He was interrupted by the sound of the wall phone ringing. “It’s fine, son,” said Cyrus Williams, owner and operator of the Bad Wolf Boxing Gym, as he headed for the phone. “But you’ve gotta get more rounds under your belt. Work on the defense. These quick knockouts . . . ah, well, I warned him to keep his guard up. . . .”
He plucked the receiver off the wall. “Bad Wolf Gym, Williams speaking. Oh, hey, Celeste. Yeah, he’s here. Hold on.” Ordinarily, members of the gym weren’t allowed to receive personal calls, but Royal was a special case. Williams knew the call had to be important. “Skelly? Got a call over here.”
Royal helped his sparring partner sit up, and handed him a plastic water bottle with a straw. He looked in the Mexican boy’s eyes. “You gonna be okay, man?” The boy nodded, sipping at the water gratefully. Royal squeezed his shoulder. “You’re doin’ great. You’ll get me next time.”
“Skelly! Telephone. Come on,” shouted Williams, his bald head gleaming in the overhead lights. Royal slipped out of the ring and walked over to his mentor and trainer, his left leg stiff and unbending, and took the phone. “Thanks, Boss. . . .Yo, this is Roy. . . . Oh, hey there! ‘Sup, Celeste? I just got outta the ring. . . .”
His heart, pounding heavily from the sparring session, seemed to slow down to its normal pace as he heard his girlfriend’s voice. Celeste. This is what life’s all about. Resting most of his weight on his stiff leg, the thoughts and images blossomed in his mind, beyond words, not needing words. Celeste and Cyrus Williams. Just about the only people in the world who understand. . . . As she continued talking, his brow creased. This doesn’t make sense.
“Celeste, this ain’t like Cassie. Okay, it isn’t like Cassie. How long have I been . . . I mean, how long have we been helpin’ her with that workout? She wouldn’t just go out for her road work and not finish up. . . . Yeah, I know it’s a lot more serious than that. Sorry. So you’re meetin’ everybody at the Pavilion? Uh-huh. . . . Well, I’ll see you tonight. You can tell me about it then. But if I can do anything, let me know, right?”
Cyrus Williams leaned against the wall, massive arms crossed, and studied the young boxer thoughtfully. He remembered when Roy had first come to the gym, ten years ago. The eight year old had been playing with some friends in his tiny front yard, and had chased an errant soccer ball into the street. The oncoming car couldn’t stop or swerve, and Roy had been tossed twenty feet through the air, coming down on his left knee with all his weight. Complicated surgery, and subsequent staph infections, had left the child with an accumulation of interior scar tissue that resulted in a permanently extended left leg, unable to bend at the knee.
After Royal had spent weeks in bed, one of his father’s friends had suggested boxing as a way of restoring the boy’s confidence, and teaching him to adapt to his condition. The two men brought him to Cyrus Williams’ gym, and the middle-aged ex-journeyman fighter had immediately taken to him. As the months and years progressed, Royal became a boxer of unusual skill. Being injured so early in his life gave the growing boy a sense of his own body, and a way of using it, that resulted in an unorthodox style that baffled his opponents and caused them to underestimate him. Now, he regarded Williams as a second father, and the older man saw Roy as the son he’d never had.
Shaking his head clear of the memories, he looked at Royal and tapped on his wristwatch.
“Okay, babe. Gotta go, okay? Yeah, you too.” Frowning, he hung up the phone.
“Thanks for keeping it short, Roy,” Williams said. “Something wrong, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Thanks for lettin’ me use the phone, Boss. One of our friends has gone missing. Looks like it might be bad . . . been gone almost two days. Girl named Cassie Hixson, one of those home school girls, real tight with Celeste and me.” He smiled. “She’s the one I told you about, wanted to learn the boxer’s workout. But she don’t want to box, just stay in shape. Celeste and I go to her house a couple nights a week and I help her. She’s got a heavy bag and everything, even a speed bag. White girl. Her dad’s a doctor. She’s like Celeste’s best friend. But she doesn’t have the heart for fightin’. I think she’s scared of gettin’ hit in the face. But man, she gives those bags a hard time!”
