Joslyn (Women of Privilege Book 3)

by Bridget Bundy

  We get to Ferguson Avenue and make a right turn. We’re heading to Bona Bella neighborhood, where my mom has lived for years. The ride will not be long, but it seems like it’s taking forever.

  Just as I sigh, an effort to break the silence, two pops go off almost at the same time. They came from behind our SUV. It rocks and veers backwards. I grab the arm rest with one hand and the door handle with the other. Harlan cusses under his breath and pulls the SUV over to the grass.

  “Sounds like a tire blew,” he says as he shifts the car into park and turns it off. “Stay in here.”

  He gets out and walks to the back of the truck. From the disappointed look on his face, the tire is definitely blown.

  “Davian, stay in the truck,” I remark.

  Quickly, I get out and rush over to take a look. Black rubber is in fileted pieces spread out behind the vehicle and onto the road. The back of the truck is leaning on the five hundred dollar rim that Harlan had to have.

  “How in the world did that happen?” I ask.

  Harlan appears to be perturbed, but before he can say anything, a car stops on the road beside us.

  “You guys alright?” a guy yells from the driver’s seat through his passenger side window of a silver car. His dreadlocks dangles over his shoulders. One is in the center of his face. A woman is with him, but she’s in the backseat holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket.

  “It’s only a flat,” Harlan says as he takes off his jacket.

  “I can help,” the man replies.

  “Thanks. I’d sure appreciate it.” Harlan opens the back door and places his jacket neatly on the seat. “Dave, get out of the car so we can change the tire.”

  I watch as the silver sedan pulls in front of us out of the road. It has dents on the right side of the back bumper, and it doesn’t have a plate. The man gets out and waves at me with a friendly nod. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt and saggy fitting blue jeans. Long dreads hangs to his broad shoulders, and he has a ring in his right eyebrow. Harlan meets him near the front of our SUV, and they shake hands. He’s a little bit taller than my husband but not as wide in the shoulders and chest.

  By the time I get to the other side, Davian is standing in the grassy field. Earphones are in his ears, and he’s bobbing his head.

  I grab my purse from the front passenger side floor. My phone is chirping. I begin digging in my purse, trying to find it. Then I remember where I put it. Of course, it’s in the pouch that’s designed to hold the cell phone. I unzip the pocket and pull the phone out to see whose calling. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Davian still fiddling with the mirror. The light reflects off of it and shines at the canopy of trees across the street.

  “Davian, what did your father say?”

  He rolls his eyes and hides it behind his back. I thought I saw him put it in his laptop satchel on the back seat when his father asked him to put it up. When I get to Davian, I hold out my hand, and he hands the mirror to me with an I’m-ruining-his-fun kind of face. Where he got that attitude from and why he’s being a nuisance is beyond my understanding. That’s not like him to act like that, but I don’t say a word.

  I drop the mirror in my purse and check the display on my phone again. By this time, it has stopped ringing. I’m not surprised to see Charli Love’s number on the display. Normally, I would already be at the clubhouse helping her with the business of Tudor Estates and the Society that runs it, but I forgot to call her this morning to tell her about my change of plans. Just as I press the call button and is about to put the phone to my ear, I hear a popping sound and glass breaking. Looking up, I’m astonished to see the woman from the back seat of the silver car standing right in front of me with a gun pointed right at my forehead. No baby in sight.

  “Give me the phone,” she demands.

  I look for Harlan. I don’t see him or the guy with the dreadlocks. The woman snatches the phone from my hand, bringing my attention back to her.

  “You say one word, and I’ll kill you.” Anger and hate reign in her eyes. I’m beginning to wonder if she knows me. Do I know her? My mind goes through faces and names. Nothing is familiar about this woman. I have no idea who she is. I’ve never seen her before. So, what does she want? Why is she doing this to us?

  “Mom,” Davian says.

  “Shut-up!” the woman snarls.

  I step in front of my son to ensure she doesn’t point the gun at him.

  “It’s okay, honey,” I calmly remark or try to, at least.

