"Whatever it is, the police have been looking for it, without success, so far." Another note she'd made suggested a different track. "Danny, had you ever met the man in the bar before?"
"No."
"And you didn't see anyone else around the building?"
The boy looked at her again. There were things going on in his dark eyes, but he controlled his expression too well to let her venture a guess at his thoughts or feelings. He shook his head and repeated, "No."
"Do you know where Bobby might have hidden something?"
"They searched his apartment?"
"Yes. But I don't think he would've left this—whatever it is—in his apartment. He expected others to be looking for it. He said it was 'in the air—'."
Danny just looked puzzled. "You mean like an air conditioner, or maybe an airplane?"
"I don't know what he meant. I hoped you might."
"There was an air conditioner in his apartment. He bought one for Patty a few weeks ago so she wouldn't be too uncomfortable when the weather got hot. She's gonna have a baby in July."
"The police have checked that out pretty thoroughly, along with the air ducts in the building."
"It might not mean anything," Lowell put in. "He might have been trying to say it was in the area of something."
"Maybe, but I don't think so. He said it like the word 'air'." Cathy scribbled idle little lines with her pen while she thought. "Danny, Bobby was once involved in dealing here in town. Have you been?"
"I don't think Danny ought to answer that," Lowell cut in sharply.
"Let me rephrase the question. Bobby had contacts who were involved in deals. Would you know any of those contacts, Danny?"
"I ain't never sold anything. But I guess I might know some of the people," he said.
"Good. It might be helpful to find out who Bobby talked to."
"But not now." Lowell cut in, glancing at his watch. "I have an appointment in half an hour and I've got to take Danny home. He needs to rest." He was right about that; the boy looked more haggard than any eighteen-year-old should. The lawyer got up and stretched. "The funeral is at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Where?" she asked.
"Culler's Creek Baptist. Do you know where it is?"
"I think so. Thank you."
She turned to Danny and thanked him for the help. She didn't offer a hand this time and he didn't expect it. "I’m sorry about Bobby. I know this isn't easy for you."
He shrugged, not acknowledging the sympathy. "Glad to have met you, Miss," he said in a tone so flat it almost contradicted the words.
Before she left his office, Cathy mentioned to Lowell that she planned to interview Danny's mother for a background story. He had no objections. She decided to leave it until after lunch, though, to give Danny time to get home and get settled.
The visit made for an interesting afternoon. Mrs. Stark's sister insisted on being present throughout the conversation, and the two women presented a study in contrasts. Betty Linn Stark was a thin, withdrawn woman who spoke in soft monotones. It might have been grief for her son that had drained the life from her, but Cathy suspected years of hard living had already taken their toll.
Her sister, on the other hand, was a sharp-tongued virago who hovered protectively, made all the decisions, and did most of the talking. Mary Sue Danforth had opinions on everything and everybody—including her nephews—and no inhibitions about voicing them.
Bobby, she conceded, had been showing signs of turning into a decent human being and might actually have made something of himself, but she considered Danny totally worthless. Knowing the boy was in another room of the house, Cathy hoped he was asleep and missed his aunt's dissertation on his lack of redeeming social value. He'd probably heard it before anyway.
Nothing substantive came out of the interview, but she gathered enough information to put together a short feature. Driving back to the office, she noticed the dark blue Toyota in her rearview mirror again. At a clear patch of road, she veered to the side in an attempt to get a glimpse of the driver or license number when the car passed. The driver didn't give her the opportunity. He rolled to the other side of the street and stopped, far enough away to preclude a close look. Cathy debated getting out and walking across to confront him, but decided she had problems enough already.
She put the Honda in gear again and pulled away from the curb. The Toyota followed her lead, staying farther behind this time. If this continued, she'd have to consider taking a nice long jaunt through the countryside, or maybe indulge in a shopping spree, hitting every center in the city and a few neighboring places as well. It would serve him right.
