by Ann Rule
She waited, shivering from the cold and shock, for what she felt was about an hour. She listened to people coming and going so close to her car. But she was too afraid to scream for help.
They were in the parking lot of the Giant T department store in Kennewick, but Martha didn’t know that. Nor did she know what was going on inside the store as she waited in the locked trunk.
Mike Anderson entered the store through a rear entrance and walked into an area marked “Employees Only.” He knew he had to get another car as the Carelli car was probably on police hot sheets by now. They had spent three hours driving in circles around the Tri-Cities area, and he figured that the man back in the house had managed to untie himself and call the cops.
Mike Anderson needed another car, and he needed money, too—a lot of money—to help him get away. During the times when he’d stopped and parked along the way, he’d tried to figure out what he should do. He’d considered holding up a bowling alley, but there’d been too many people there. So he’d decided to rob the Giant T.
A stock boy walked into the storage area at the rear of the store and surprised Anderson before he’d fully formulated his plan. He held his gun on the kid and the two stood staring at each other as the voice of the store manager, twenty-eight-year-old Edward “Doug” Parry, sounded over the intercom. Three times Parry called for the stock boy, and three times Anderson shook his head.
The store was about to close and a customer was waiting. Exasperated, Parry walked into the storeroom, looking for the stock boy. He spotted Anderson holding the gun barrel to the frightened kid’s ear. Parry knew at once who the gunman was. Not only had he seen the TV news with Anderson’s picture, he had lived just around the corner from Anderson before the fugitive’s arrest in February.
Parry was remarkably cool; before coming into management training for the Giant T stores he had been an ambulance driver, an EMT in San Francisco and Florida, trained to handle emergency situations. In fact, he’d been involved in so many bizarre incidents as an ambulance driver he had finally decided to get out of that field.
He saw the irony in his situation when he realized he was right back in danger—in the storeroom of the Giant T.
Parry was used to dealing with unstable individuals and he recognized that Anderson was on the ragged edge. He followed his orders carefully. Anderson slipped the gun into his pocket and walked Parry and the stock boy in front of him until they reached the only cash register that was still open. The female clerk at the counter was checking out the last customers of the night.
Anderson carried on a conversation with Parry, talking as if they were old friends. None of the few straggling customers realized what was going on. That was fine with Parry; he didn’t want anyone to get shot.
As the last customer walked out the door, he locked it. Some regular customers appeared and knocked to be let in. They were surprised when the usually obliging Parry shrugged and shook his head.
They walked away, grumbling, unaware that he was trying to protect them.
“Have you called the police?” Anderson demanded.
“No,” Parry said. “Why would I have done that? I didn’t know you were back there.”
Satisfied, Anderson said, “Okay, let’s open the safe.”
Doug Parry opened the large safe and Anderson was angry when there were only a few hundred dollars in it. Assuming that Parry was lying to him, he struck the assistant manager on the back of the head with the gun butt.
“I’ll kill them,” he said, pointing to the clerk and the stock boy, “if you don’t come up with more money.”
Ignoring his injuries, Parry put the cash in a brown paper bag. Anderson stuck his head in the safe and spotted an inner safe.
“What’s inside that one?” he asked.
“More money,” Parry replied. But he pointed out that the key to the inner safe was located in the pharmacy department. He said he wasn’t sure if he could find it. Undeterred, Anderson marched his three hostages back to the drugstore portion of the store. Parry couldn’t stall any longer, and he fished the key out of its hiding place.
Now, Anderson locked the clerk and stock boy in the pharmacy and returned with Parry to the safe. The inner safe held close to $6,000 and Anderson was finally satisfied that he had enough money.
“Okay. Now, you go with me,” he told Parry.
He walked Doug Parry to the Carellis’ car. Parry was shocked to see the injured woman who emerged when the trunk lid was opened. Blood had dried and coagulated on her face, which was swollen and bruised.
