by Maggie Pill
I stopped outside the dining room, scanning the area. Barb wasn’t there. Thinking she might be waiting in the rest room where we’d spoken earlier, I headed that way. As I went in, Cecily was coming out, and we did one of those awkward pauses when neither knows who should go first. Smiling, I stepped back, and she exited with a comment. “Pit stop before I take off on my quest for a sewing machine.”
Eager for any scrap of information to help me make my decision, I asked Cecily, “Had you met Dina before today?”
“No. We’ve all met Mr. Engel, of course, and we all know Honny real well.”
“How is that?”
She shifted her shoulders slightly. “Honny is kind of Mr. Engel’s stand-in. He watches the clubs and makes sure there’s no skimming or anything like that.”
I looked at her doubtfully. “Honny doesn’t look much like an enforcer.”
“I’m not saying he breaks legs or anything. He’s just always there, watching. Mr. Engel trusts him, so everybody wants Honny to be happy, so he’ll say nice things about them to the boss.”
“Dina told me Honny’s her financial watchdog.”
“From what I hear, Mr. Engel and Dina don’t communicate. Honny has to act as go-between, and he says it gets pretty weird sometimes.” Cecily backed away, waving. “I have to go buy a sewing machine. See you tomorrow.”
As I watched Cecily walk away, I thought she was a very likeable young woman. I hoped today’s success might give her the confidence to return to the world she’d fallen out of.
When I came out of the rest room a few minutes later, refreshed and hands clean, I still hadn’t found Barb. What did that mean? If she’d managed to free Retta, they’d have been waiting for me. If she hadn’t, she might be somewhere briefing law enforcement on the situation and helping them plan a rescue. Barb had taken my key. I’d have to go up to the room, knock on the door, and say I’d misplaced it.
A few women milled around the common area, looking at the merchandise and chatting idly. Probably to avoid the noise, Dina had moved to a spot under the staircase. She stood with her face to the wall, her phone to one ear and her hand over the other. I started up the stairs, and as I reached the landing where they made a ninety-degree turn, an odd thing happened. Dina’s voice, undiscernible when we were on the same level, floated upward with amazing clarity.
“I’m not happy having these women on my hands.”
In minutes, maybe seconds, one or the other of the sessions would recess and a hundred attendees would stream into the common area. Dina’s voice would be buried in the babble. I wanted desperately to learn who “these women” were. The models who weren’t models, or Retta and me?
Hardly daring to breathe, I stood with one foot on the landing and the other on the step, leaning back a little so she wouldn’t see me if she happened to look up. “Tomorrow is important to me,” she was saying, “but you really screwed things up.”
Doors opened, and the noise level rose as women emerged from their session. I heard the last sentence only because Dina raised her voice slightly. “I’m not letting either of them go when this is over, so just deal with it.”
Interpretations volleyed in my brain like a badminton shuttlecock. Had Dina been referring to the fashion show or something else—something so important an FBI agent had been murdered to hide it? The last part, about the two she wasn’t going to let go, made me glad I hadn’t told Dina my secret. If “either of them” was Retta and me, Dina Engel was much more sinister than I’d imagined her to be.
Chapter Thirty
Barb
The exchange I’d overheard between Bill and Ted convinced me Retta was somewhere on the opposite side of the vineyard. As the sun beat down on my head, I waited impatiently for them to go somewhere else. Again I wished I’d brought water along—at that point even tepid water would have been fine.
I was at the northwestern corner of the St. Millicent property, where signs facing the opposite way suggested that uninvited visitors should remain on their own side of the fence. I rested my back against the trunk of a thick oak as I waited, allowing the two men plenty of time to do whatever they were doing out there and head back to the inn. My position on high ground allowed me to see over the vineyard, and I tried to spot a structure on the other side that might hold a prisoner. At first I saw no evidence of outbuildings at all, but an anomaly too square to be natural finally caught my eye. Squinting, I detected what was possibly the peak of a gray-shingled roof. Under it, screened from clear view by trees, was what might be a cement-block building. Block construction suggested it was older, possibly left over from whatever the property was before it became a vineyard. A concrete shed would be a good place to close someone in who didn’t want to be there.