“Huh,” Williams grunted. “That’s rough. Tell you what: you go get yourself a shower. I’ll say a prayer for this Cassie girl.”
“Thank you, Boss. That’s what she needs, for sure.”
* * * * *
Madison pulled her Honda CR-7 to a stop, the gravel crunching under the tires of the sporty compact car, then killed the ignition and opened the door. She looked around the parking area of the West York Athletic Park, and saw quite a few familiar cars, including the four year old Toyota Camry that Lydia Blevins had been driving since receiving her Learner’s Permit. She didn’t waste any time getting here, Madison thought. She’s so desperate to be popular . . . was I ever like that? She snorted. Um, hello, no I wasn’t. Well, she’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll help her get a clue. Maybe not. She checked her makeup in the vanity mirror.
She stepped out of the car, let the door swing shut, and clicked the door lock on the key. She shook her hair back, and smoothed out her baby doll blouse, so it would fall just so over the front (and especially back) of her jeans. She walked toward the largest of the five covered “picnic shelters” scattered throughout the park, among the softball diamonds, soccer fields, and walking tracks.
This was the Pavilion: big enough for twenty wooden picnic tables, the preferred hangout for Yorkville’s various home schooled students, and the site of quite a few “official” activities, from organizational meetings to drama rehearsals. She’d heard that a couple of the York County Commission members had objected to the home schoolers’ use of the park, but it had been approved anyway. Good thing, she thought. The students really liked the place, and it was a great spot for meeting new people. One of Yorkville’s entrepreneurs brought his snack wagon to the park every day, and pulled it as close to the Pavilion as possible. His young customers vastly preferred his hamburgers and nachos to the half-stale candy the county provided in vending machines.
Three girls stood together near the refreshment wagon, talking and checking their phones. As Madison approached, she could make out snippets of their chatter: “So unreal.” . . . “Her parents don’t know anything.” . . . “You think she’s dead?” Madison cleared her throat as she came closer, and the girls spun around, descending on her, just as she’d expected, all talking at once.
“Madison!” exclaimed Lydia.
“Who called you?” asked Jessica Knowles. “Have you heard about Cassie?”
“Well, duh! Of course she’s heard. . . . Madison, do you think she’s dead or something?” Emily Harper could always be expected to think the worst.
“Oh, quit saying that!” cried Lydia. “I hope she’s okay. I keep checking her Twitter, but. . . .”
“Cassie hardly ever tweets,” Madison said. “You guys calm down,” she added, tossing her hair. She had taken command of the gathering simply by her presence. Until someone else comes along. . . . “If Cassie were dead, wouldn’t it have been reported someplace? I’ll bet poor Chad has his father using all the city’s people to look for her.”
Lydia’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Poor Chad? she thought. What about poor Cassie?
“Have you talked to Chad?” one of the others asked.
I wish, Madison said to herself. “Well, no, I haven’t talked to Chad . . . lately . . . but it just makes sense, doesn’t it? Let’s get something to drink and sit down.” Without waiting for a response, she headed for the snack wagon. The other girls followed her like pilot fish. Platinum Cookie wasn’t exactly a born leader, but she could exert her personality over less confident girls.
The girls stood at the snack wagon, chattering among themselves, ordering their sodas from the old man in the white apron who’d been selling them milk shakes and hot dogs since they were children. Madison walked to the nearest table and sat down. Th
en she frowned. Oh, no! I so don’t need this. . . .
From the entrance to the Athletic Park, Madison heard the distinctive buzzing roar of a motorcycle she had heard many times. She glanced out of the Pavilion, as did the other girls, and saw the figure approaching through a cloud of gravel dust. The old man in the snack wagon heard it, too, and smiled as he wiped the counter with a clean rag.
Carefully, the rider half-rode, half-walked the Kawasaki Ninja 300 up the gentle slope to the edge of the Pavilion, then cut the engine, put down the kickstand, and dismounted. The sleek little motorcycle was neon green, except for a large, detailed pink rose skillfully airbrushed onto the gas tank.
