by Lee Boschen
"Mom, is she married to Richard too?"
Leslie smiled down at Coleen. “Um, in a minute, honey.” Then she raised her eyes to the blonde. Why couldn't two could play at this game? She offered a little shrug of chagrin. “Evidently you've learned that I'm Mr. Webb's attorney. Won't you come in?” She sighed a deep sigh, as if accepting the inevitable. At the sigh, had she seen a flash of triumph in the blonde's eyes?
She seated Barbara Webley at her crowded desk, and the blond boy, still smiling, on the sofa.
Coleen's gaze followed the boy. “Mom, is he really Richard's—"
"In a minute, Coleen. Please. We'll talk about it later. I promise.” Leslie turned back to Webley.
"Now, what do you want with Richard Webster-Webley-Webb?” Leslie asked.
"Uh ... Webster-Webley-Webb?"
"It seems that Mr. Webb has a host of wives. I suppose you can prove that you were married. I mean, documents showing...” Leslie's voice trailed off.
"Yes, indeed I can,” Webley said briskly. She began spilling papers from her purse onto the desk. “This is a copy of our wedding certificate.” She laid the form down and Leslie picked it up. Yes, clearly, a man named Richard Webley had married Barbara Schotke twelve years ago in West Virginia.
Without giving Leslie a chance to respond, Webley pushed a form under Leslie's nose. “Our wedding license. Notice the date.” Another form landed on top of the license. “Timmy's birth certificate. Eleven years ago."
The same drill as the Webster woman, Leslie thought. When was Webley going to ask for money? Money Webley wouldn't want for herself, of course. Oh, no, only what was due Timmy. If she says that, I swear I'll...
"Mrs. Webley, this certainly seems clear enough. Obviously, Richard Webley and you were married and had a son. But what brings you here after so long?"
"Richard is a runaway father. Worthless. Nothing special about him. The country is full of bums like him. I don't want him. I wouldn't have him back. But poor Timmy has rights, and after Richard was gone a year, I went to court and got an order for Timmy's support.” She dug in her purse. “You'll notice the amount in the order, a monthly payment of five hundred dollars. Six thousand dollars every year.” Webley's jaw jutted angrily. “And he's never in ten years paid a penny.” She slammed her hand down on the desk. “Not a single cent. I don't want his money. Not for myself. What I want is the money that's due Timmy. Five hundred dollars a month for ten years.” She banged her fist on Leslie's desk as she said the words, her voice rising to a shriek. “Sixty thousand dollars. Or I'll see the worthless bum in jail."
* * * *
"Worthless bum?” Richard asked. He looked across the kitchen table at Coleen. “She said that?"
Coleen nodded earnestly. “She yelled it. And she told mom that she wanted $60,000. For Timmy, she said.” Coleen turned to Leslie. “Mom, you can't just let her say things like that about Richard."
"Yeah,” Richard agreed. He turned to Leslie. “You say you think they're in this together?"
"They have to be. ‘You probably know him as Richard Webb.’ That was the same speech Webster started with. Word for word. They're using the same script. All they did was change their names. And their techniques? Identical—beat me over the head with forms ‘til I can't think. Of course, this time..."
Richard smiled. Silent for a moment, he finally said, “Coleen, I hope you're listening carefully. If you ever try something like this, be sure to change the wording when—"
Leslie fixed him with a stern eye. “Richard, this is serious."
He grinned. “Yeah, I know.” His eyes rested on Coleen. “And so does Coleen. So what are we going to do about all my wives?"
Leslie scowled. I'd like to wring their necks. “Let me think about that for a while. I'd like to see how many more come out of the West Virginia hills."
Richard's voice was a soft growl. “We've wasted enough time on this. If I'd had any idea that the Webster woman was a fake—” He shook his head. “I shouldn't have gone to the Board of Health. I should have been checking out the enlargements from the Kimberly film. If there's anything in those pictures that will help nail the guys that put me in the ditch, we've got to find out what it is before they try something else."
"I know.” She sighed, laying her hand on his. “Some honeymoon we've had."
