Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  Every time Ethel got in a good one, her sister always managed to outdo her. But a kidnapping. Let Lucy try to one-up her this time.

  Fergus looked up from the camcorder’s little LCD screen. “We’re rolling.”

  Will uncapped his pen. “Lucy, I think you told me on the phone that you found me through my Web site, is that right?”

  “Yep,” Ethel said. “I was surfing the Net one night and I just stumbled onto your site. I was intrigued.”

  She noticed Will was missing a finger—the left pinky. He noticed her noticing. “I wrestle crocodiles on the side,” he explained. She responded with a polite chuckle, but couldn’t help wondering how it had really happened.

  Will got back to business. “What is it about the idea of custom kidnapping that appeals to you?”

  “Well, it’s just such a complete loss of control, isn’t it? Scary, but not too scary. Not actually dangerous, right? I mean, you don’t really hurt people.”

  “No more than they want to be hurt,” Will said. “And if someone wants to be hurt a lot, a red flag goes up. We turn those people away.”

  Ethel gave him an impish smile. “So if it’s S-and-M action they want, they’ve got the wrong man?”

  Will nodded. “We also attract our share of mental cases, people who think they deserve to be punished, that kind of thing. That’s part of the purpose of these interviews. To weed out the masochists and nut jobs.”

  “But about sex,” she said. “As long as we’re on the subject.”

  “Yes?”

  Ethel let out a nervous laugh. She felt herself blush, which surprised her. She considered herself fairly sophisticated; there wasn’t much that rattled her. But it rattled her to ask this good-looking, well-built young man whether he was planning to sex her up. And with that Fergus character videotaping the whole thing, no less. She said, “Um, how far does it go? I mean, I guess what I’m asking is—”

  “There’s no sex,” Will said. “I assume you’re talking about intercourse.”

  “Yeah. So you never, uh, do that.”

  “Never with a client.” His placid expression remained unchanged. He didn’t blush, damn him. “So if that’s part of the fantasy you’ve constructed—”

  “No.” She raised a hand. “It’s okay. I mean, that’s not what I want, not what I’m looking for.” Ethel was relieved. It was one thing to engineer her sister’s fake abduction, but there had to be limits. If Will had said sure, of course we’re going to get it on, that’s part of the thrill, she’d have booted his tight little buns out the door.

  He leaned back, rested the notebook on his lap. He looked her straight in the eye. “What are you looking for, Lucy?”

  Good grief, this man was sexy. Was Ethel really going to sic him on her poor, unsuspecting sister?

  She bit back a grin. Damn right she was.

  Ethel leaned back, too. She steepled her fingers. “Well, I guess you could say I have some issues related to power. To being in charge. Making decisions.”

  “Are you a control freak?”

  He asked it so matter-of-factly, all she could say was “Yes.” In truth, no one who knew the real Lucy Narby would ever describe her that way. Far from being a controller, she was the controlled. Especially when it came to her pathetic excuse for a marriage. Ethel had been thrilled when Lucy announced she was finally leaving Frank. If Ethel had stayed with her own tedious bore of a first husband for two decades, she never would have made it to husband number three, the keeper. She never would have had her wonderful daughter, Diana.

  Will said, “So you’d like your kidnapping experience to be about . . .” He gestured for her to fill in the blanks.

  Ethel shrugged. “Well, about losing control. About being dominated. Not like we were talking about—I mean, not in a, you know, sexual way.”

  “I know I said there’s no actual sex, but there is a psychosexual component to this kind of experience, Lucy. It’s unavoidable. Our sexual impulses are bound up in a kind of primal stew with the rest of our emotional baggage—our fears, our frustrations, our desires.” He looked directly at her. “Our control issues.”

  Ethel squirmed in her chair. “Okay.”

  “So what I need to know is, do you want that part of it, the psychosexual part, to stay up here?” He tapped his head. “Or would you like a little acting out?”

  “Short of actual sex.”

  “Short of actual sex. This part is up to the client. I’ll work within your comfort level—or to be more precise, your discomfort level.” Will held his pen poised over the notebook. He could have been her broker discussing municipal bonds versus midcap mutual funds.

  “Well, I guess . . .” Ethel thought not of her sister, but of how she herself would respond if a man this hot spirited her away and held her captive for four days. Her face burned. “I guess I want some, um, acting out. Nothing too intense.”

  “No problem.” He made a note. “Now I’m going to ask you to choose a word and a gesture, Lucy. You use either one, it puts an immediate halt to all action. Make it a word you won’t forget, and a gesture you can manage even if your hands are immobilized.”

  “A word . . .” Ethel thought for a moment. She smiled a secret smile. “Smarg.”

  “That’s the word?”