Rejuvenated by hope, I started across the vineyard. On either side of me grapes hung in clusters, ripening but not yet ripe. I kept my eye on the roof peak as best I could, staying low and hoping the vines, wooden training stakes, and cross wires hid me from view. Retta makes fun of my affinity for dark clothing, but at least I wasn’t an orange or red or yellow figure moving through the greenery. As I went, I listened for the sound of conversation or clippers. All I heard was my own soft footsteps and the clucking of a squirrel irritated by my passage.
The building was almost hidden by foliage, and I might have walked past it unaware if I hadn’t seen the roof from the hilltop. It was old but sturdy, its only window covered by boards. The entry was on the side away from the vineyard, two large doors chained closed with a padlock.
I listened before tapping softly on the door. “Retta?”
After a second I heard movement inside. “Barbara? Is that you?”
“I’m going to get you out of there.” I pulled at the chain, tested the doors, and checked my pockets for something I might use to pick the lock. Not that I knew how to pick a lock, but I was willing to make an attempt.
“Is there something in there you can use to pry at the door?”
“Do you think I didn’t consider that, Barbara Ann?” At least she was still her snotty self. “There’s nothing in here but an old tractor like Dad used to have.”
“Can you start it?”
“It won’t start.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure! It’s been forty years since I drove a tractor.”
I had to admit I might not remember how it was done either. There’d been a system to it, steps that had to be done in order. “Wait. Remember Dad’s mnemonic? He—”
Before I could say more, someone behind me put an arm around my waist and another at my throat, cutting off my breath.
“Nosy old bat, ain’t you?”
A flash of blond hair in my peripheral vision revealed my assailant was Ted. I was at every disadvantage: surprised, weaponless, and twenty-five years older than he. I would have to fight for my life.
Suppressing that first moment of panic, I recalled my self-defense training. Though I hadn’t used it often, I practiced at the local gym and took refresher courses whenever they were offered. The instructors advised hitting an attacker’s vulnerable spots: eyes, knees, and groin. My position made connecting with his groin almost impossible, but I reached back with my fingers, clawing at Ted’s eyes. At the same time, I kicked hard at the inside of his knee. My fingers never reached their target, but I managed to land a decent blow to the knee. Staggering backward, Ted fell to the ground, pulling me along with him. I landed on his chest, which sent the breath whooshing out of his lungs. His grip weakened as he fought for air, and I rolled out of his arms and got to my feet.
Attack or run? That question was decided when Ted began fumbling at the waistband of his jeans, where the butt of the gun showed dark against his white belly. I turned to run but had taken only a step when his hand closed on my ankle. I stopped short, falling forward onto the dirt. Something—a rock or a tree root—cracked painfully against my head, and the earth’s rotation seemed to shift for a moment. Somehow, I delivered a sharp kick to
his face with my free foot. His nose caught the brunt of it, and I heard a roar of pain. All that mattered to me was that he released my foot. Scrambling upright, I took off into the woods. As I ran, I heard Retta pounding on the wooden door and screaming, “Don’t hurt her, you creep! Don’t you hurt my sister!”
Chapter Thirty-one
Retta
Do you have any idea how terrible it is to know that someone you love is in mortal danger and not be able to do a thing about it?
When the commotion began outside the shed, I immediately recognized Ted’s voice. I heard Barbara make a choking noise. Then he said some words no gentleman says in front of a lady. When he hollered like a gored bull it was impossible to tell exactly what had happened, but from the continued swearing, I deduced Barbara Ann had got away.
“Yes!” I did a little fist pump, but my happiness was short-lived. Ted wouldn’t just let her run back to the inn. He’d go after her, and he was faster and meaner than she was. Though she’d have rolled her eyes at the idea, I said a little prayer for an angel to help Barbara find a place to hide in the woods where that monster couldn’t find her.