Richard rested his chin on a hand. “You hear anyone complaining?"
Leslie grinned. “Huh-uh."
Grinning, Coleen got up from the table and began stacking her dishes. “You guys are just like watching afternoon TV."
Richard looked after her, his smile fading. He shifted his eyes to Leslie. “Yeah, just like TV” he muttered. “Only we have to grope along in the dark because we don't know the plot. What I wouldn't give to know what those guys have been up to while we've been chasing phony wives."
The rough voice rasped over the telephone. “I got tired of waiting for you to come up with something, so I've done it myself. I've got a way to finish this thing up for good—clean up all the loose ends at once."
A snicker. “I'll just bet you have."
"Listen, Webb's woman lawyer has a daughter. Now, if we had the daughter, you think maybe the lawyer might persuade Webb to give us the negatives to get her little girl back?"
"Are you crazy? We can't let them run around knowing who we are."
"No, no, of course not, but they don't have to know that. As long as they think we'll let them live, we'll be able to jerk ‘em around like puppets."
Silence. Then, at last, grudgingly, “Yeah, might work."
"The girl's not going to be easy to take. They're watching her like hawks ever since her crazy father tried to kidnap her."
"What? Crazy father? What are you talking about?"
"Don't you ever read the paper, for Christ's sake? The kid's father, Alex Wright, tried to kidnap the girl and kill the woman lawyer. Webb put Wright in the hospital. Right now Wright's in the Boone County jail."
"Wait a minute. Hospital? Jail? What are you getting us into?"
"It's nothing to do with us. It only means we'll have to be careful when we take the girl."
"Do we have to keep her alive? Be a lot easier if—"
"You make me sick,” the harsh voice grated. “How many women must you kill before you've had your fill? And now girls? Use your head, they're not stupid. They'll want to talk to her to make sure she's alive. Anything happens to her before we get the negatives, there'll be pictures of us all over the front page of the Star-News."
"All right. They can force me to keep her alive till we get the negatives—we've got to have those negatives. But afterwards, they all have to go."
"All right. I don't care what you do afterwards. But now we've got to move. We take the lawyer's daughter tomorrow morning. Early."
Chapter Twenty-One
Alex Wright winced at his smile of anticipation. His face still hurt when he tried any kind of expression except dead calm. For days, all he could do was pace his cell. Pace, and seethe inside at the thought of Richard Webb, the man who'd done this to him.
But he was out now, miles from the Boone County jail. The shouts, the wild confusion—all safely behind him. He was still hyper, all pumped up, shivering in a gleeful rush.
Now he could reach Webb.
Until it actually happened, he'd thought the distraction he'd paid for was supposed to take place inside the jail. But it hadn't. In the middle of the night, the building had quivered with explosions outside the building, cutting off power to the jail, destroying radio communications ... and drawing the sheriff's men away, toward the threat. The sharp crackle of gunfire still echoed in Alex's mind.
Then, out of the smoke and dust, the trusty came running along the cell block—peering in each cell, everyone shouting questions at him—until he got to Alex's cell. The racket was so loud that Alex could scarcely hear the man's instructions. “Use your key,” the trusty yelled. Alex scooped up his knife from under his mattress, reached through the bars an
d unlocked his cell, and the two men hurried to the back of the jail. There they found a hole blasted through the wall. The debris was still hot, smoking hot.
"Out,” yelled the trusty. “Hurry.” He thrust some papers in Alex's hand. “There's a Ford pickup waiting. You're on your own now."
Alex checked the rear view mirror of the beat up old pickup he'd been furnished. No police cars screaming toward him, lights flashing as it passed him. He'd sweat blood the first time he'd seen a state police cruiser. But it had raced past his dusty, brown pickup, indistinguishable from dozens like it. All common as dirt around here. And it was his, he had the papers to prove it.
He checked the speedometer—five miles under the speed limit. A few more minutes of road time and he'd be hidden away, safe from prying eyes.
Had to be the most expensive pickup ever. He'd paid out $180,000 for the pickup, his knife, and a key to get out of that cell. And the distraction. He would have paid twice that. He had to get out. He had business with Webb. And the whore Leslie.