The cyclist was dressed in matching green leathers, the green helmet adorned with an identical rose. Everything has to be sooo extra, Madison thought to herself, watching. She thinks she’s so cool. The new arrival lifted the helmet off and shook out her long, wavy black hair, her petite figure outlined by the sun beyond the Pavilion. She walked toward the other girls, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them in a hip pocket.
Lydia ran over to greet the girl as the others watched. “Hi, Celeste,” she chirped. “I was hoping you’d be here.” She glanced down. “Oh, cool boots.” A pair of short pink motorcycle boots complemented the airbrushed roses. “But aren’t you just burning up in all that leather?”
“Nope,” Celeste Reeves answered, holding her arm out. “Feel. It’s pretty lightweight.” Lydia plucked at the sleeve. “Hey, you’re right. That’s not bad at all. And those colors really work on you. . . . I mean, I know they’re for the bike, but . . . um, yeah.” She stammered and blushed, still unsure of herself with this girl.
“I know what you mean, Lydia, thanks.” Celeste briefly slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders in a hug of friendship. Lydia’s parents had divorced when she was twelve, and she and her mother had moved to Yorkville from California the same year. She’d struggled through puberty feeling like an outsider in every way. Being home schooled by her mother, and her mother’s friends, had made things easier. She would have felt overwhelmed in a formal school setting.
They walked over to the table where the other girls had seated themselves. The newcomer nodded all around. “Hey, guys.” She looked at the group’s unofficial leader. “Hey, Madison. How’s it going? What do you hear?”
“Hi, Celeste,” Madison replied sweetly. “How’re you? Y’know, it always impresses me how you can wear those leathers in the hot sun and hardly even break a sweat.” She smiled and studied the other girl’s face for a reaction.
“The wind blowin’ by keeps me pretty cool,” Celeste replied, her eyes meeting Madison’s. “Riding is really relaxing.” Unlike Madison’s carefully cultivated sexiness, Celeste had an inborn beauty that no amount of makeup could have produced. Her café au lait complexion was flawless, and her high cheekbones, a legacy of a grandmother from the “Black Seminole” tribe of Florida, gave her an exotic, somewhat Caribbean appearance.
“That’s so interesting,” Madison replied. “I’d be lost without the A/C in my little car.” She shook her head, giggling. Her little car, a gift from her parents for her seventeenth birthday, had cost $31,000.
“Celeste?” interrupted Lydia. “What have you heard about Cassie? Anything? I mean, you guys are like best friends and stuff. . . .” The other girls peppered her with similar questions.
“I don’t know any more than you guys,” Celeste replied. “She went out on her run yesterday morning, and nobody’s heard from her since. What have y’all heard?”
The excited replies all came at once from the other three girls, as Madison sat silently, sipping her Diet Coke.
“I heard she got run over and they had to send the LifeFlight helicopter for her.”
“Somebody said she ran away from home.”
“I think she went off someplace to hook up with Chad. I’ll bet they’re together right now.”
Unexpectedly, a new voice was heard. “Hey, can’t you guys chill? We don’t need that kind of stuff.”
Olivia Mendel had walked up to the table quietly, unobserved by everyone except Celeste. Looking up in surprise, Madison barely stifled a groan. Oh, fabulous. Just perfect. Why did I even come here?
“Hi, Livvie.”
“Livvie! Where’d you come from?”
“Slide in here next to me, Livvie.”
The new arrival slipped in between Celeste and Emily Harper. She nodded to Celeste, who returned the nod, smiling. Finally, somebody with some sense, Celeste thought, unzipping the sleeves of her leathers up to the elbows.
“Okay, Livvie,” Madison said coolly. “What is it that you don’t think we need?”
Olivia looked her in the eye. “We don’t need a lot of crazy talk about what might have happened to Cassie. That’s not gonna do anything but confuse everybody, and probably ruin her reputation.” She held Madison’s gaze.
