The Listener

by Robert R. McCammon

  “You fellas got car trouble?” a man’s voice called. Startled out of five years’ life, Pearly saw a man in dungarees standing about twenty-five yards away beneath a metal roof that jutted out from a warehouse’s loading dock. He’d been smoking a cigarette under shelter from the rain.

  Pearly called back, “A little tire trouble, but we’re movin’ on!”

  Hartley’s door suddenly opened, and Pearly lost another year. Hartley left the engine running. He said wearily, “Okay, let me take a gander.”

  Pearly stepped back. He looked at the Oldsmobile’s rear window and saw both Nilla’s and Little Jack’s face pressed together cheek-to-cheek watching the drama unfold. The little girl’s eyes were fixed on him, and they carried the intensity he recalled from the little girl in Texas, the Jodi of the misspelled name in the Golden Edition Bible, the Jodi of the burnt-up puppies.

  When Hartley came around behind the car to check the tire, Pearly reached into his suit jacket and put his hand on the grip of the shoulder holster’s .38 revolver. At the same instant, Ginger opened her door and slid smoothly behind the Oldsmobile’s wheel. Donnie started coming out right after her.

  Pearly pulled at the revolver.

  The hammer hung on something.

  Donnie staggered out of the Ford’s backseat and crashed against the side of the Olds.

  “Damn foot’s asleep!” he hollered.

  Pearly saw Hartley’s body tense like that of a hunting dog on the scent. Within the car, Ginger had already opened the glovebox, checked the .45 Smith and Wesson revolver’s six bullet load and was offering the chauffeur’s weapon to Donnie, who seemed to be struggling against gravity itself. Hartley whipped around to aim both his good eye and glass eye at Pearly; the man’s face had gone gray, and then it grayed a few shades further when Pearly nearly ripped the .38 out of its holster and pressed the barrel into the man’s stomach.

  “Get in—” Pearly’s voice cracked and he had to try it again. “Get in the back seat with the kids.”

  “Come on, move it!” Ginger snapped. Donnie took the offered pistol, and holding it low he limped around to get in the passenger side of the Olds.

  Pearly saw Hartley lift his face toward the warehouse worker who was still smoking his cigarette and seemed oblivious to what was happening. Raindrops pattered down on the brim of the chauffeur’s cap. The man’s mouth quivered, wanting to open. Pearly pressed the gun deeper into Hartley’s stomach and positioned himself with his back to the warehouse. “You die for nothin’,” he said, his face close up to Hartley’s. “We’re gonna take the kids, whether you’re with ’em or not.”

  Hartley just stared at him. The quivering mouth crimped and the voice came out, but calmly and quietly: “I’ll see you in Hell for this.”

  “After you.” Pearly motioned with a lift of his chin toward the Olds. He caught sight again of Nilla staring at him through the glass. He wished blood would start spurting from those eyes, but her expression was still placid though puzzled and she yet likely had no idea of what was going on.

  Hartley turned away from Pearly. He got into the rear seat with Pearly’s gun pressed against his back. Once inside, he faced his own pistol in the hand of Donnie Baines, who had positioned himself in the passenger seat so he could keep everybody under control. Pearly closed the door on Hartley and strode back to the Ford. He got behind the wheel and drove away, and Ginger followed in the Olds right behind him.

  “Got ’em!” Donnie crowed. “Goddamn it, we got ’em!”

  “Goin’ for a nice ride, folks,” said Ginger. “Settle back and relax.”

  Nilla and her brother were both wearing their uniforms, dark blue jackets with white blouses, a dark blue skirt for her and for him neatly-creased dark blue trousers. On the breast pocket of the jackets was the ornate stitched gold-colored badge and white HS of the Harrington School. Nilla was confused but not yet frantic, and Little Jack was open-mouthed and transfixed in watching the movements of the pistol in the young man’s hand, as if he were watching a snake’s head sway back and forth. “What’s happening, Mr. Hartley? Who are these people?” she asked. “Why was Mr. Parr here?”

  “We’re gonna be all right,” Hartley told her. He placed a rough hand atop her own softer one. He stared into the face of the man with the gun. “I would ask that you not curse in front of the children,” he said.