  “That’s the word.” She spelled it. “S-m-a-r-g.”

  “I’m not going to ask what it means,” he said, jotting in his notebook, “as long as you’re sure you’ll remember it.”

  “Don’t worry. She— I will.” Ethel had heard that some identical twins develop a special language only they share. She and Lucy had always made do with standard English, but in a moment of inspired silliness when they were eight years old they made up a word: smarg. Use of this word by either of them invariably sent the girls into peals of giggles and sent grownups sprinting for the nearest dictionary. Only Ethel and Lucy knew they’d just uttered “the worst curse word in the world.” From then on, whenever one of them bested the other with a practical joke, the jokee would utter a disgusted “smarg” or one of its manifold variations, such as “I don’t smarging believe this,” “I’ve been royally smarged,” and “Just you wait, you smarging bitch.”

  Fergus glanced up from the camcorder. “I’ve got a funny feelin’ about this one, lad.”

  “I know, I know,” Will said distractedly, “you and your sixth sense.”

  “What?” Ethel looked from one to the other.

  “Fergus thinks you’re going to be trouble,” Will said. “Are you going to be trouble, Lucy?”

  “Who, me? I’m just looking for a little fun.” She indicated their staid surroundings. “I mean, the most exciting thing I have to look forward to around here is flirting with the landscapers.” Which Ethel’s sister would never in a million years do, but how were these guys to know?

  “That’s good enough for me,” Will said.

  “So listen.” She had to ask. “This ‘acting out’ thing. The sexy stuff. I thought you said on the phone that most of your clients are men.”

  He smiled at the unspoken question. “I have a female associate who works with me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Choose a gesture, Lucy. We’re talking head or foot.”

  “Okay,” she said, “what if I wiggle my toes.”

  “Make it the whole right foot, and make sure it’s more than a little twitch so we’ll notice it.”

  Naturally, Lucy would have no way of knowing she could end her ordeal simply by wagging her foot or by uttering “the worst curse word in the world.”

  Next came a discussion of food. Ethel informed him that she, meaning Lucy, adored junk food and couldn’t stomach so-called health food, having been raised on the stuff. He asked about her fears and pet peeves. She was deathly afraid of rodents, not so crazy about the dark, and felt the cold keenly; Lucy was definitely a warm-weather person. She couldn’t bear the vacuous songs churned out by those ditzy girl singers. And Ethel remembered how much Lucy hated it when five-year-old
Diana made her watch The Powerpuff Girls. She added that to the list of things Lucy wished would drop off the planet.

  She’d be with him and his associates for four days, he reminded her. Did she own any animals that needed looking after? Not since Frank left, she said. Any chronic medical problems? Medications she needed to take? Ethel assured him she was healthy. Then she remembered.

  “I do take birth control pills every day.” Lucy took them to regulate her cycle. With Frank out of town so much, she probably didn’t have enough sex to worry about contraception.

  “That’s it?” Will asked, writing. “No other meds? Nothing we should know about?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Keep the pills in your purse,” Will said, “so no matter where we grab you, you’ll have them.”

  “Uh, okay.” That might be a problem. Ethel had no idea where Lucy kept her birth control pills. She decided not to worry about it. “So I won’t have any idea where you’ll come for me? It could be any place?”

  “I could be any place—the beauty parlor, the supermarket. It could be right here in your own home. Speaking of which, I’ll need the keys and alarm code.”

  She handed them over. “What’ll you do if I go out somewhere? Follow me?”

  “Just go about your normal routine,” Will said. “You’ll never see it coming, so don’t bother looking over your shoulder.”

  A shiver of excitement raced up Ethel’s spine. She almost wished she were the one being abducted, and not Lucy. “It could happen anytime, right?” she asked. “Day or night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I have one request. Let’s call it a requirement. I want it to happen on my birthday.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Next Saturday,” Ethel said. “See, this whole kidnapping thing is my birthday present to myself. I’m turning forty.” She waited for a statement of incredulity. Forty? No way. You don’t look a day over thirty. To her annoyance, Will simply plowed ahead with the next item of business.

  “I need the name and phone number of someone who’ll be willing to come and get you,” he said.

  “Come and get me?”

  “When the four days are up, we’ll call this person and tell him where to find you. You mentioned that you and your husband are separated, so he’s probably out.”

  “Frank does not get to be a part of this. Call my sister. Here.” Ethel reached for his notebook. “I’ll give you her number.”

  Will examined the page when she handed it back. “Ethel Vandermeer.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Her name is Ethel?”

  She sighed. Here it comes.

  Fergus wore the most irksome grin. “Your parents named their daughters Lucy and Ethel?”

  “As in . . .” Will hummed the jaunty theme song. The two men snickered.