Anderson told them that they were going to change cars and the trio moved to Parry’s new Volare station wagon.
“You drive,” the escapee told Parry. “And she sits beside you. I’ll be in the back with the gun cocked.”
Martha Carelli, who had now been held hostage for five hours, began to cry softly. Anderson responded by hitting her in the head several times with the gun butt to shut her up.
Doug Parry felt great compassion for her, but he knew the only way he could hope to save her life—and his own—was to obey Anderson until he saw a chance for them to make a break. He looked at his gas gauge—less than half a tank left.
“You know the way to Seattle?” Anderson asked.
Parry nodded. “But I’ll have to get gas. It’s over two hundred miles to Seattle, and once we’re on the pass, there won’t be any stations open.”
Anderson was angry, but he grudgingly allowed Parry to pull into a service station. While they were getting gas, a carload of Parry’s friends pulled in and tried to make conversation with him. He deliberately cut them off short and called to the attendant to keep the change from the $10 bill. He pulled out, leaving his friends perplexed at the usually congenial store manager’s attitude.
It was 10 P.M.
Half an hour later, a Kennewick patrolman spotted the Carellis’ car in the Giant T parking lot. He asked the Kennewick police dispatcher to send several backup cars. When the officers entered the store, they found the two badly frightened employees still locked in the pharmacy. They said they believed Parry had been taken hostage after their store was robbed, and gave the police a description of Parry’s yellow Volare station wagon.
When it hadn’t been sighted by midnight, the local area “want” on the car was widened to include an all-points bulletin to the seventeen Western states.
The Kennewick Police had found so much blood in the trunk of the Carelli car that they feared Martha Carelli might already be dead. No one in or around the Giant T could recall seeing her. She certainly hadn’t been with Mike Anderson when he robbed the store.
Many miles away, the yellow Volare headed west toward Seattle. Doug Parry drove, and Martha sat quietly beside him. His medical training told him that the woman was in deep shock, yet she was making a valiant effort to be alert. He didn’t dare ask her any questions, and he had no idea who she was or where she had come from. He hoped that she could keep from crying, because this seemed to provoke their captor into violence.
Doug Parry had already made up his mind that he wouldn’t leave her—even if he had a chance to escape himself. He was convinced that if he left her alone with Anderson, she would be killed.
Anderson was jumpy, apparently unsure of what to do next, and ready to kill anyone who got in his way.
Parry headed northwest toward Yakima, the first city of any size. From there they would go to Ellensburg, where they would merge onto Interstate 90, the freeway that climbed steadily to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass and then plunged down to Mercer Island and Seattle.
A white Washington State Patrol cruiser was gaining on them, and Parry’s hopes rose as it pulled up alongside his station wagon. He looked for another cruiser in his rearview mirror, but there was only one.
But his optimism vanished when he felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against his head. Anderson had also spotted the state trooper, and he snarled, “If he tries to stop us, you’re dead. And so is he, and so is the lady.”
Parry didn’t dare glance to the left as the trooper’s car kept pace with his for a few hundred yards, and he hoped to hear a siren. But then it pulled ahead and disappeared around a curve. Apparently, the trooper hadn’t been alerted yet about the robbery at the Giant T and their kidnapping. Parry wondered if he should have deliberately sped up, turned out his lights, honked his horn—anything to get the trooper’s attention.
But the chance was gone. And Anderson was probably right; a lone trooper walking up to a car where a gunman waited probably wouldn’t have had a chance. And if Anderson killed a cop in front of them, their own lives weren’t worth much.
As Parry turned onto I-90 and headed up the grade to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass, the gunman alternately warned him not to attract attention by driving too fast or recklessly and urged him to speed it up.
Even in April, there were still snowbanks this high in the Cascade Mountains, but the ski lifts weren’t lit up, and it was so dark. Giant fir trees shrouded each side of the road, looming over them. Only rarely did Parry see another car on the freeway.