For dinner that night, she drove to a roast beef sandwich place to make time to run a couple of errands. The Toyota driver wasn't hungry; he parked in the lot outside the building and waited there. She stopped at a couple more stores, keeping an eye on the other car, then she approached the bank's teller machine to get some cash. The sun hadn't set yet, and there were several other people waiting to use the machine, but she still felt very exposed and kept her hand near the can in her purse while she pressed the buttons.
Nothing happened, though, and when she got back into the car, she realized after a few blocks that the Toyota seemed to have given up. She exhaled a sigh of relief and headed for the last stop on her list to drop some clothes at the dry cleaners. Business was slow in the place and she bantered pleasantly with the young proprietor while he wrote her claim check. Daylight was starting to fade into twilight when she emerged from the building and walked over to her car. Rays from the low sun shot directly into her eyes, blinding her momentarily.
A hand grabbed her arm, but before she could turn to face the owner, she was dragged around the corner of the building. The world suddenly went black as some kind of hood dropped over her head. Cathy found it hard to breath. She opened her mouth to scream, but the hand clamped down, pressing the material firmly against her face, smothering her yell.
- 7-
Friday - Saturday
Rough hands pulled and jostled her. She struggled and twisted, straining to see through the blankness, and finally realized they'd draped something over her head. An arm still circled her neck, holding her mouth shut through the material. She reached up and found an exposed wrist. Her fingernails weren't long, but they dug far enough into the skin to make a dent. The man holding her swore and released his grip.
She could breathe and even try to yell, but so little air remained in her lungs, her scream emerged as a squeaky wheeze. Someone still held her right wrist and another arm circled her waist. She reached down with the free fingers of her left hand to try another pinch, but her right arm was suddenly twisted and jerked around behind her back. Breathless again, and propelled by a tug on her awkwardly-twisted arm, Cathy staggered across the parking lot.
A rough shove pushed her into a car, not her own, and onto the back seat floor of the vehicle. With her sight blocked, noises provided all the information she could gather: voices muttering, the clash and scrape of another car door opening and closing, the swish of cloth against vinyl, then a rumble under her left ear as the engine fired.
She'd had more comfortable rides. Her left arm was twisted and jammed underneath her, legs folded like an accordion to squeeze between front and back seats, and her hips straddled the transmission hump in the middle. Adding injury to insult, the car badly needed new shock absorbers. When she tried to wiggle into a more comfortable heap, a foot jammed into her side to hold her still. She took the hint.
It wasn't a long drive, but Cathy was ready for it to end long before it did. Out-numbered and temporarily out-maneuvered, she decided to adopt a policy of cautious co-operation. She didn't struggle when the car stopped and hard fingers dragged her out. The hood was the most annoying feature of the short walk from the car to wherever they were taking her. Blinded and smothered, she kept tripping over obstacles and her own feet. Hands on either arm prevented her from reaching up to remove it.
&n
bsp; Her feet clanged against metal steps, seven in all, and a change in the ambient light indicated they'd moved inside. Voices muttered again—she thought she could distinguish three different ones—then she was pushed backward and fell into an armchair. Fingers fumbled around her again, and the hood was yanked off. Whoever did it managed to snag her blouse at the same time, and when he pulled, one of the seams started to give way.
"Hey!" she said. "The blouse cost thirty-five bucks. Go easy on it!"
Behind her, one of the men laughed. The puller shifted his grip and lifted the hood off. Cathy blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. Three other people shared the room with her. Colorful ski caps concealed their features, and they all wore surgical rubber gloves.
"Thanks, dammit," she said. "What the hell’s going on?"
A tall man in a deep blue mask with white circles around the eyeholes sauntered toward her. He seemed prepared to act as spokesman. "Lady, I think you better let me ask the questions," he suggested.
"Looks like your party."
"Yeah," he answered. "And it's going to stay that way. But we don't want to hurt you. We just want information. Give it to us and we'll take you back to your car, nice, safe, and in one piece."
