The Ransom

by Nancy Boyarsky

  At the corner of Laurel Canyon and Kirkwood, she told Daniel to stop. “How much would you charge to let me use your car tonight?” she said. “I’ll get it back it to you in the morning.”

  He turned around and gaped at her. “Are you out of your mind? I owe a fortune on this car. No way I’m lending it to a stranger.” He paused a moment, considering his words, then added, “No offense. But I don’t even know who you are.”

  “How much?” she repeated, switching on the dome light and holding up the bundle of bills. It was held together by a lavender paper band marked “$2,000.”

  Daniel opened his mouth to object, closed it, and swallowed hard. His eyes kept darting back and forth between Nicole and the packet of cash. He really wanted the money. At the same time, he was afraid he’d never see his car again. “How can I be sure you’ll return it?” he said.

  “I’ll leave you my American Express gold card.”

  “How do I know it’s not maxed out?”

  “I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

  He thought about it for a while. “You have more than one credit card?”

  “I’ve got three, counting my debit card.”

  “Okay. Give me your wallet. That way I’ll have your driver’s license. The credit cards will be your collateral.”

  “I’ll be needing my driver’s license. You can have my wallet. Use your phone to take a photo of my license so you’ll have my name and address.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  She took out her drivers’ license. He snapped a photo, and she handed over the packet of bills, along with her wallet. He jotted his phone number and address down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “You’ll call me first thing tomorrow to arrange the car’s return, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “First thing.”

  After he got out of the car, Nicole slid into the drivers’ seat, pulling it forward so her feet reached the pedals.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “How am I supposed to get home?”

  “Send for an Uber, Daniel. You can afford it.”

  She turned the key in the ignition and started up Kirkwood. She glanced at the addresses painted on the curb. The house she wanted was at least ten blocks farther on. The street grew narrower as she drove. Finally, she reached the 2900 block and what she thought might be the right place. But no address was painted on the curb, and the lot was so overgrown with trees and shrubs that she couldn’t see the house. She pulled forward and then backed up to check the addresses on either side—both some distance away. This had to be it.

  She parked in front and used the light on her keychain to navigate through the trees and shrubs at the front of the property. As she shoved her way through, thorny branches grabbed at her jeans and the sleeves of her jacket. Twice, she stumbled over fallen branches and jumped back when a small creature scurried across her path. About sixty feet in, she emerged from under the trees. The moon was a pale, skinny crescent, providing just enough light for her to see a small wooden house built into the hill. The structure appeared deserted. Its dilapidated state dated it back to the days when this area was the domain of hippies and recluses.

  In the silent darkness, the place looked creepy, as if something menacing were waiting inside. The house had a steep stairway that reached to what looked like the second floor with a landing halfway up. She climbed up to the landing where she found the couch mentioned in the kidnappers’ note. It was made of wicker, weather-beaten and on the verge of collapse. A cat was curled up on it, fast asleep. When the porch creaked under Nicole’s feet, the animal woke, hunched its back, and hissed at her before jumping off the couch and scuttling down the stairs. Nicole had to move the couch away from the wall to wedge the bag behind it. Once this was done, she rushed back to the darkness of the yard.

  She stood there a long moment, staring at the house. It was hard to resist the urge to find a way inside and see if Steph was here. But it was possible the kidnappers had chosen this spot for a ransom drop because it was vacant and isolated, like the house on Mulholland. In any case, she couldn’t go in now. The kidnappers might be here any time to pick up the money. She couldn’t risk having them find her there.

  She was heading back to where she’d parked when she had an idea. She could hide in the car and wait for them to come for the money. If they left without going into the house, it probably meant Steph wasn’t here. In that case, she’d follow them, hoping they’d lead her to their hiding place. If that didn’t pan out, she’d could always come back and check out this house.