Martha Carelli was silent, but her fears for her family were growing. She could barely see now, and her nose was so swollen she had to breathe out of her mouth. Her head hurt fiercely and she trembled with shock.
The dashboard clock read midnight. Both Doug Parry and Martha Carelli were aware that their captor might decide at any moment to shoot them and dump them in the lonely forest.
They reached the summit a little after 1 A.M. Then they were heading down the western slope, passing the exit ramps to the foothill towns of North Bend and Issaquah. Bellevue and Mercer Island were densely populated and now there were more vehicles on the freeway.
They had been on the road more than three hours since leaving the Giant T store. Parry felt certain that the alarm must have been given by now. Surely police personnel in the Seattle area would be looking for them. He both sought and dreaded the confrontation that was to come. He had little hope that he and the injured woman beside him would survive if a shoot-out occurred. Anderson seemed to be under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or some mental disorder. At the very least, the realization that he faced a very long prison term if he was caught was enough to make their kidnapper reckless.
If he had nothing to lose, why should he care about what happened to his captives?
Doug Parry tried to talk calmly to Mike Anderson. The man was a powder keg ready to explode at any instant. He was panicky and not thinking clearly. Still, Parry was astounded when Anderson suddenly said, “Hey! I’ve never been to Seattle before. I want you to give me a tour of the city.”
He had to be kidding. But he wasn’t. Their abductor wanted to see the tourist spots in Seattle before he did whatever he planned to do to Doug Parry and Martha Carelli.
Parry complied, and exited I-90 on the west side of the floating bridge that connected Mercer Island to Seattle. Even though it was dark out, he drove slowly for a while along the scenic route that bordered Lake Washington, pointing out various spots of interest: the Stan Sayres hydroplane pit where the big boats raced every summer, the Arboretum, Husky Stadium, and the University of Washington.
The Giant T manager was worried about Martha; he was certain she had a concussion and her wounds and bruises grew more obvious as time passed. Her head had swelled up to almost twice its normal size. But Anderson seemed to have no compassion at all for her.
After they had circled around the university campus, Anderson suddenly said, “Now, I want you to drive to a dark place—someplace like a parking lot or something.”
“Why?” Parry asked, trying to keep fear out of his voice.
“Because I have to get rid of you,” Anderson answered flatly.
Anderson obviously intended to kill them. Probably he always had, and he’d only been using them to assure that he got far away from Franklin County.
Doug Parry made his decision. Instead of heading meekly to a secluded spot where they would have no chance of rescue, he wrenched the wheel and drove rapidly toward University Way, the center of the University District, where even in the wee hours of the morning, lights blazed and the streets were alive with traffic. He turned left on Forty-fifth Street and headed west. Parry felt the loaded gun nudging his ear, but he tried not to think of it. Anderson must realize, he thought, that if he shot the driver, the car would crash. He could be hurt too, and a crash would attract attention.
Now, without asking permission, Parry turned his Volare into the parking lot of the Sherwood Inn. It was located on a busy corner next to I-5. He was relieved to see that people were walking around the parking lot and that vehicles were pulling in and out. Parry stopped and turned to Anderson. “Killing us would only cause you more problems, you know,” he said with remarkable calm.
“What did you have in mind?” Anderson asked.
It was a bizarre situation. Parry was the captive, yet he was keeping his wits about him. He sensed that Anderson was near hysteria—unable to formulate a plan—and he intended to take full advantage of the gunman’s panic and indecision, all the while knowing that he and Martha could be killed at any moment if he made a misstep.
“I’ve got a credit card,” Parry offered. “I think we should get a room in the motel. You’re exhausted, and so are we. Once we’re in the room, you can tie us up. When you’re ready, you can leave. We won’t be able to get a phone—and we promise we won’t cry out. Don’t we, Martha?”
She nodded vigorously.