  “Coop!” the woman yells over her shoulder. “Move your ass!”

  The guy stands up from behind the truck. The window on the side he’s standing on is broken. Where is Harlan? I want to go back to the truck, but I’m too afraid to move. Dreadlocks walks around the back side of the SUV and heads right for us. I hold Davian behind me. I’m bracing for anything. Dreadlocks gets to us, pushes me out of the way, and slaps a hard, dark hand on Davian’s shoulder. Instantly, I grab my son’s arm. I just know if Davian is taken away, I won’t see him again. They can’t take my son. I shake my head, begging for them to leave him alone. The woman puts the gun closer to my forehead. I won’t let go. I can’t. Slowly, I shake my head with tears bursting and blurring my vision.

  “Turn him loose,” she says through clenched teeth. “I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “No, please,” I beg. My whole body is quaking uncontrollably.

  “You want to die, bitch?”

  She places the tip of the barrel on my forehead. Never have I felt death’s cold steel against my skin. So close to my own demise, the taste is sour, but I refuse to let Davian go. I grip his arm harder. My nails dig into my baby’s flesh. Yes, I’m willing to die for my son. I’m willing to die for all of my children.

  “Mom.” Davian’s voice cuts through the thick fear that clouds my hearing. He wraps his sweet arms around me, astonishing me for a quick moment. He whispers, “Let me go. I love you.”

  Dreadlocks snatches him away. Davian doesn’t resist. I’m unable to hold on.

  “You let him go!” I scream with desperation. Every fiber of my being is erupting. My nerves are hot. The sweat is mixing with my tears. “Please, don’t take my son! Don’t do this!”

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the woman yells.

  I swallow hard. My legs are weak.

  Dreadlocks pushes my son into the back of the silver car and gets in behind him. The woman backs away, gun still pointed directly at me. I take slow steps to her fast steps. She’s getting farther and farther away.

  “Please,” I sob, “give him back. Don’t take him away from me.”

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  She reaches the car, and I break into a run, meaning to catch her. She’s faster than I thought, or I’m too slow. She gets inside. The door was already opened. They’d planned this. They were ready. They’re going to get away. I can’t let them.

  By the time I touch the hood of the car, she’s stepping on the gas. Tires are screeching, throwing rocks, grass, and dirt. The driver’s door is still open. Her leg is hanging out. She throws my phone and battery across the street into the grass. She’s going too fast down the road, but I keep running, knowing that I can’t catch them, but wishing a miracle would let me. I scream my son’s name. I scream. I scream until the car is completely out of sight.

  My heart breaks into a million pieces, and I crumble to the hot, dirty asphalt. I pray they’ll bring him back, that this is some stupid joke. It has to be. There’s no other reason why someone would take my son. God, why has this happened? And why didn’t Harlan stop them?

  Harlan!

  I stand and turn around, looking for my husband. Oh God! He’s on the ground, unconscious. I run back to the SUV. When I get within reach, I trip on my own feet and land right beside him. My arm and leg burn from hitting the asphalt and pieces of glass, but I can’t worry about my own bruises. Blood is at the top of Harlan’s head, side of his face, neck, and chest. Broken glass from the SUV back cargo window is all over him, an
d he’s trembling, like he’s having a seizure. I don’t know what to do. There’s so much blood, and it’s everywhere!

  Finally, I come to my senses. I have to call the police. Harlan usually keeps his cell phone in his jacket breast pocket. I open the back door to the SUV, where his jacket is folded neatly on the seat. I check all the pockets, but his phone isn’t there. I look around the backseat area. There’s only Davian’s laptop satchel. I decide to check Harlan’s pants pockets. I’m afraid to touch his body for fear I might hurt him, but I have to do it. My hands are wet with blood and dirt. The expensive cloth of his pants are stained as I dig in his pockets. To my utter dismay, there is no phone. What did he do with it? Harlan never goes anywhere without it.

  “Harlan, where is your phone?”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes are rolled back into his head, mouth wide open, and he’s still trembling.