Recalling what she’d said, I turned to the tractor. Could I get it started? Barbara had given me a hint, though she hadn’t got it all out.
Dad liked mnemonics: little memory devices that help us recall information. HOMES is for the Great Lakes (Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior) and ROYGBIV is the spectrum (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet). I learned to spell arithmetic by chanting “A rat in the house might eat the ice cream” and geography with “George Eastman’s old grandmother rode a pig home yesterday.”
Dad had devised a mnemonic to help us remember the steps in starting the tractor, and I recalled it had something to do with traveling. The problem was he’d had a hundred of them, and I wasn’t sure which one started the tractor. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture myself going through the motions. Then I tried to imagine Dad’s voice in my ear, telling me what to do.
Those things kept getting edged out by more recent memories of Barbara outside the shed, struggling against that nasty Ted. Had she been chased down and stabbed to death, as Agent Auburn had been? Was she cowering somewhere while Ted crept through the woods, stalking her? Was she crashing through the trees with him in pursuit?
As long as those fears wouldn’t leave my mind, the search for Dad’s mnemonic, buried somewhere in my mind, was crowded out by dread.
Chapter Thirty-two
Barb
Expecting a bullet in my back at any moment, I crashed downhill through the trees, pushing branches out of my way when I could, accepting their lashes across my face and body when I could not. Swearing and heavy breathing behind me indicated Ted had recovered from my kick and come in pursuit. I zig-zagged to spoil his aim but knew I couldn’t outrun him for long. Worse, in my haste to get away, I’d chosen the wrong direction, away from the inn. My pursuer was between me and help.
The descent turned steeper, and I had to watch my footing so I didn’t fall and roll into a tree or a shelf of rock. I wished I’d worn something other than sandals, but at least these had straps that held them on my feet. Falling to a knee, I rose and struggled on, hearing my labored breathing as my lungs made an unaccustomed effort. Unlike the brisk walks Rory and I enjoyed, this was a flight from death.
The woods opened suddenly, and I stumbled onto the road. I’d come all the way down the hill and was now at the level of the bay, which twinkled between the trunks of a stand of trees on the opposite side. I looked both ways, but there was no one visible in either direction. Run back uphill, toward the inn, or hide and try to trick him into thinking I’d been picked up by a passing car?
Gasping for air, I realized I had no chance to win a race uphill. I’d hide in the trees and use my phone to call for help. Since a car might come by at any time, the smartest thing Ted could do was give up chasing me and make his escape.
The moment it took to make that decision was my downfall. I had just reached the far side of the pavement when Ted broke from the woods and spotted me. Now there was no time to get my phone out, no time to hide. Skidding on the gravel at the side of the road in my haste, I hurtled toward the grove of trees along the bay. The little copse was mostly pines, which meant low branches that scratched my face and arms and dragged against my pant legs as I pushed forward. My solace was that anything that slowed me down slowed Ted too.
Then there were no more trees. I stumbled onto the shore of the bay, a wide expanse of sand studded with small rocks. Having learned that delay wasn’t an option, I kept running, heading toward the inn, but on the flat beach, not uphill. Once I was in sight of the inn he’d have to give up the chase, for anyone up there could look down and see us.
My lungs burned, and my legs felt close to collapse. When the view to the road opened up, I glanced to the side, hoping to see a vehicle, but there was none. Ahead, the roof line of the inn extended above another stand of trees. I doubted I could make it to the open spot in front of the inn before Ted caught me. It felt like he was closing in, though I didn’t dare turn to look.
That’s when I saw the canoe. Bright blue, it lay on its side on the beach ahead, next to a pretty little gazebo meant for moonlight trysts and daytime beach activities. The craft offered a chance running did not, a chance for survival. Twenty yards out, the water changed color, indicating a drop-off. If I could get into the canoe and propel myself into deep water, I could escape Ted’s reach. The gun was still a threat, but a moving target is difficult to hit, and he couldn’t afford to stand on the beach taking shots at me—at least, not for long.