“I heard that,” Celeste interjected. “Cassie has enough problems right now. We’re not in sixth grade any more. We need to think clearly.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said.
Those two always stick together, Madison thought. Typical. “So, Livvie, in your expert opinion, what should we do to help her?”
Olivia let the barb pass. “We need to keep our mouths shut and our ears open. Look, guys, I know how weird this is. People disappear every day, but not people we know. Not people we care about.” Heads nodded around the table. “We need to go on with our lives, and if there’s a problem, we need to help out if we can. Most of all, we’ve gotta send her our good thoughts and try to be positive.”
“That’s right,” Celeste agreed. “But my good thoughts aren’t gonna help her. I’m gonna pray for her.”
The other girls were silent, mentally chewing on that, except for Madison. “Oh, please, girl! Not the God stuff again. . . .”
Before Celeste could reply, the girls were interrupted by the old man at the snack wagon. “Excuse me, ladies,” he called. “There’s something on the radio you might want to hear.”
The girls got up from the table in a single movement, and descended on the wagon.
CHAPTER FOUR: Tea and Sympathy
Eldon Dayle sat behind the broad expanse of his teak desk, spinning the fountain pen between his fingers, his lips pursed as Cassie’s recorded voice trailed off. The video was over. Without turning his head from the television screen, he spoke to the woman standing nearby. “All in all, I’d say that went rather well, Skip. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes sir,” replied the Goth. “She got a bit emotional, but we expected that. It just makes the message more effective.”
“Yes, exactly,” he agreed. “After all, she’s only a child. She thinks that she’s under great pressure. But that really hasn’t started yet, has it?” He took a sip of the Fillico water.
“No sir,” answered the Goth, her voice no longer muffled by the leather collar. She stood erect and tall, legs spread slightly, hands clasped behind her back. “She thinks this is a simple kidnapping. ” She paused. “Although those manacles probably ratcheted the pressure up considerably. That was a nice touch, sir. Inspired, actually.”
Dayle turned to face her, ignoring her compliment. “They should be getting the video any time now.” He paused for a moment, recalling something. “I believe you told me that you have a younger brother. Will that cause you to have any mixed emotions, or sympathy for this girl?”
“Excuse me, sir, but perhaps I was unclear. My brother is actually five years older than me. He lives about 600 miles from Yorkville. I’m the ‘baby’ of the family, and have no other siblings. I have no sympathy for this girl at all.”
“Ah,” Dayle replied. “My mistake. You understand that I have a lot on my mind. . . . This brother of yours. Are you close? Do you have very frequent contact with him?”
The Goth smiled. “Not so much, sir. We were very close growing up. He was my best friend, and he always played the ‘protector.’ But since he married, and moved halfway across the cou
ntry, we’ve pretty much gone our separate ways. We might chat on the phone once or twice a year. He’s very busy with his family and his business.”
Dayle nodded. “Very well. I’ll ask you one last time, Skip. You’ve been very helpful so far, and you’ll be fully rewarded. Are you prepared to go all the way with this? You know that there will be . . . opposition.”
She almost snapped to attention, arms by her sides, back straight, and looked at him. The softness had gone out of her face. “Absolutely, sir. Damn the girl. Or at least ruin her.”
He nodded, the tip of his tongue flickering over his lips for a split second. Skip suppressed a shudder, but remained still.
His emerald green eyes flashed. “I want her damned,” he said. “I don’t care about merely ruining her.”
* * * * *
Dr. and Mrs. Hixson sat on the sofa in their living room, both trying to read, neither of them thinking of anything other than their daughter, now missing for three days. They had just finished dinner, and the swoosh swoosh swoosh of the dishwasher could be heard from the kitchen. From upstairs came the sounds of one of Dominic’s video games, but this evening, the noises were not accompanied by the usual shouts of triumph as the boy blew up an alien spaceship or escaped a rampaging dinosaur. He was as silent as his parents. Staring at their books, lost in their apprehension, they prayed, and tried to be strong for one another.
THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA Page 5