean scenery—but so many things could go wrong.
My phone rang. Okay, I told myself, be strong. “Yes.”
“Go to the other side of the street. Now!”
The caller disconnected. The urgency in his voice drove me into immediate action. If he could see me, he knew that there was no traffic at this moment. I surveyed the area. No suspicious looking people in any direction. Shit. I hopped the barrier and dashed across the street. As I stood on the center divider, I watched cars approaching from the south. Traffic behind me cut off any hopes of retreat. As soon as I reached the other side of the street, my phone rang again.
“What?”
“Head towards town. Stand under the lamppost with the No Parking sign at the end of the bridge. You have thirty seconds.” The caller disconnected again.
He was watching. He also needed phone etiquette lessons. I spotted the lamppost. At least, I hoped I had the right one. That’s when I realized I’d used up half my time searching for the damn thing. Now I had to run to get there. To the north, a laughing couple pushed a stroller in my direction. To the south, runners and walkers did their thing. Where was this guy?
I ran toward the spot and had to squeeze past the couple with the stroller. I’d just made it to the lamppost when a white Ford Focus pulled to the side of the road. I peered about wild-eyed. The closest person was a runner halfway back on the bridge. The couple with the stroller had their backs to me and neither w
ould be willing to jeopardize their child for a stranger. And neither would I. A gun pointed at me from inside the car. The person holding the gun wore a Richard Nixon mask.
“Get in!”
I hesitated. The voice sounded familiar.
The driver pulled the slide on the gun and pointed it at me. “Now!”
I opened the door and swallowed hard as I sat in the passenger’s seat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Skip was on the other side of a divided road, he could never follow me. He’d have to drive the opposite direction just to turn around. As I pulled the door shut, I realized that there was someone in the back seat.
I felt a gun jammed into my ribs by the person in the back. “Give me that purse.”
I handed my purse over my shoulder and saw that the backseat passenger wore a George W. Bush mask.
Bush ordered, “Sunglasses.”
I took off my Donna Karan sunglasses and set them in my lap. Nixon grabbed them and tossed them in the back seat.
“Hey! Those are—”
“Shut up,” barked Bush.
I said, “Great, I’m being kidnapped by Bush and Nixon.”
“Close your eyes,” said Bush. “And your trap.”
I did and heard a ripping noise. Next, I felt tape applied to my face.
The tape held my eyes shut. Something cold and metallic clamped around my left wrist, then my right.
I started to scream, “No!” My words were muffled by another piece of tape across my lips. I squirmed in my seat, panic flooding through me. “Mmm! Mmm!”
“Shut up.”
It wasn’t Bush. It wasn’t Nixon. It was the man who haunted my dreams. I thought I could trust him. He looked like a businessman. But back at his car, he picked me up and threw me in his trunk before I could do anything. Now, it’s dark. And hot. And smelly. The smell is awful. It’s like a dead—no! No! I tell myself. Don’t think about that. He’s the one. The man that Mom and Dad have been talking about.
The car jerks forward, then bounces up and down. The floor is so hard. I feel my tree house key jam into my butt. The car stops. I’m going to die. Soon. My eyes begin to sting.
License to Lie Page 11