by Linda Sands
Angel waited under a low-hanging bough of evergreens as the broad approached the Lincoln, mumuring under her breath and jingling the keys.
Before the driver’s door was even open, Angel jogged up, collar in hand, calling, “Spike? Spike?”
“What’s the matter?” Barbara asked as the woman in the puffy coat crouched beside the Lincoln to peer underneath it.
She said, “Are you under there?” Spike!”
Barbara bent down to look under the car. “You lost your dog? I haven’t seen him. I hope he’s okay.”
Angel slipped behind Barbara, choked her with the collar. They fought, scuffling and slapping until Angel yanked hard, smacking Barbara’s head against the Lincoln and knocking her out.
Angel dragged her into the backseat, retrieved the keys from the door, and drove off, pleasantly surprised at her strength and resolve. Men weren't the only badasses in the world.
She’d found the clearing when looking for a place to hide her own car. She figured some kids or hunters must have been here before her. It was nice of them to make a path back in the woods perfect for a big-ass luxury car from New York.
She glanced in the backseat. The broad was still out cold. She hoped she hadn’t done any permanent damage. Nah, screw that. The bitch was going to get what she deserved. And Angel was going to get Jimbo back.
No one stole her husband and got away with it. Not after all they’d been through. Angel could still remember the day they met.
Jimbo had been in town for some sort of convention. Angel never nailed that down. It didn’t matter in the end. It was just another job he’d lose. It was never his fault, nothing he’d done or didn’t do. It was them. Always. When Jimbo was fired or laid off or downsized, he’d always say the same thing. They’d regret it. It was their loss. He didn’t need them. One day he’d be his own boss, run his own company. Wait and see.
Angel wanted to believe him—every time. He was so sincere, his tears so real.
More than anything else, Jimbo was a charmer. He had a way of making you want to root for him. He could twist a tale around so much that if his story had been a person it would have been a bony, bendy ballerina spun like a top then hurled into a fouetté jeté with no one to catch her.
Angel and Jimbo were married less than a year after they met. Being an efficient man, Angel’s father offered the newly engaged couple a nice fat check if they’d elope and forego a messy wedding day that would clutter his calendar. Jimbo and Angel worked an early withdrawal plan from the family trust into the negotiation and, like a sordid prenuptial agreement, a deal was struck.
They used to joke that they chose to stay in town because “Virginia Beach was for lovers.” But you can only live a T-shirt-slogan life for so long. One morning you’re going to wake up and realize the guy has been unfaithful, you’re unhappy, and there are no kids and not even an overweight dog to keep you from splitting up.
Friends will convince you over drinks that this is a good thing. You’d be free.
“You’re young,” they say.
“You can find someone else.”
“He’s a jerk,” they tell you, ordering another round.
You know they mean well, but mostly you just want to go home and call him and ask him why and please could we talk and what’s wrong with me? Even though the truth would kill you, because you know it will be something you can’t change. Something you love about yourself. Then you’ll begin to wonder if he’s right and that’s why you’ve been so unhappy all these years.
Angel never thought that would happen with Jimbo. How could it? He loved her and she still loved him. Possibly even more now than in the beginning when she fell crazy in love, losing herself to a man, heart and soul, for the first time.
She was sent to France by her father less than two months after she and Jimbo met. It was first time they’d been separated for more than a day. Her father said he needed her to meet with French backers, to be there with his team. He said she was the only one he trusted. He had a staff of idiots and everyone knew you couldn’t trust those “frogs.”
Angel called Jimbo three times a day, telling him she missed him. She tried to overlook his insecurities, tried to see them as endearing, believing that he loved her so much that it only came off as needy, jealous, and paranoid. She promised that her heart belonged to him alone, that she was, even then, in her hotel room overlooking the Champs-Élysées, imagining the pillow beside her as Jimbo. He told her to hug it close to her breasts, then blow him a kiss and send the picture on her phone.
They made plans to meet in their favorite bar on the night she returned. He said he’d be counting down the hours, even attempted to tell her in French that he loved her, that she was his beautiful girl. She forgave his improper use of vous and the poor pronunciation, because after all, he was trying, wasn’t he?
Angel remembered how hopeful she’d felt. Now, as she parked the Lincoln parallel to the New Hampshire cliff, she felt that hope renewed.
Tall, thick trees acted as a windbreak for her spot in the clearing. It was quiet, still, almost serene. Snow and ice hung heavy from branches, birds flitted from berried bushes to treetops. For a minute, Angel almost forgot she was a criminal with an unconscious, kidnapped woman in the backseat. She turned off the car and checked on her victim—breathing, and apparently quite comfortable. A small purse in the woman’s coat pocket revealed an ID and sixty dollars in cash.
“Hello, Barbara Leonard from Syracuse, New York. Come here often?”
Angel tied Barbara’s hands and ankles, then slid back over the front seat to examine the contents of the purse and wait for Sleeping Beauty to wake up.
Barbara eventually began to stir in the backseat. Angel locked eyes with her in the rearview. As she pushed herself upright, Angel casually turned around, aiming a very large gun at Barbara.
“Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well? I think we have something to talk about.”
Barbara wriggled, tugging at the rope bindings securing her hands behind her.
“I think we do too. Let’s start with why you you’ve tied me up, and move on to the gun. How’s that?”
Angel laughed. “I don’t think so. Get out of the fucking car. Now!”
She tied Barbara’s hands to the handle of the Lincoln’s passenger door—the side of the car facing the cliff—then stepped back, still pointing the gun at Barbara, though it was getting heavy and she was fueled solely on adrenaline. She was fading fast.
“You don’t look like his type,” Angel said running her eyes over Barbara. “He usually likes them younger. At least that’s what I was told. This is a first for me. You’re my first cheating husband stealer.”
“And your last,” Barbara said under her breath.
“What’s that, sweetheart? You have something to tell me? Feeling all guilty and ready to confess now, are you?”
“Confess what? I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Cut the shit! You stole my husband and I want him back.”
“I didn’t steal anybody’s husband,” Barbara said, pulling at the rope bindings. “Wait. Who did you say your husband was?”
“Cute. Real cute,” Angel said, leveling the gun. She didn’t look amused.
Chapter 39
WHEN BEING BUFFY IS A GOOD THING
“She’s cute, but she’s also smart, Tedesco,” Tommy said.
“I know. She’ll be fine. Now let’s just find her.”
Tommy attempted his best warrior gaze. “We’ll leave no stone unturned.”
“She’s not a freaking earthworm,” I said.
“Salamander.”
“What?” I said.
“Salamanders live under rocks. Earthworms live in the soil. But there are beetles, and those fat white things.” Tommy shivered. “Ew.”
“Are you calling Barbara a fat white thing, Tommy?”
“What? No! I was just saying—”
“Enough,” I said. “Quiet. I need to think.”
“Shit we missed it,” I said braking hard and yanking the wheel left, fishtailing the truck, reversing our direction to the perfectly arranged fallen tree.
Tommy looked surprised, then he got it. "When in doubt do the unpredictable. Smart Criminal Rule Number 7."
Prowling through strange woods might seem like a cool thing if you are fourteen and playing paintball, with the whiz of colored bullets flying overhead midbattle, the sound of your breath coming back at you in the face mask, your heart beating, the adrenaline racing.
But in reality, it fucking sucked. I was too old to be crouching under tree limbs, crawling through brush, squatting in wait —and I knew it from the creaking of my knees to the ache in my lower back and the numbness in my flattened ass. I was cold. I was hungry. I wanted to find Barbara, beat someone up for making me so miserable, and get the hell out of there. Tommy, on the other hand, appeared to have found some long-lost masculinity that he was firmly embracing.
I was aware the kid might have played a few too many war video games, because he knew all the hand signals and pointing gestures and performed them as if I could see him in the fading light. Which sounds too poetic for the all-encompassing darkness that was falling fast.
The only thing that was keeping me there in the woods was the fact that Barbara must be in a worse place. Whatever I had to suffer through was deserved because I’d dragged her into this. She should be home with her husband. She should be safe. I swore I wasn’t going to mess up her life again, not like last time.
I made my way into the clearing, felt Tommy behind me, and kept going, thinking whoever was out there with my Lincoln and Barbara was probably having as much trouble with the dark and the cold as we were.
I heard her before I saw her. Apparently my ex-sweetie had reached deep down and found herself a pair.
“Go to hell!”
The acid in Barbara’s voice reminded me of times I’d failed her in the past and she had yelled at me about it. Once I’d left her behind and gone out with the guys on her birthday. Another time I’d neglected to answer her call, which resulted in a very long wait in a bus terminal over Christmas.
I whispered a promise to myself to do better.
Barbara yelled, “You dumbass! You’re making a big mistake!” Two things no kidnapper wanted to hear.
As the clouds parted, allowing the moon to shine into the clearing, I saw Barbara tied up and wriggling against the car door, trying to free herself. She was shouting to a shadow beyond the bright circle made by the Lincoln’s headlights.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear I don’t know anyone named Jimbo. You need to let me go.”
A woman stepped out of the dark wearing a puffy parka and matching red boots.
She scoffed. “You think it’s that easy? Just keep saying the same thing over and over and suddenly I’m going to say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I must be mistaken. Apparently you’re not fucking my husband in that fancy house of yours, not keeping him from coming home where he belongs. Here, let me untie you and let you go.’ Is that what you think?”
She laughed, a harsh chortle that needed a yeah right after it, or something caustically British. “Sorry pretty, but that ain’t happening. What is happening, is you are going to tell me exactly where my Jimbo is and exactly what you’ve been doing with him.”
Barbara leaned back against the Lincoln. On the surface, it appeared an exercise in restraint, but it was more than that. She was using the door handle to work at the bindings on her wrists.
“Ok,” Barbara said with a sigh. “You found us out. Me and Jimbo. We’re in love. He said he’d take me away from it all. How was I to know he meant New Hampshire? All that time I was thinking Syracuse.”