Staggering with fatigue, I veered toward the water. I had to flip the canoe, carry it far enough into the water to float it, get in, and launch myself outward without a single mistake. If I didn’t get out far enough, the craft would stick in the sand. If I didn’t keep it steady, it would tip over and fill with water. There were a dozen possible problems, but with Ted pounding closer each second, it was the best chance I had.
Reaching the canoe, I flipped it onto its keel and half-carried, half-pushed it to the water. Risking a look under my arm, I saw Ted only a few yards behind me. The lower part of his face was a mess, which was satisfying, despite my terror.
When he saw my intention he redoubled his efforts, legs pumping faster and his fists clenched in determination. Grasping the sides, I set one foot inside the craft and pushed off with my back foot as hard as I could. The impetus should have sent the canoe shooting forward, but my weight pushed the keel downward into the sand. For a moment I feared I’d remain there, six feet from shore, but I leaned forward, shifting my weight and raising the slender boat’s stern. As I fought to remain balanced, the canoe floated free in the water.
My triumph was short-lived. Looking back, I saw that I was only ten feet from shore. Ted was closing, and in water this shallow he could simply wade in and catch hold of the stern. Sliding the paddle from under the seat, I dipped it in far enough for maximum thrust and pushed hard, propelling myself away from shore and into deep water.
Another glance back revealed that Ted had stopped at the water’s edge. Though his nose was bleeding from the kick I’d landed, he showed no sign of giving up. Instead he pulled the gun from his waistband, set his feet shoulder-width apart, and aimed at me, bringing his free hand up to steady the weapon like they teach at the shooting range. My back muscles tensed so hard it was difficult to keep paddling. Would he dare fire at me here in the open on a sunny afternoon?
The answer was yes. In an area where hunting and target practice are normal activities, hearing shots isn’t that uncommon. Zeroing in on where a noise comes from is almost impossible with one or two instances, and open water complicates things by refracting and distorting sound. Ted guessed he could get away with a shot or two, and I couldn’t argue the point.
I’m not sure I heard the sound, but I felt the impact. Pain shot through me, and I lurched to one side, causing the canoe to tilt wildly. My h
and went to my shoulder and found a rush of blood. I fought to keep my wits about me so I didn’t tumble into Grand Traverse Bay.
For the record, wits are hard to maintain when one has a hole in her body. For a few seconds, I was unable to think anything except I’ve been shot! Instincts I’d gained canoeing the waters of the San Juan Islands helped, but still my mind screamed, Shot! Shot! Shot!
Forcing my way past that horrifying thought, I took stock of the situation. Light reflecting off the water was so bright it hurt. Ted was a black silhouette standing knee-deep in the water with the gun still pointed toward me. He was no doubt trying to decide whether he could afford to fire a second time and whether it was necessary. I had to convince him it wasn’t.
I was thirty, maybe forty yards from shore. His choices were to swim out and get me, shoot me again, or wait and see what happened. If he did either of the first two, I’d be dead in less than a minute. My only chance was convincing him any threat I’d posed was over. My advantage was that Ted would want to believe he’d accomplished his goal and didn’t need to get any wetter.
Slumping down in the canoe, I rested my head against the side and played dead. Looking out through slitted eyes, I waited, but he didn’t back away. My act hadn’t convinced him. Before he made a decision, I made my own—one I wasn’t sure I could survive. Leaning my weight against the side, I tipped the canoe over and slid under the water.
It was cold but not unbearable. Holding the central cross bar with my undamaged arm, I stayed with the craft, though it almost shot away from the impetus of my action. Though the joint almost jerked out of its socket, I managed to surface in the convenient airspace an upside-down canoe provides.
Now all I had to do was wait until Ted was convinced I had drowned.