  Donnie seemed to have been struck dumb for an instant. Then he laughed like the braying of a mule and kept laughing until Ginger reached over and smacked him on the knee. “Keep your attention where it needs to be!” she said, and he went silent.

  The two cars moved on, turning toward the northwest and the swampland that ringed Lake Pontchartrain.

  THREE.

  A Cabin on the Lake

  Fifteen.

  Curtis was carrying out onto the track area two very expensive-looking alligator-hide suitcases for a young man in a gray fedora and a tan-colored raincoat when he heard the murmur of something. Just a murmur, maybe some words mashed together but indecipherable. He wasn’t sure if it had been in his head or some noise of the passengers boarding the three-forty.

  The locomotive was hissing steam and metal things were banging together. Pigeons fluttered around in the metal beams of the shelter roof. He figured that as a train got up to steam, people were talking excitedly, carts were rolling across the gritty pavement and hot machinery was also speaking, there was just about every noise in the world in Union—

  :Curtis,: it came.

  Soft, it was. A touch and then gone.

  Curtis listened, as his shoes took him automatically down the train toward the traveller’s car, to wish him a pleasant trip—as was his custom—and hand over the cases to the baggage boy for their further passage.

  He got about four more strides when it hit him.

  :CURTIS CALL MY DADDY THIS MAN IN THE CAR THIS MAN TOOK MR. HARTLEYOUTIDON’TKNOWWHEREWE’REGOING SHESAIDFORANICERIDESETTLEBACKFOLKS—:

  The power of it hitting him was like a solid punch to the forehead. His head went back and his knees buckled, he dropped the two suitcases and suddenly he was down on the concrete.

  :CURTIS CURTIS HELP US CURTIS THIS MAN IN THE CAR HE’S GOT A GUN.:

  “You all right? You slip on something?” the young traveller asked, but he was a white man and he kept his distance.

  Curtis couldn’t focus enough to answer either one of the speakers. His brain buzzed with frantic energy and his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might tear through his chest.

  :CURTIS CAN YOU HEAR ME CALL MY DADDY PLEASE CALL HIM.:

  His head was banging like a Mardi Gras drum, but he got out a weak :What?:

  :I’M NILLA LUDENMERE MY DADDY IS JACK LUDENMERE SOME PEOPLE HAVE GOT ME AND MY BROTHER PLEASE CURTIS PLEASE.:

  :What?: he directed outward again, stupidly. He was aware then of people around him, and Cricket was reaching down to help him up but Curtis had as much strength as a ragdoll and he couldn’t even grasp Cricket’s hand.

  :I’M NILLA LUDENMERE,: she said again, and Curtis’s own voice with Nilla’s words in it was like a bomb blast in his skull. :LITTLE JACK AND ME. THEY’RE TAKING US SOMEWHERE.:

  :Who?: he got out. :Takin’ you where?:

  The strength of her sending had ebbed, but it was still rushed and nearly garbled. :Two men and a woman. Mr. Parr was here. I’m sitting next to Mr. Hartley. I don’t know where they’re taking us.:

  :You say…call your daddy? His name is Jack Ludenmere?:

  :Yes Curtis yes…this man has got a gun aimed right at us.:

  “Grab hold and stand up, Curtis. You okay?” Cricket was asking, and now the new man Prentiss was leaning down to give some help.

  Lord God! Curtis thought. And then, to Nilla, :You’re bein’ kidnapped? Is that right?:

  :Yes Curtis…call my daddy…let him know…please…:r />
  She sounded nearly worn out from what had been several mind-searing shouts of energy, and her sending toward the end had begun to fade. Curtis said, :I’ll do it, Nilla. What’s the phone number?:

  “Curtis, stand up!”

  :OR2-42…no, wait…OR2-24…I can’t think, my head’s hurtin’…OR2-2461…that’s the number…:

  :All right. Don’t wring yourself out, now. I’ll call your daddy.:

  She was quiet, likely both her energy spent and allowing him to go make the call. When he struggled up, both Ol’ Crab and the new man, Prentiss, were there to help as well as Brightboy.