“Syracuse?” The woman laughed. “Who the hell goes there?”
“Jimbo,” Barbara said.
“No way. He hates the cold almost as much as he hates clouds. God knows how he ended up here.”
“Things happen,” Barbara said, buying time.
“Yeah, things fucking happen. You get pissed off one day at your husband and speed away. Think you’re the one holding all the cards. No. I don’t believe you, I know Jimbo. I. Know. Him.”
The woman stepped closer to Barbara. It was the first clear look I’d gotten of her tear-stained face—or the gun. The broad might look like a puffy suburban housewife, but she was packing like a killer.
“Are you okay?” Barbara’s voice turned soft.
“Yeah. Love hurts.”
Tommy and I circled the area. The woman had dropped her gun arm to her side. She was crying, and Barbara was murmuring something as she continued to work on her wrists against the door handle. I started getting a whole different vibe from the situation. I was afraid if Barbara did get herself untied she’d run to the woman instead of trying to escape from her.
I stepped on a branch. The crack it made in the silence of the clearing was deafening. The woman swung toward me with the gun, drawing aim down her puffy arm, wiping her nose and eyes with her gloved hand.
“Who’s there?” she called.
The way she was squinting in my direction made me think the headlights were bright enough that she’d have trouble adjusting her eyes. I made a decision that I knew I might later regret. I decided going in low and fast would be the best approach.
As I crashed through the woods I went somewhere else in my head, where it wasn’t cold or damp or dangerous. I managed to block out snapping twigs, slapping branches, crunchy bugs, and lurking creatures. I must have also blocked out Tommy, because as I broke cover so did he. He came out the other side of the clearing and leaped onto the puffy lady from behind. It should have been enough to take her down—if Tommy had been me. As it was, the woman slapped and brushed at his grip like he was a spider that had dropped onto her shoulder while she was reading in her window seat.
Tommy yelled. Barbara screamed. The woman spun, waving the gun, slapping at Tommy. She stumbled backward into the woods, taking him with her.
I ran to Barbara who tried to give me an armless hug. “Oh my God, Bill! What happened? How did you find me? That lady’s nuts!”
“I know,” I said. “Here. Stand still. I’m trying to untie you.” It took a few fumbled attempts and a pocketknife to release Barbara from the door handle. She wrapped her arms around me as soon as she was free. Part of me wanted to do the same to her, to stay like that until the good guys came and everything was fixed—but only a small part of me.
I opened the car door, started to push her inside. “It’s gonna be okay, Barbara. Wait here. Lock the doors. I’m going to get Tommy. I love—”
She screamed before she fired, a banshee yell. I shoved Barbara in the car and turned in time to see the woman trip as the gun went off.
Barbara screamed my name, banged on the glass.
“Stay—”
The impact took the rest of my words.
The shot echoed up the ravine and off the cliff’s sides. Birds took flight, screeching a warning. I saw in Barbara’s face astonishment turning to disbelief and back again. She flattened her hand on the window, matching mine, as I sunk to the ground.
Chapter 40
THIS IS THE PART WHERE TEDESCO DREAMS
Every good story has a dream sequence. Though this one isn’t full of rivers, bananas, naked ladies, or fast cars, there’s still enough symbolism in it to keep me on the shrink’s couch for a few more years.
I was the young me, with hair longer than I’d ever worn it in real life. The way it kept blow
ing in my eyes, tickling my cheeks, and irritating my neck made me wonder even in this pleasant dream place why any man grew his hair long.
There was a puddle of water, the sound of dripping. I knew if I looked down I would be barefoot, so I didn’t look down. Someone was calling my name, but it wasn’t really my name. I knew that if I wanted to, I could fly.
There was a hall with doors lining either side, and as I passed each one, it closed. Slowly. Quietly. At the end of the hall, I came to a river and dove in. As I floated along, I saw people from my past on the riverbank. My Uncle Buddy, who died of a heart attack on a roller coaster; a neighbor who’d been killed by a drunk driver; my first-grade teacher, who would have been a hundred if she was alive.
Someone yelled, “Watch out!”
But it was too late. I’d swum right into a crocodile and my arm was in his mouth. I wasn’t afraid, just a little embarrassed. I told him I was sorry and he opened his jaws and swam off, splashing me in the face with a swish of his tail. My arm felt warm and slimy from being inside him, so I went to find a towel and found myself back in the hallway. A man with a fishbowl head walked past, shooting me with finger guns. I rose taller than everyone around me and felt the floor rumble as I walked. Forks and knives jangled against fine china as I strode past an elegant dinner table set for three pretty girls: a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. When I raised my hand to wave they all mouthed in unison “We love you. Thank you.”
A champagne bottle clinked against ice in a silver wine cooler, water in gold-rimmed glasses rippled. I was suddenly thirsty. So thirsty. When I reached for a glass, everything changed.
Afterward they told me I hadn’t moved for three days. They said I was lucky to have missed the ricocheting bullet, and the chances of getting punctured in the back of my neck the way I had—at that depth and angle—by a chunk of flying metal "National Forest" sign was next to impossible.