  A car goes by full speed, horn honking. Why did they do that? Why didn’t they stop? I know the driver saw my husband on the ground in a pool of blood. They saw me. What is wrong with people? Another car is approaching. It’s a truck. I try to wave it down, but it goes around me and speeds away. God, will no one help us? I have to think of what to do next. Obviously, those motorists are too scared.

  Alright. I can’t drive the truck, and if I could, I can’t pick Harlan up and put him inside. I don’t have a phone. Wait! I do, but I have to find it. That woman threw my phone out of the car in the grass up the street. I take off running. I’m so exhausted but I feel energized at the same time. Helping Harlan is key at this point, and that’s what keeps me going. I get to the area where I think the woman threw my phone. There’s stagnate water, grass, rocks, dirt. No phone. No battery. I’m in the wrong spot. I keep crawling around on the ground, squinting, searching.

  “Phone. Battery. Phone. Battery. Where did you throw them?”

  Then I hear…motorcycles? A lot of them. They ride two side by side in the same lane, and they’re coming towards the SUV from the direction the kidnappers went. I can’t tell how many, but there’re too many to count. I stand, watching as they cruise by, engines unbearably loud. I don’t know if I should wave them down or not. They all look so dangerous under their leather, black helmets with skulls and crossbones, and bright colored patches attached to their jackets. The front of the convoy stops at the SUV, and the pack comes to a stop one by one. Engines go to a final roar, some shutting off completely. I’m not certain what they’re going to do, but I run back to the SUV. How am I going to save Harlan? There are too many bikers. I’m dead for certain now, but I have to try and do something.

  When I reach the front of the long convoy, one biker is kneeling down by Harlan’s head. NO!

  “Get away from him!” I yell.

  Another biker stops me, putting his greasy hands on my arms. I try to fight him off, but he’s like an immoveable steal door. The guy next to my husband stands and takes out his cell. What is he doing? Dear God, what’s happening now? There is silence. All of the bikes’ engines are off. The bikers aren’t saying a word, but they’re gathering around the SUV. The man on the phone finally speaks. He asks for the police and an ambulance. My hearts soars. I could just faint. More tears fall. Finally! Good Samaritans!

  “Tell them to hurry!” I yell to the biker. “Please, tell them to hurry!”

  The biker nods, kneeling down beside Harlan again. He checks my husband’s pulse at his neck.

  “Is he okay?”

  The biker is still on the phone, listening to the operator. He gives them an address and explains what he sees. He ends the call.

  “Let me go,” I beg.

  The biker backs away without me having to put up a fight. I’m surprised. One look into this giant’s big blue eyes show compassion. I judged these bikers wrong, but I can’t linger on that. I have to be next to Harlan. I rush to my husband’s side and grab his hands.

  “Is he alive?” I ask the biker, who called the police.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “The ambulance is coming.”

  “Thank you! Thank you so much for your help!”

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  I kiss Harlan’s hands and squeeze them as tight as I can. “I love you, baby. Hang on. Don’t give up, just hang on.”

  Chapter Three

  “Mrs. Montgomery.” The unfamiliar voice brings me out of a daze.

  I’m in the emergency room, taken there by an ambulance. They wouldn’t let me ride with Harlan. The nurses and doctors have already ran their tests on me and was given a clean bill of health. At this point, I’m only waiting on my release papers.

  The woman standing before me, the woman who spoke my name, is not a nurse or a doctor. She’s wearing a dark suit over what might be a blue t-shirt. She looks like a cop. She’s tall with blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Brown eyes are under shaped eyebrows. Very little make-up hides tiny pimples and freckles on her pale face. The look of concern and seriousness only makes her appear to be unhappy, perhaps even angry a little. My summation of her is merely a guess. I don’t know who she is. She extends her hand, and I blindly take it.

  “My name is Detective Athena Sawyer. I’m with the Savannah Police Department Missing Persons Unit.”

