Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  She drifted off.

  A door closed, waking Jenny. A thousand pins and needles raced through her aching body as a cheery voice called.

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  Her heart accelerated as heavy boots thumped down the wood steps, accompanied by the aroma of grilled onions and sugary-sweet cola.

  He placed a white takeout bag and a giant soft drink cup on a storage bin before settling into an armchair.

  “I thought you might be hungry. In a minute, I’ll unlock your feet so you can sit up. Your hands stay tied until we reach an agreement. Hope you like White Castle.”

  She struggled to keep irony out of her voice. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  He tilted his head with a puzzled look.

  While drifting off, she’d remembered a workshop about diffusing aggression by imposing a reality of your choosing on a situation, changing the context of your interaction with a potential attacker. The presenter used the example of drafting hoodlums to walk you home with the idea that by treating them as protectors, they would become protectors.

  She suspected most hoodlums would grin and bash her over the head anyway, but if she was trusting her subconscious to provide her with the avenue to freedom she had to go with it. Clarice Starling made it work with Hannibal Lector. She’d make it work for her. She would play along, let him feed her, let him talk.

  Not that she had much choice.

  He unlocked the cable to free her legs, then pushed her upright on the couch. With a gallant move, he held the giant cup where she could reach the straw with her mouth.

  “We’ll have to share. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Now was not the time to tell him she’d given up fast food and especially sugar. Anyway, the chemical boost might come in handy. She drew greedily on the straw to satisfy a system desperate for fluids, but the cola bite and overpowering sweetness almost made her choke. She swallowed hard, then leaned away from the cup.

  “Thank you.”

  He watched her intently as he drank, then set the cup beside the bag. “Zesty Zing sauce, ketchup, or barbecue on your fries?”

  Zesty Zing was almost entirely fat, while ketchup and barbecue sauce were mostly high-fructose corn syrup. The fat would serve her better.

  “Zesty Zing, please.”

  He drew napkins from the bag, spreading them on the bin as if he were laying out table linens, stacked a half-dozen sliders in their cardboard sleeves on the napkins, and brought out the fries.

  “Slider or fries first?”

  She forced a smile. “Slider.”

  “I got cheese doubles. Singles hardly qualify as anything more than grease and bread.”

  He held a sandwich for her with one hand while he ate with the other. She took small bites, chewing slowly, doing her best to ignore the pain in her back and arms. She’d leave most of the fries for him. If she was lucky, the carbs would make him sluggish and give her an edge.

  He continued to feed her with solicitous dabs of a napkin and careful attention to saucing her fries while keeping them short of drippy.

  “I thought about getting chili cheese fries but they would have been too messy,” he explained.

  His friendliness—out of kilter with the zip ties and car trunk—disturbed her.

  He’s not rational. I have to remember that.

  He offered her the last fry. She shook her head and it disappeared into his mouth. He chewed ruminatively, wiped his mouth, sipped the coke, then smiled. “Now we can talk.”

  Make a request, something small. Get him to say yes. Her first thought was her damp shoes, but again, she needed them if—no, when—her opportunity came.

  “My arms are numb. Makes it hard to think. Can you do something about that?”

  “Fair enough.” He reached for his pocket. “I’ll cut the ties and let you stretch for a minute. But then I have to tie your wrists again. This time I’ll do it in front and lock your hands to your waist. Will that do?”

  She paused, hoping for a better concession.

  “It’s that or I hold the gun on you. I can’t imagine we’ll have a productive conversation that way.”

  “No, you’re right. We’ll do it your way.”

  With the bike cable affixing her hands to her waist, she asked, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to start by apologizing for all the precautions. In a minute you’ll understand.”

  Jenny doubted that but maintained the pleasant expression she saved for deranged family members of the dying.

  He held his hand up, thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “You and I are this close to millions.”

  What would he expect? Jenny decided a bit of skepticism was in order and raised one eyebrow.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The story on Channel 7 about Marvelous Malachi and Pete Schmidt, did you see it? It’s true.”

  “And you think that was Andrew?”

  “He hid valuables that are now worth millions. You can help me find them.”

  “Andrew made balloon animals at kid parties. He was no David Copperfield.”

  “Smoke and mirrors. Misdirection. That’s how he hid it in the first place.”

  Jenny raised her hands, palms out in appeasement, as high as the cable would allow. “Even if he was this mythical Malachi, that was eighty years ago. The money is long gone.”

  “Some of those pieces never appeared after Pete Schmidt bought them, and they were too famous for their whereabouts not to be known.”

  Now was time to show some curiosity.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a Fabergé egg that would rake in fifty million in today’s market.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Jeff Overstreet has been following this story for years. I got him drunk the other night.” He winked. “I acted skeptical, so he kept spilling to convince me.”

  “What does all this have to do with me?”

  “Overstreet told me about Heenan’s housekeeper. I knew it had to be you when I saw the YouTube video.” His eyes narrowed. “But you can stop pretending you don’t know any of this. There’s no other reason for you to come back.”