  Only when she got back to the car did she realize she couldn’t leave it parked where it was. The street was too narrow for another vehicle to pass, and signs forbidding parking were posted on both sides. She’d have to park somewhere else. The question was where. She drove up the hill past the next house, which also was dark and deserted-looking. Next to it was what appeared to be a vacant lot.

  It was overgrown with vines that—in the black of night—looked like kudzu but were probably ivy or morning glory. She slowly eased the car deep into the foliage, hoping she didn’t bump into anything that would scratch Daniel’s shiny black car.

  She got out and, after making sure the car couldn’t be seen from the road, walked down to the house where she’d left the money. She struggled her way through the foliage again and scoped out the yard for the best place to hide. On one side of the property was a giant fir tree with branches that almost touched the ground. She burrowed under the lowest branches. It made the perfect hiding place. She couldn’t be seen, but gaps between dried needles on the lower branches provided a view of the yard. She was alert to every creak and crackle, every rustle of the tall, dry weeds. Coyotes roamed these canyons along with possums, raccoons, owls, hawks and other nocturnal birds, as well as the occasional mountain lion. People living in places like this had to make sure their pets were in at night.

  An hour passed, then another, but no one came. She was half dozing when headlights coming up the hill alerted her. A car pulled up, parked in front, and a man got out. It was too dark for her to see who it was. He turned on a powerful flashlight and followed a path she hadn’t seen leading to the house. She watched as he climbed the stairs to the landing, reached behind the couch, and retrieved the bag. Without hesitation, he hurried back to his car. The dome light went on. No doubt he was checking to be sure there was cash in the bag and that it was the real thing.

  When he started up his engine, Nicole crawled out from under the branches and ran for her car. Meanwhile, it took the man several tries to complete a U-turn on the narrow street. He was just starting down the hill when she reached her car. She didn’t dare turn on her headlights. But even without them, she managed to back out of the vine-covered lot without mishap.

  As she started downhill, she could see the glint of taillights several blocks ahead. She was focused on maneuvering the dark, curving street. At the same time, she was aware how dangerous it was to be doing this on her own. No one knew where she was. She almost regretted not telling Arnault. But he couldn’t be trusted to keep it between the two of them. At this point, with the kidnapper in sight, he’d call for backup, summoning a fleet of squad cars.

  She was able to see the car until it reached the intersection where Kirkwood ended and he had to turn onto Laurel Canyon. When she reached the intersection, she paused to look in both directions. Downhill, she could see the glow of taillights. A car was waiting at a traffic signal on Sunset. Praying this was the right car, she pressed her foot to the accelerator and sped down the canyon road. She slowed as she approached the other car and stopped a distance behind it.

  She couldn’t believe her luck. It was the same car she’d seen at the house. Keeping her distance, she followed it down the hill into the area of Hollywood below Melrose. It turned onto a narrow side street and pulled up in front of a double row of small 1920s-era bungalows. Most of these courtyard apartments, once ubiquitous here, had been replaced by big apartment buildings as the ne
ighborhood gentrified. The man got out of the car. Under the streetlight, it was easy for her to identify him as Ryan. With the bag of ransom money on his shoulder, he climbed the three steps at the front of the yard and went into one of the units. The bungalows were tiny with no more than two small bedrooms, if that. Nicole didn’t think it would be possible to hold anyone prisoner here. One shout would alert the neighbors.

  Her thoughts went back to the house on Kirkwood. Steph was probably there. The place had all the requisites: neighbors a good distance away, house hidden from the street. The way it was built into the hillside meant there might be a basement to hold the furnace and water heater. Most houses in L.A. didn’t have basements. But the way this one was constructed offered the perfect place to hide a prisoner.

  She waited, resisting the urge to speed back to Kirkwood Drive. She had a hunch that the others involved in the kidnapping would show up to collect their cut of the money. Nicole rummaged around in her purse for pen and paper to write down the address of the courtyard apartment. Aside from her pen, all she could find was an old grocery receipt. It would have to do.