He crooned her name. “Leslie.” The knife was for her. His loins stirred as he thought about what he was going to do to her.
Only one stop to make. Neal Road where it crossed Big Eagle creek. He had to pick up the pistol he'd hidden beside the bridge a little more than a week ago. He'd gotten out of his bullet riddled car and hastily scrabbled a hole to bury it among some tree roots, safely out in the middle of unremarkable countryside. Now he needed it. To finish his business.
He flipped on his turn signal, and turned off 375S onto Neal road. It had been as simple as looking in a phone book to learn where Webb lived. He couldn't go there, of course. The police would expect that, knowing what Webb had done to him.
Alex's stomach burned. He'd finally learned not to look in shiny things that would reflect his image.
The cops would never think of looking so close to Webb's house. J. M. Roget. Webb's next door neighbor. Had to be a woman. Everyone knew that's what an initials-only listing meant in a directory. And if it wasn't a woman, well, he'd have the pistol. And his knife. His $180,000 knife. Alex's eyes streamed tears at the pain his smile caused. Still, it was all he could do not to laugh out loud.
Ms. Roget was about to take in a lodger.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Lebanon school bus was perhaps half full of children next morning when the passenger car crowded it off the county road. The loud chattering among the children gave way to wails and shocked silence as the wheels of the bus dropped into the ditch and the bus canted sharply sideways. Growling under her breath, the driver opened the door to get out when the passengers from the car appeared at her opened door.
"Coleen Carson,” one of them rasped.
The driver gaped at the pistols the masked figures were pointing at her. “What?"
"Which one is Coleen Carson?"
Kidnappers, the driver thought. Courageous, she tried to save Coleen. “We haven't picked her up yet."
One of the men, a short, round man, reached through the open door and hit her across the face with his gun. “You get cute again and next time I'll blow your brains out. We know she's on the bus. Which one is she?"
"I don't know her,” the driver said finally, “I'm only a substitute driver for today."
"I warned you.” The man's pistol came up and he squeezed the trigger ... just as his partner jogged his arm. The bullet punched a neat round hole in the roof of the bus. The sound of the shot filled the bus like a crack of thunder.
The little man glared angrily at his partner. “What the hell do you think—"
"We're not here so you can kill another woman,” his partner rasped. “Watch me, and maybe you can learn something.” He clambered into the bus and faced the children. “We want Coleen Carson. We're not going to hurt her, but she must come with us."
Nobody spoke, but only a few seconds passed before the first set of eyes flicked to Coleen, then away, then back again. Then another, and another. The man, a big man, and burly, went down the aisle of the bus and took Coleen by the arm. “Come on,” he said, “so nobody else gets hurt."
He led Coleen out of the bus, and as they started across the road to the car, the short, fat man leaned into the bus and at point blank range emptied his pistol into the driver. “I warned you,” he said.
* * * *
Leslie and Richard were about to leave the house for Richard's office when deputy Oliver Thornholt parked his cruiser in their driveway.
Glum faced, his unshaven chin dark with stubble, he towered in the doorway, his hat in his hand, turning it around and around by its broad brim. “I need to talk to Ms. Carson,” he told Richard.
Leslie came up behind Richard and smilingly peered around him at Thornholt. “I'm Mrs. Webb now, Ollie."
"Uh, great,” Thornholt said. “Congratulations. Uh, to you both."
Richard gazed quizzically at him. “Not even a smile, Deputy?"
"I don't know how else to tell you,” Thornholt blurted desperately. “Coleen's been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped,” Richard said without comprehension.
"Coleen?” Leslie said. “No, Ollie. We put her on the school bus not a half hour ago."
"Who'd want to kidnap Coleen? Wright's in jail,” Richard said.
"No, he's not,” Thornholt said. “That's the other thing. Wright escaped last night. Somebody busted him out."
"What?” Leslie sagged against Richard. “Why didn't you call us? We never would have let her out of our sight ... Why didn't you tell us?"