  Detective Dourson said two hundred people saw the video. Just her luck this lunatic was one of them.

  “Why not just talk to me?”

  “I had to get to you before Overstreet did. He killed your boss. He’ll do it again.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His aunt lived across the street from Heenan. I think he tried to get the old man to talk and screwed up. Maybe his heart gave out.”

  There was something off, beyond the weirdness of him kidnapping her. Go carefully. Make him believe you buy his story, but don’t make it too easy.

  “I don’t remember him at all. How could he know Andrew was this Malachi when nobody else did?”

  “Overstreet knew all the old-timers from the Syndicate days. Who’s to say he didn’t start talking to them when he was a kid? I bet they knew more than they ever told the police, and guys like that can’t resist talking about their glory days.”

  He picked up the cup and shook it, making the ice rattle. “There’s some left. Want the last drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “The house was never searched. The answer is there, and we need to get in before Overstreet can convince the Johnsons to give him access.”

  “My gran suffered for years before she died. If I’d known about an egg or anything else Andrew had hidden, I would have used it to help her.”

  “You know things you don’t realize you know. We need to put the pieces together.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? Someone lives there now.”

  “The Johnsons couldn’t handle the attention and left town. I can get us in and we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “And then what? Sell the egg on eBay?”

  His eye twitched again. He rubbed his upper lip, a tell Andrew associated with de
ception, something he told Jenny while teaching her the fine points of poker.

  “Once we have the egg we can decide what to do with it. And because I’m feeling generous, we’ll go fifty-fifty.”

  Once we have the egg, you’ll decide where to dump my body. “If I know so much, why do I need you?”

  He grinned. “Besides to get out of my basement? We have a few days before the Johnsons return. I have the tools to get in and do whatever we need to do. I have Overstreet’s research, and I know what we’re looking for.”

  You probably used those tools to get into Overstreet’s place and help yourself to his notes.

  “So my only way out of this basement is to commit burglary.”

  “A very low risk project.”

  “And if we don’t find anything?”

  “I drop you off and we go our separate ways.”

  Yep. Not getting out of this alive unless I come up with a brilliant plan.

  “It’s late. I’ll let you think about this overnight, but I need an answer in the morning.” He jerked his head at a door in the corner. “You can have a bathroom break. Then I’ll lock you up for the night. Will you be able to manage those jeans, or do you need my help?”

  Saturday, 12:51 p.m.

  Peter found Terry and Steve on Lia’s living room floor, teasing Gypsy and Chewy with Susan’s tattered scarf while Lia sketched from the couch. Squeaker socks littered the area around them, turning the floor into a field of land mines.

  All heads popped up when he entered the room, like so many worried jack-in-the boxes. He sat on the couch and shook his head. Chewy head-butted his leg. He dropped a hand to ruffle the furry ears and said nothing.

  Lia laid a hand on his thigh. “Will you call Captain Parker?”

  “If I take this to Parker now, she’ll say there could be a dozen reasons Jenny’s not in her room or returning calls. She won’t devote resources to finding Jenny when nobody in her life says she’s missing. I can’t ask her friends if they know where she is because I don’t know who they are.”

  Terry scowled. “Catch-22.”

  “It would be different if I knew of an actual threat to Jenny.”

  “It was Walter Miller. He’s nutty enough,” Terry said.

  Peter frowned, not placing the name.

  “Susan’s UFO guy,” Lia said. “Alpha Centuri? Little green men? Any chance this isn’t about Andrew Heenan?”

  “If that’s the case, I’m screwed.”

  “How can we help?” Steve asked.

  No point closing the barn door now. “Give me a minute. I have to make a call.” He scrolled his contact list, tapped a number.

  Overstreet answered on the third ring. “What can I do you for, Detective Dourson?”

  “Where were you between five and nine last night?”

  “Ah, man. How did I turn into your usual suspect?”

  “It’s your obsession with my old crime. Humor me so I can go do something useful.”

  “All right, all right. I was writing blogs until seven. Then I met friends for beers.”

  “Names and numbers.”

  “Anything for the cops. What’s this about?”

  “I’m pushed for time right now. If I can, I’ll tell you later.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Peter pointed at Lia’s sketchbook and made a gimme gesture. He scrawled several contacts on a clean page and ended the call.

  Lia leaned over to review the list. “Do you think it was him?”

  “He rattled off those names so fast, I doubt it. Gave me the waitress, too. He’s the only person with a motive. Now I’m stuck.” He turned to Terry and Steve. “She say what her plans were?”

  Gypsy abandoned her scarf to paw at Terry. He ignored her. “She said she was tired and going back to her hotel. I had the impression she was done for the day.”

  “Someone picked her up after you dropped her off.”

  Steve’s mouth twisted with concern and regret. “Last we saw, she was heading into the garage to use the restroom. We would have waited, but she seemed anxious to get rid of us.”

  “Any other cars in the lot?”

  “Not a one,” Terry said.

  He’d have heard about it if she’d still been in the garage when city workers arrived that morning. He might need to search the facility, check the cameras, but he hoped to find her before that became necessary.