"And if I don't?"
He sighed elaborately. "I think you will. We all want to avoid any unpleasantness, don't we?" He stayed quiet a moment, letting that sink in.
"What do you want to know?" she asked.
"Bobby Stark talked to you before he died. He told you where he'd hidden something. Where is it?"
“Oh, hell, not that again.” She looked over the three, debating what to say and trying to gauge the level of danger. Two of the kidnappers flanked the chair she occupied, one a short man in a red cap with yellow stripes, the other smoking a cigarette through the mouth hole of a hideous green and orange number. "Suppose I can't tell you?" she asked.
Blue Mask shook his head and sighed. "Look around you, Miss Bennett." The building was large, cavernous, and empty but for the chair she occupied and scattered wooden packing crates. An abandoned warehouse from the look of it. "This place has been deserted for a long time," the man confirmed. "There's no one within miles. No help for you, even if you scream at the top of your lungs. There are ways to make you tell us what we want to know. Lots of ways. They tend to be messy, however, and we don't like mess. I bet you don't either."
She nodded agreement.
"So," he continued, "let's cut the chatter and get down to business. Where is it?"
Cathy looked them over again, but saw nothing encouraging. "I don't know," she said.
Blue Mask signaled with his hand; Red Cap stepped nearer to her and wound his fingers in her hair. Cathy gasped as he painfully twisted the strands he held. Blue Mask watched unmoving as the man tightened his clasp; hundreds of fiery needles pricked painfully in her scalp.
"Quit it," she said, trying to grab for the hand to relieve the pressure. The rubber glove tore but she couldn't get better purchase. The relentless pull drew her to her feet, but even then the hold wasn't dropped and the pain didn't stop.
"Where is it?" Blue Mask repeated, seeing tears start to form in her eyes.
"I don't know," she said again, trying to be convincing.
They weren't buying it. She didn't see the signal this time, but her hair was suddenly released. The same man grabbed at her arm instead and twisted it behind her back again, pushing upward on the wrist. Cathy held in a scream, but couldn't keep the tears from falling as the pressure put intolerable stress on her elbow and shoulder joints. "I can't!" she screamed. "For God's sake, I can't tell you. I don't know. He didn't tell me. He died."
The pressure increased and she had to stop a minute, biting her lip to keep from shrieking as fiery shards of pain ran up her arm and into the shoulder. "Dammit, it's the truth! I'll tell you exactly what he did say!" Her voice had thinned to a shrill scream on the last words. The pain was blinding; stars floated across her field of vision. "I'll tell you." The words came out on a sob.
Something in her tone must have convinced them. The pressure was released and her arm allowed to drop back to her side. She let out a long breath and rubbed at her aching muscles. She put her head down to clear the fog that threatened to engulf her.
"All right," Blue Mask conceded. "Spill it. What did he say?"
Her head started to clear; she straightened up and repeated Bobby's exact words. What difference would it make anyway? The police hadn't found anything; these goons weren't likely to do any better.
"That's all?" Blue Mask sounded doubtful.
"That's it," she gasped, struggling to get her vision and respiration under control. "There wasn't much time. He died."
She studied each of the men and felt the weight of Blue Mask's hesitation. She thought they believed her. What would they do now? Scared—no, terrified—as she was, there was something about the men, vibes, maybe; she didn't think they planned to kill her. On the other hand, if she was wrong, she'd better be prepared to put up whatever struggle she could. If she was going down, she planned to do it kicking and biting all the way.
Destiny decreed she'd never find out. While Blue Mask still pondered, a noise scraped at the closed door through which they'd entered. No one came in and nothing further happened, but all three turned to stare at the entrance. The quiet held for a moment, then the scraping repeated.
Blue Mask looked at Red Cap and said, "Go check it out."
The man went to the door, opened it carefully, and saw nothing. He hesitated, then disappeared through the exit. A moment later, he called back, "Hey, Joe, you better come look!"