Thornholt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We been up all night looking for him. I guess everyone thought someone else would tell you."
"God, he's got Coleen,” Leslie cried. “Oh, my God, I'll never see her again."
"We don't think it was your ex-husband, Ms. Cars—Webb. There were two men took her off the bus. Neither of them fit Wright's description. One of them was big enough to be Wright, but the build was all wrong. The other man was little. ‘—round as a ball, with little arms and legs sticking out,’ the kids on the bus said.” He cleared his throat. “Don't suppose you'd have any ideas who the two could be,” he asked hopefully.
Seeing their stricken faces, he said finally, “Had to ask. But whoever they were, neither of them was Wright.” He backed out of the doorway. “I'm real sorry, Ms. Webb."
Coleen's kidnappers let them stew. They tried vainly to imagine who would have taken Coleen. They'd agreed that it wasn't someone Alex Wright hired. Not his style—he'd have taken Coleen himself. Finally, they fell silent, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Richard paced up and down the living room, his face set in a mask of anger.
To keep her mind busy, Leslie tried to work, but after staring for ten minutes at the same page on her computer screen, she gave up. She made lunch, a meal neither of them was able to eat.
The phone rang a few times, people wanting to know what she'd done about—she brusquely cut them off with the news that she was expecting a vital call, and needed the line open.
It was the truth. If it wasn't Alex Wright, then she knew Coleen's kidnapping had to be for another reason. Money? If not, what else?
She sat at her desk again, the telephone under her hand, waiting for the call she knew had to be coming: the kidnappers’ demands, negotiating arrangements for delivering the money, hoping the two men would actually free Coleen once they had the money.
Richard made coffee and brought it to her. He lay his cheek against hers, and at his touch she began to weep. Richard urged her into his arms until the storm of her tears passed. At last, she sighed deeply, took his face between her hands and kissed him.
Then, back to her vigil.
The bright sunny day grew gray, deepening into the gloom of evening before the phone finally rang.
"We have Coleen,” the harsh voice announced.
"Who are you,” Leslie asked. “What do you want? Is she all right?"
"You have some negatives we've been looking for."
"Nega
tives?” Leslie's jaw dropped as she realized what lay behind Coleen's kidnapping. Her gaze rose to meet Richard's. “Is Coleen all right?"
"Yes. Here...” The man's voice rasped impatiently. “Talk to her."
"Mom, they killed the bus driver."
"I know, darling. Are you all right?"
"Yes, but they said they were going—"
"That's enough,” the man grated. “Now, listen. We'll trade you even, the girl for the negatives. You get one chance to do this right. You screw up, the girl dies. Don't get any fancy notions about tricks or traps. If you get us, the girl dies. Is that the kind of trade you want to make?"
"You know it's not,” Leslie answered. “We'll get the negatives and give them to you as soon as the stores open in the morning."
"What do you mean, ‘in the morning?’ You don't have them with you?"
"Of course not,” she snapped. “Would you? Look, we're not trying to be clever, or delay so we can set a trap. We don't care about you. We want Coleen back, alive and well."
The phone hummed. “All right. We'll call you tomorrow afternoon and tell you what to do. Four o'clock sharp. At Webb's office. And we're going to watch you. If you try anything cute—"
The phone went dead.
* * * *
Alex Wright stood in the shadows at the corner of J. M. Roget's house. Nothing stirred. This time of night, traffic was sparse in this neighborhood. Just the way he wanted it. One last long look around, and Wright walked to the front door and knocked. He muttered a curse as the porch light came on, and he knew Roget was eyeing him through the peep hole. He took a step back to reassure her. Cautious, Roget opened the door on the safety chain, but before she had a chance to do anything, Wright slammed his bulk against the door and the chain pulled out of the wood frame. Quickly, he leaped through the open door and kicked it shut, and almost in the same motion he smashed his fist into the old lady's face. She crumpled silently to the floor.
He locked the door and stood listening.
Nothing.
He was in. Safe. Now all he had to do was wait for Webb to appear. His face ached as he smiled. Surely wouldn't be long now.