  His falling had caused a commotion but not enough to delay any schedules; the engine was still steaming up and the passengers were still boarding. Ol’ Crab said to the young traveller, “You can go on, suh, we’ll take care of your bags, and thank you kindly for your aid here,” and he gave the man a smile to bade him on his way.

  The wide mouth in Prentiss’s fleshy face opened to drawl, “Maybe I ain’t no doc, but looks to me like Longlegs is feelin’ poorly.”

  “Thank you for your professional opinion, Doc. I can take things from here.”

  “Doc,” said Brightboy with a snigger, and thus was born Prentiss’s new monicker.

  “Gotta get to the phone, Mr. Crable,” Curtis said. He felt the prickles of sweat on his face and at the back of his neck. “I’m all right, I just gotta get to the phone.”

  “Doc, get these bags movin’.” Ol’ Crab’s tone of voice said it had better be done right quick. When Doc obeyed, Ol’ Crab told Brightboy to go about his business too, and then he took hold of Curtis’s shoulders and looked him square in the face. “Why do you have to get to the phone in such a doggone hurry?”

  “I just do, sir. I can’t explain it right now, but…it’s real important, I swear it is.”

  “All right, all right, you don’t have to do no swearin’. You hurt y’self when you fell?”

  “No sir. Just have to get to the phone.”

  Ol’ Crab nodded. “Go on, then,” he said, and then: “You got change?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  Ol’ Crab released his shoulders. Curtis left the platform and hurried back into the station and to the door at the far right that led to the Redcaps’ room. On the wall just beyond the lockers was the pay phone. Curtis had kept the number firmly in his mind; he put the nickel into the slot and dialed it with a shaky hand.

  “Ludenmere residence,” a woman answered after four rings. She had a lilt of Creole in her accent.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Jack Ludenmere, please.”

  “Mr. Ludenmere is at his office. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “Uh…is this Mrs. Ludenmere?” Curtis asked.

  “I am employed by the Ludenmeres,” came the reply. “Mrs. Ludenmere is at a club meetin’. Do you have a message?”

  “I need the office number. Can you give that to me?”

  “One moment,” she replied, and in a matter of maybe fifteen seconds she came back with it. Curtis thanked her, put another nickel into the slot to dial the number, and was answered by a white woman with a businesslike voice who said, “Ludenmere shipping, how may I direct your call?”

  Curtis repeated his need to speak to Jack Ludenmere and was asked if his call was expected. He said it was not, but it was about something Mr. Ludenmere needed to know. “Name, please?” she asked. He told her, and she said, “I’ll connect you with Mr. Ludenmere’s secretary, please hold the line.”

  He waited.

  :I’m tryin’, Nilla, I’m tryin’,: he sent out, but she didn’t respond.

  Then, another white woman’s rigid voice: “Mr. Ludenmere’s office. Mr. Mayhew, is it?”

  “Curtis Mayhew, yes’m. I need to speak to Mr. Ludenmere, real quick.”

  “He’s out of the building. What would be the reason for your call?”

  “Listen…please ma’am…is he really out? ’Cause this is mighty important.”

  There was a slight pause before she replied. “Yes, he’s really out and I’m not expecting him back until another hour or so, if then. I can take any message you care to leave.”

  He started to tell her and it was going to come out in a rush but he stopped himself. How did he know who to trust? The secretary he was talking to might have had a hand in it. The kidnappers might be from the very office. He had to back off and think; his brain was still frazzled.

  “I’ll try later,” he said, and hung up.

  As soon as he returned the receiver to its cradle Curtis was struck with the feeling that he had to act, to do something, because every second wasted was another second the kidnappers were getting further away. He felt as if he could hardly breathe and his heart was still beating wildly, even dangerously. He had to at least try.

  He took his last nickel out of his trousers and put it into the slot. He dialed O, and when the operator answered he asked in as calm a voice as possible for the Police Department.

  ****

  “Oh, Mr. Ludenmere! I wasn’t expecting you back so soon!”

  The master of his shipping empire had just entered the outer office, his raincoat over his arm and his gray fedora still speckled with raindrops. He gave Alice a shrug and said, “I know now why I skipped the last two triple B meetin’s. Borin’ as all hell. Then after the speeches came the rubber chicken and I got buttonholed by Cyrus Kelley in the Frenchman’s Bar for another damned hour.” The Better Business Bureau meetings, held once a month, had never been his favorite outings. “I thought about goin’ home but I’ve got work to do. What’re my calls?”