  After looking around to be sure no one was watching, she got out of the car. There was no street number on the bungalows, but the number was painted on the curb—201. She walked up the three steps in front and noted that the bungalow the man had entered was No. 5. She went back to the sidewalk and walked to the corner, where she found a street sign that said “Acacia Way.” After writing down the address, she carefully folded the receipt and put it in the pocket of her jacket. Then she hurried back to her car to wait.

  About a half hour passed before a car with another man arrived and parked nearby. As he got out, she could see it was Kevin. He went into the same bungalow Ryan had entered. Minutes later, a woman showed up in a flashy sports car and got out. It was impossible to tell if it was Ashley. She was wearing a loose-fitting jacket with the hood up and baggy pants. She opened the trunk of her car and retrieved two large grocery bags. Then she, too, disappeared into the same bungalow.

  Nicole waited another five minutes to see if any of them made a move to leave, but nothing happened. Maybe the woman, whoever she was, had brought food and drink, and they were going to spend the night celebrating their good fortune. At least, that’s what Nicole hoped.

  She went around the block and headed back to Kirkwood Drive. When she reached the house, she hid the car in same place as before.

  Once more, she got out her mini flashlight and turned it on. The beam was getting dimmer, so she turned it off to save the battery. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, and it was even darker than before. She used her hand to guide herself along the cyclone fence that ran up the property line alongside the house. At one point, she thought she heard footsteps in the dry grass behind her. She stopped and turned to look. Everything was quiet, but it was so dark that it was impossible to see. She took a few more steps, then she stopped again to listen. Nothing. Maybe the sounds she’d heard were made by an animal.

  As she neared the house, the crescent moon came out again, and she stopped to gaze up. There were no windows on the enclosed space below the first landing. She wasn’t sure if this was the first floor, a basement, or simply crawl space that had been walled in to keep out the critters inhabiting the canyon. But there was a window in the door at the very top of the stairs, making it look like the main entrance to the house. It was quite a climb.

  She’d have to figure out how she was going to get in. She had a Swiss Army knife on her keychain. It included a metal toothpick that supposedly doubled as a lock pick. She’d never picked a lock, although she’d once seen it done. Chad Owens, a boy she’d known in high school, had been showing off for the benefit of Nicole and a couple of her friends. It had taken him ten minutes to open the rusty padlock on the front door of a derelict house on their block that was rumored to be haunted. Once the door creaked open, the girls had refused to go in. After standing in the doorway for a good five minutes, even Chad had chickened out.

  From that experience, she knew she’d need a second tool—a tension wrench—to use along with the lock pick. That she didn’t have. Instead, she’d have to break a window. She picked up the biggest rock she could find and began the long climb up the stairs. She was almost to the top before she saw that the window in the door was too high. Even if she managed to break it, there was no way she’d be able to reach the doorknob inside to unlock it.

  She retreated downstairs, tossed the rock into the weeds, and went to the side of the house. She began trudging up the steep hill the house was built into. She’d gone just a short distance when she tripped over something and almost fell. When she turned on her flashlight, its glow revealed what had been invisible in the dark. Cement stepping stones were set into the hillside alongside the house. They were irregularly spaced, to all appearances a do-it-yourself project, and she had to keep the flashlight on all the way up. The beam grew dimmer as she climbed. By the time she reached the top, it had gone out altogether.

  The house backed onto an empty lot that had been cleared of brush. A streetlight on the road above provided enough light for Nicole to see where she was going. After looking around, she found another good-sized rock and picked it up. She approached this door to the house and smacked the window with it. Most of the glass shattered and fell inside. Careful not to cut herself on the remaining shards, she reached in and unlocked the door.

  Eighteen

  Once Nicole was inside the house, she closed the door and locked it. Glancing up at the broken window, she realized she’d been silly to bother. The kidnappers had the key. Besides, once they spotted the shattered window, they’d know someone had broken in.