Blue Mask stared at Green-and-Orange Hat, at her, then back at the other man. "Keep an eye on her," he directed, then moved off and passed through the door, too. Silence reigned for a couple of minutes, then a yell sounded from outside.
Green-and-Orange Hat glared in her direction, warned, "Stay put," and went to see what the fuss was about. He had an abrupt and painful meeting with another man coming in the door as he was leaving. Cathy couldn't see what passed since Green-and-Orange Hat's back was to her, but he suddenly toppled over backwards, like a felled tree.
The person entering the room stepped over the prone form, looked up, and saw her. She sank back into the chair, breathing a sigh of relief. Ed Hammond's curly black hair was disarranged and his clothes wrinkled, but the dishevelment only emphasized his extraordinary good looks. Maybe anyone familiar would have looked good at that moment, but he was particularly welcome. His blue-green eyes crinkled with concern and worry.
"Cathy!" He moved to stand over her and took her hand where she sat. "Are you all right? The bastards didn't hurt you?"
"I'm fine," she answered. "Just a little shaken."
"You're sure?" He pushed strands of her reddish-brown hair back off her forehead and studied her face. Gentle fingers brushed a lingering tear from her cheek. "You're sure you're not hurt? What did they do to you?"
"I'm okay. Really," she tried to assure him. "They were a bit rough, but no lasting damage was done."
"The sons of bitches." He knelt at the side of the chair and put both arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. She sighed and rested against him quietly; she could hear the thud of his heart pounding under her ear.
Movement flashed across the periphery of her vision. She twisted to look. "Ed," she warned. He turned in time to see the man he'd left lying on the floor disappear out the door. Cathy and Hammond both stood up, but managed to get their legs tangled together in the process, and nearly came crashing down again. Cathy found the chair with a hand, preventing them from falling to the floor, but by the time they'd sorted their limbs, the sound of a car’s engine split the night outside. Free of each other at last, they ran to the door. The car's lights were off, but moonlight glinted on the automobile's body as it disappeared around the corner.
"Did you get a license number?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Couldn't see it. You?"
"No. Could y
ou tell what kind of car it was?"
"It was a dark color, that was all I could see. Hey, I wonder..." He walked down the steps and looked around. "Damn it all to hell," he said, after a search of the area. "They all got away. Fine detective work," he commented bitterly.
"Looked okay from where I was sitting," she answered. "I'm just glad you got here… How did you get here?"
"I... I was keeping an eye on you and saw these creeps pulling you into their car, so I—"
"You were following me?"
"Keeping an eye on you."
"I see," she said.
"Well, you have to admit I had reason," he answered.
"Yes." She sighed. "I'm grateful. That's two I owe you."
"My car's parked across the street. I'll take you home," he offered.
"Just take me back to my car, I'm going to need it."
"Cathy, do you think—?"
"Yes, I do think. Sometimes. Maybe not often enough. At any rate, I doubt they'll try anything more tonight. And I'm not going to spend my life hiding from these goons. I think they believed me, anyway, so maybe I've seen the last of them."
They got into his car and drove off before he spoke again. "They wanted to know what Bobby said to you? What did you tell them?" he asked.
"Same thing I’ve been telling everyone else. The truth. I told them exactly what Bobby said to me and that I didn't have the faintest idea what it meant."
He tried to keep his voice neutral, but she heard the shading of outrage in it. "You told them everything?"
"Hell, Ed, the cops have had two days and haven't come up with anything. I've known for two days, you and Peter Lowell for one, and look where it's gotten us. You think those guys have more brain power than we do?"
"I didn't look at it that way," he admitted. "Of course, they may know something we don't. But I don't suppose you had any choice."
"Damn right. Those guys weren't taking 'I don't know' for an answer. They wanted the truth and the whole truth."
He nodded but still didn't look happy. "Cathy," he said after a moment's frowning silence. "I'd prefer you didn't say anything about this. To anyone."
A Question of Fire Page 5