  She tore off the sheet of paper from her pad that had the names, numbers, messages and times the calls were placed all written in her neat penmanship.

  He scanned the list. All the names were known to him but the last one. “Curtis Mayhew? Who is that?”

  “I don’t know, sir, he didn’t leave a message.”

  “Called at three twenty-two? Didn’t leave a number either?”

  “No, sir.”

  Ludenmere scanned the names again. Rich Buchanan up in Memphis needed to be called this afternoon…Mike O’Mara could wait, and so could Ken Sonderfeld…but who the hell was Curtis Mayhew? His attention kept being drawn to that name: Curtis.

  That’s his name, Daddy. I’m talkin’ to somebody in my head, really I am, and his name is Curtis.

  Coincidence, he thought. The girl had her grandmother’s wild imagination, that was the root of it.

  He said to Alice, “Give me about ten minutes to decompress and then get Rich Buchanan on the line.” He went into his office, closed the door, hung up his raincoat, hat and suit jacket and nearly collapsed into the chair behind his desk. Usually he would swing around and look down for a moment with the pride of ownership at the docks and the warehouses that bore his name, but today he couldn’t seem to gather the energy. It was this damned Orsi thing, and being wrung out worrying night and day—minute after minute—over the welfare of his children. If Parr didn’t show results soon—say in the next couple of days—he was going to call Chief Bazer in Shreveport and request more men on the job. Either that, or go to the local police and to hell with the reporters, let them print whatever they—

  His intercom buzzed.

  “Not ten minutes yet,” he answered, a little harshly.

  “Sir…there’s a man on the line who’s asking to speak to you. He won’t give his name, but he says he’s calling on behalf of a Detective Parr.”

  For about three seconds Ludenmere sat as if frozen. He didn’t like the sound of that. Then all the blood seemed to rush back into his limbs and his face and he felt as swollen as a tick in a hounddog’s ear.

  “Put him through,” he said, and he waited five seconds and picked up the receiver. “Jack Ludenmere speakin’.”

  “Afternoon,” came the voice. It
was muffled and low-pitched, almost a raspy whisper, and instantly made the flesh crawl along Ludenmere’s spine. “We have your kids, the Shreveport dick and your chauffeur. Nice gun he kept in his glovebox.”

  Ludenmere could not answer. His voice was gone. Dark motes spun before his eyes and his heart hammered.

  “This will be the only communication,” the caller went on. “At one o’clock tomorrow mornin’, you’re to bring two hundred thousand dollars to the end of a fishin’ pier on Sandusky Road in Kenner. It’s a right turn off Sawmill Road. Bring the money in a cardboard box, closed but unsealed. Nothin’ higher than fifties. You come alone. No cops, no smell of cops, and no weapons. We don’t want anybody hurt. You play it right, then everybody goes home where they belong. Got it?”

  Ludenmere, the man who had talked his way into many deals that had over the years cemented his fortune, could not for the life of him speak a word.

  “Got it?” the eerie muffled voice demanded.

  Ludenmere took a breath and forced his own voice out; it sounded weak and afraid, like no one he’d ever heard before. “Wait…wait. Are my children all right? Please…don’t hurt them. Okay?”

  “They’re all right. The rest depends on you. Any cops come with you or there’s anythin’ we don’t like, the kids die. Hear me?”

  “I hear you,” the weak and frightened voice replied. “But…listen…I can’t raise that much money by one o’clock. The business day is almost over. I’ve got…I’ve got fifteen thousand in a safe at home. I can bring that, for a starter.”

  “Ha,” the kidnapper said, but it was not a laugh. There was a pause, and then: “All right, we’ll make it one o’clock on Friday mornin’. But listen up, mister…you’re gonna add that fifteen thousand to the box for this inconvenience. Got that?”

  “Yes,” Ludenmere said.

  “End of the pier, Sandusky Road, one o’clock Friday mornin’. Be there…no cops, no guns…box with two hundred and fifteen grand in it…everythin’ smooth and easy.”

  Click, went the line, and the man was gone.