  Those official words just made my not so distant past very real once again. I can’t help feeling the shock of what has occurred to my family. My son is kidnapped. My husband is hurt and fighting for his life. I’m in the emergency room. It’s just too much, and I have no idea what to do.

  The detective hands me a packet of tissues, and I pull out nearly half to wipe my cheeks and to blow my nose.

  “Has the doctor spoken to you about your husband yet?” she asks.

  I shake my head, shrug my shoulders. I’m trying to get composed, but it’s hard. Scared, fearful for the future of my husband and son, I can hardly breathe much less talk.

  “Okay, hear me out, Mrs. Montgomery. I need you to try and hold it together. There’s nothing you can do for your husband right now. It’s all in the hands of the doctors, but you can help me. I’m the one that will be actively searching for your son, and I need all the details you can remember.”

  Mustering up some courage, I try to dry up. It’s not really working, but I’m able to speak. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Good,” she says with a compassionate smile. She takes out a computer pad and a stylus from a satchel. She sits down beside my bed with her legs crossed, ready to take my statement. “First, Mrs. Montgomery, what is your son’s full name?”

  “Call me Joslyn, please.”

  “Alright, Joslyn.”

  “Davian Harlan Montgomery,” I proudly answer.

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen years old,” I sob. I’m growing weak by the moment. Not being able to see my son and not knowing if he’s okay is hurting my heart.

  “Tell me everything that you remember, starting back to when you got up this morning.”

  I go through the details. Cooked breakfast, the entire family sat at the table and ate. Afterwards, everyone got ready to go. The twins and Kristina were dropped at the babysitter’s house. Then the incident on Ferguson Avenue. Two pops, the tire was blown. The silver car with the two people arrived soon afterwards. The woman in the back seat with a baby. Dreadlocks offered to help change the tire. The popping went off again, glass breaking. The woman put a gun in my face. I further explain that I didn’t know Harlan was shot until they were gone with Davian. I didn’t know who the people were or where they came from. I can only describe the man: dreadlocks, piercing in his eyebrow, tall, slender, African American. As for the woman, she’s African American, but I’m drawing a blank on everything else about her. I don’t know what she wore, if her hair was long or short, pinned up or down. What color was her eyes? Was she wearing a dress or pants? Any birthmarks? Nothing stands out about her, and I do mean nothing. But I would know her if I see her again; I hope.

  Admitting all of those facts made me feel useless. What if
knowing their names, making a detailed description of what they looked like, would make all the difference in locating Davian? What if paying closer attention to the car, giving more details about it, would bring my son home sooner? The what-ifs are killing me. How could I have been so careless?

  “Did she have the baby with her when she was out of the car?”

  “No,” I reply. “I never really saw it, just the blanket it was waddled in.”

  “Has anyone threatened you or your family?”

  “Yes,” I say, anxiously. “A woman by the name of Gia Briggs tried to burn down my house. Just the other weekend as a matter of fact. It was her and a guy name Joshua Davis.”

  “I heard about that case,” Detective Sawyer remarks as she scribbles more notes on the computer pad. “But if I’m not mistaken, Joshua Davis was killed, and Gia Briggs is in prison.”

  “So what,” I reply. “The two kidnappers might still know those two.”

  “I’ll look more into their background, Joslyn. Do you have a recent picture of Davian?”

  “His high school picture from last year, but they’re all in the house we can’t get to. I think he has some on his Facebook account.”

  “I’ll need access. What about Twitter or Instagram?”

  “Believe he’s only on Facebook, but I’m not sure if I have his username and password to that account,” I reply. Now, I really feel like an inadequate parent. I don’t keep track of my child’s activities on social media. What kind of mother doesn’t have a handle on what their kids are doing online? I wonder if Detective Sawyer judges me. Doesn’t matter. I’m ashamed. I have to redeem myself. “Perhaps, he’s it written down in his room. I’m not allowed to go back into our home on Privilege Place because of the gas fumes, and the cleaning crew isn’t finished.”

  “We’ll be able to get inside. Don’t worry. Do you have keys to your house?”