  The lights on the street above provided enough illumination for her to see that she was in a kitchen. The air was musty and smelled of a combination of mildew and rancid cooking oil. The latter no doubt came from a big, ancient stove that loomed in one corner. Combined with these odors was a nasty undertone of something she couldn’t identify. The smell compounded her sense of unease.

  The kitchen was sparsely furnished, just a table and two chairs, along with the stove, which looked as if it hadn’t been used in decades. Next to it was an equally old refrigerator, its door hanging by a single hinge.

  Just then, she noticed a flashlight someone had left on the counter by the sink. She turned it on, took note of its nice, strong beam, and turned it off again. This would definitely come in handy. She pulled her gun out of her purse and dropped the flashlight in.

  She held the gun in front of her as she started through the house. The next doorway led into what appeared to be the living room. It was sparsely furnished with just a metal TV stand and a dilapidated chair with stuffing leaking through its tattered upholstery. At one end of the room was a door. She opened it and found herself looking outdoors from the top of the front stairway. The view took in the yard, dark and utterly still. Beyond it, tree-covered hills were backlit by the glow of the city.

  It didn’t take long to go through the rest of the house. There were two small bedrooms. Each contained a single bedframe and springs, no mattress. She used the flashlight to investigate the closets. As far as she could see they were empty of everything but resident spiders and their webs.

  She opened each door she passed. Next to the bedrooms, she found a tiny bathroom. As soon as she opened the door, she could tell this was the source of the stink she’d noticed when she walked in. It smelled as if something had died and been left to rot here. The shower curtain, opaque with mold, was pulled tight, hiding whatever was beyond it. With some trepidation, she pulled the curtain aside, got out her flashlight, and pointed the beam in the bathtub. To her relief, there was no dead rat or something she feared even more. Instead, the tub was black and crusty with a thick residue that emitted a terrible smell, probably from a sewage backup. When she left the bathroom, she closed the door, although the smell seemed to follow her as she circled back through the house, rechecking each dark corner and closet again. Con
vinced that no one was here, she put the gun in a pocket of her jacket.

  She was disappointed to find no evidence that Steph had ever been in this house. The place looked as if it had been uninhabited for years. She hadn’t found a door leading to the space under the house. Perhaps it wasn’t a basement, just crawl space, accessible through an opening outside. Before she left, she’d have to find a way to see what was down there.

  She was standing in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next, when she had an idea. Growing up, she and Steph had bedrooms that shared a wall. They had a secret signal that meant, “I can’t sleep. Are you awake?” She kneeled on the floor and tapped it out: two knocks, a silence, then three more knocks and another silence, followed by a single knock. She jumped at the sound of footsteps coming from below. They grew louder, as if someone was climbing stairs. When they stopped, the signal was repeated back to her. The sound wasn’t directly beneath her but from the direction of the kitchen.

  Nicole’s heart leapt at the sound, and she felt her eyes well up. Steph was here; she really was! “Steph,” she called. “Where are you?”

  “In the basement.”

  “How do I get to you? Is the entrance outside?”

  “No. It’s in the house somewhere. The door has a hole cut in it with a flap attached. When it’s open, I can see into a hallway.”

  “I’ll look around some more,” Nicole said. She made another tour of the kitchen, using the flashlight to explore the dark corner next to the refrigerator. This illuminated a hallway she hadn’t seen in her earlier search. The hall led to a service porch containing an ancient preautomatic washer. Its tub was round and capacious enough for commercial use, mounted on wheels so it could be rolled out of the way. Nevertheless, it was sitting in the center of the utility room, jutting out into the hallway. Next to it was a rusty step stool. She’d seen photos of washers like this but had never run across one in real life. It was an antique and, if it were in better shape, might have been worth something. But this one, like the kitchen appliances, was no more than junk. Its enamel finish had worn off, and the tub had several holes where rust had eaten through.