“You can have my car keys—all the money I have, my credit cards,” Parry offered. “Think about it. You’ll be home free, and you won’t have a murder charge hanging over you.”
Anderson pondered the offer. Then he nodded. “Okay, but if you tell the clerk anything when you register, I’ll kill the lady first and then you before the police can ever get to me.”
“That’s fair,” Parry said. “And I believe you.”
Anderson told him to go check in, warning him not to say anything to anyone. “I’ll be here with Martha, and I’ll shoot her if I see you trying to get funny.”
Doug Parry walked slowly into the lobby, where a single night clerk manned the desk. As he was about to subtly signal the clerk that he and Martha Carelli were in danger, he looked around and saw that Mike Anderson was standing near the door watching him. He felt they’d lost their last chance for freedom, but then their kidnapper whirled and ran back toward Parry’s station wagon.
Martha Carelli was trying to get out of the car.
Parry looked at the clerk and said softly—but urgently—as he bent to sign the register, “Keep smiling. Don’t give any indication that you are alarmed by what I’m about to tell you. There is a woman out in that yellow Volare who is very badly injured. She and I have been kidnapped and are being held hostage. I want you to give me the key to the room. Keep smiling! Give us time to go on up. Then call the police.”
The clerk stared at him, a smile half frozen on his face. Parry could almost read his mind. He was wondering if Parry was crazy—maybe even a practical joker.
“Please keep smiling,” Parry said again. “And hand me the key.”
Despite what he had been through, Doug Parry was pretty sure that he looked like a solid citizen, but he wasn’t sure if the clerk saw him that way.
Just then, the clerk glanced up and saw the tall black man leading a woman into the lobby. Even though her hooded jacket was pulled close around her head, he could see that her face was a mass of purpling bruises and her hair was matted with blood.
Now he believed Parry, and he responded with controlled casualness.
“Yes sir,” he said easily. “Here’s your key. That’s room 303. The ice machine is down the hall. Have a pleasant stay.”
Doug Parry’s eyes met the clerk’s, and he could tell that the man behind the counter was going to help them.
The oddly matched trio took the elevator up to the third floor, and they entered the nicely appointed room. It had two queen-size beds.
Martha Carelli asked their captor if she could get a washcloth to wipe the blood off her face.
“You go take a bath,” he countered. “And you [to Parry] help me count the money.”
Martha took a quick bath and wiped her face off the best she could. When she’d dressed again in her bloodstained clothing, she felt a little better—but she was still dizzy and nauseated. The gunman ordered both her and Parry into the bathroom so that they wouldn’t overhear him as he spoke on the phone.
It was the first time Doug Parry and Martha Carelli had had a chance to talk. Now, she whispered to him that their captor had hidden in her home for at least twenty-four hours, and that he had kicked her into unconsciousness. She had had no choice but to leave her family tied up in their home, while the man who said his name was Mike had forced her to drive him.
“I don’t know what’s happened to them,” she said tearfully.
Parry comforted her as best as he could and told her he wouldn’t leave her.
“I’ll protect you,” he promised. “Just don’t get him riled up.”
He didn’t tell her that he had alerted the hotel clerk and that he thought the police were on the way. She was in deep shock, and he was afraid she might accidentally say something that would alert Anderson. They both had so much to lose. She had five children and a husband who needed her; Parry had a wife and four small children. And they were still at the mercy of a man with a fully loaded gun.
Mike Anderson came to the bathroom door and ordered them out.
“Now I’m going to tie you both up,” he said, “because I have to make some calls and I’ll be going back and forth. I want you where I can see you.”
Anderson tore sheets from one of the beds into strips and then he hogtied and gagged Parry. That wasn’t enough to satisfy him, so he tied the store manager’s arms to the bed frame to make sure he couldn’t get free.
Then he tied Martha Carelli’s hands and feet to the bedposts. He gagged her too, but her broken nose kept her from breathing. When he saw that she was almost suffocating, he loosened the gag a little.