  Steve said, “If I wanted to kidnap her, the best place would be between the garage and Beekman Street, somewhere on Mill Creek Road or Fricke. No traffic to speak of after five.”

  Terry protested, “But that means someone knew she was there.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “Who did you tell?”

  Terry’s face reddened, his expression reminding Peter of an outraged rooster.

  “Nobody.”

  Peter spoke slowly and deliberately. “Nobody in this room kidnapped Jenny, and we’re the only people who knew. You said something to someone that tipped them off. Think.”

  Steve said, “You called Commodore.”

  “Only to make sure it was okay to launch from the garage, since it wasn’t an official outing.”

  Peter kept his voice even. “What, exactly, did you say?”

  “I may have intimated something about a beautiful lady. I did not share her name.”

  “You say anything about Elvis?”

  “It’s not Commodore. He and his wife are away this weekend.”

  “We’ll check that out. Anyone with him when you called?”

  Terry dropped his eyes, licked his lips. “Dick was with him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lia said. “What would Dick want with Jenny?”

  Steve snorted. “What would anyone want? Whoever took her thinks she’s a million-dollar meal ticket.”

  Gypsy tugged on Lia’s pants. Lia gathered the pup into her lap. “What could she possibly know?”

  Peter sighed. “She knows the house, and the Johnsons are in Georgia.”

  Lia folded her arms, shot him an accusing look. “You’re going after him without backup.”

  “I can’t involve anyone else.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Neither do I.

  Day 22, Afternoon

  Saturday, May 11, 2019

  2:23 p.m.

  Jenny sat on the edge of a chair in the Johnson’s living room, her skin itching from sweat and dust collected during hours crawling in the Johnson’s attic and moving stacks of boxes in the basement.

  At least her feet were finally dry.

  The man—who said his name was Dick—had gone over every wall with a stud finder, looking for gaps or inconsistencies that would indicate a hidden closet. They’d measured rooms. They’d moved cabinets and removed vent covers.

  Placating the man who held her captive while her brain scrambled for a way out left her exhausted. And despite all evidence to the contrary, Dick remained convinced a lost Fabergé egg hid somewhere in the house, waiting just for him.

  Dick had been friendly, even jovial on the drive over, even while showing her his gun. “I don’t want to use this, but I will,” he’d said with that easy affability. “We have a job to do. No fooling around.”

  “I want this just as much as you do,” she’d lied, keeping her voice steady despite the gun pointed at her chest.

  Getting to the house unseen had been ridiculously easy. A wooded green space ran behind the properties along Clifton Hills Avenue, ending at a school a half-mile from Andrew’s house. Dick parked at the school, retrieved a canvas bag of tools, then walked her through a lovely space dappled with cool, early morning sun. They looked like any couple out for a pre-breakfast stroll.

  The gun in his pocket pressed into her back as she prayed for joggers, for dog walkers, for off-duty Green Berets. If she was lucky, a competing gang of treasure seekers would distract Dick long enough for her to get away.

  On this quiet Saturday morning, they saw no one.

  The wall behind
Andrew’s house was decorative more than protective, and manageable to climb, though it meant trampling Peony beds that had been well-established when she’d last seen them.

  At Andrew’s side door, Dick pulled a device from the bag that looked something like a cross between a staple gun and an UZI. He grinned at her as he fitted something long and slender in the muzzle.

  “Lock rake. It’s handy for construction work. People expect burglars at night. They pay attention to lights in houses that are supposed to be vacant. We’re searching by daylight. Even if we turn on the lights, no one will notice them against the sunlight.”

  His hands were full. She considered the distance to the street, but the gun was in his pocket and it would be too easy for him to shoot her before she got away.

  “Smart,” she’d said instead of running. She put a hint of admiration in her voice. Enough to mollify, not enough to set off alarms. There was acting, then there was overplaying your part. The wrong inflection, an involuntary grimace, a rigid expression, and he’d smash that lock pick across her face.

  That had been several tension-filled hours ago, before his ebullience eroded into determination, and determination became a thin skin over frustration.

  Now Dick’s attention turned to a built-in cherry bookcase. It was seven feet tall with ornate carvings, five shelves over a cupboard. He laid one ham-sized hand on Jenny’s shoulder, still friendly.

  “I should have thought of this from the beginning. Malachi did his own cabinet work. A secret compartment in a bookcase would be child’s play for him. Andrew ever talk about that? About building stuff for his act?”

  “He did card tricks at birthday parties. He pulled coins out of my ear. He never talked about cabinets.” The hand flexed, biting into her shoulder. A tiny rill of cold sweat snaked down her back. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.”

  Give him something. The enclosed base was a good six inches high, taller than typical.

  “There’s plenty of room for a hidey hole in the bottom.”

  The hand relaxed. “Empty it.”

  Jenny knelt and opened the cabinet doors. A hodgepodge of electronic detritus greeted her: chargers, defunct mini tablets, cords, and cables that went to who-knew-what. “At least no one will know we were in here. It would be good if we had a box.”