  “Don’t mind me, guys.” She gestured for them to yuk it up. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

  “I never could stand that show,” Fergus said. “Must be an American thing.”

  “Well, my mom couldn’t get enough of it,” Ethel said. “She grew up watching I Love Lucy. Never missed an episode. Started a fan club and the whole bit.”

  “Hey, it could’ve been worse,” Will said. “Lucy’s an okay name. You could have been the one saddled with Ethel.”

  Ethel bullied her lips into something approaching a smile. “Every day I thank my lucky stars.”

  “Well, I think that covers everything.” Will handed her the contract and his pen.

  “Just so you know.” Ethel scrawled her sister’s name. “I intend to really throw myself into this kidnapping thing. As if it were totally unexpected.”

  “That’s the idea,” Will said.

  “No, I mean I’m going to act like it’s real. I mean, really act like it’s real. I’ll probably be, you know, pretty enthusiastic.”

  “We like enthusiasm, don’t we, Fergus?”

  “I’m still getting’ that feelin’, Will.”

  “Take an Alka-Seltzer.”

  “And later?” Ethel said. “During the whole four days? I’m going to be, um, staying in character, you might say.”

  “I hope so.” Will slipped the contract into his notebook. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  Chapter 9

  FRANK VOICE-DIALED HIS home in Egerton, Illinois, as he drove away from the place where Lucy was being held. Anne Marie picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” Her voice was scratchy from sleep and held a hint of alarm.

  “Oh gee, I completely forgot what time it is.” The car’s hands-free Bluetooth permitted him to simultaneously drive, scrounge tissues to wipe off the camo makeup, and talk to his wife. The dashboard clock read 5:07 a.m.

  She said, “Frank. Is something wrong?”

  He heard the rustle of bedcovers and pictured her propping herself on an elbow. “No, no, I’m sorry, sweet pea. I should’ve waited to call. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You sound odd. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “I just had to tell you, I love you so much. So much, Anne Marie. I don’t think I realized how much until tonight.”

  “Well, I love you, too, Frank. But it’s not tonight anymore. It’s four in the morning.”

  “And here I am waking you up, and you probably won’t be able to get back to sleep. I’m a selfish bastard.”

  “Ah . . .” Her voice softened. “Amy’ll be up soon anyway.”

  “How’s her cold?”

  “Worse. She had a hundred and two last night. And she gave it to Matthew and Theresa.”

  “Can your mom come over to help out?” he asked.

  “She’s at Cindy and Gary’s watching their kids. Cindy’s water broke last night.”

  “Really? That’s great. Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

  “Sure, sure. Listen, as long as I have you.” She yawned. “The man from the fire department came by to check the smoke detectors and all that.”

  “Who?”

  “He said you asked for an inspection. Everything checks out, by the way. Nice fellow.”

  Frank must be losing his memory; he couldn’t recall asking for any inspection.

  “So that’s all you called for?” she said. “To tell me you love me? You big dope, you’re such a romantic.”

  He loved the sound of Anne Marie’s laughter. She had this sexy, throaty chuckle. It was one of the first things that had attracted him to her that fateful night thirteen years ago when he’d rushed to a Chicago ER with chest pains that turned out to be nothing more serious than a giant burrito with double refried beans. She was so young and fresh in her nurse’s scrubs and white sneakers, with strands of curly, cinnamon-colored hair springing loose from a big tortoiseshell clip. She was gentle and compassionate, but strong, too, a take-charge professional who brooked no nonsense from either patients or doctors. That was his Anne Marie, tender and tough. The Amazon warrior with a heart of gold. He fell that night, and fell hard.

  When he met her he couldn’t help wondering if there really was such a thing as the seven-year itch. That was how long he’d been married to Lucy at that point, seven years, and in all that time he’d never cheated on her. Was that all this was, he wondered, boredom and hormones? But soon enough he realized his feelings for Anne Marie Ciccone were the real deal. True love. Just like with Lucy. He didn’t love Lucy less just because he had Anne Marie in his life. Besides, marriage was forever. End of story. Frank wasn’t going to be the first Narby to shame the family with a divorce. What would Mother and Father say?

  And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t keep both parts of his life separate. He could afford to maintain two households, though he’d had to scale back a little—okay, more than a little—when he bought the house in Egerton; there wasn’t that much money. Frank insisted on handling all bills and investments himself, forestalling any awkward questions about where, precisely, the cash was going.

  As far as Lucy was concerned, he lived on Long Island and took business trips to Chicag
o. Anne Marie thought it was the other way around. Lucy never expressed interest in accompanying him on any of his Midwest trips. Anne Marie had made noises in the beginning about wanting to see New York, but she got pregnant within days of the wedding, and from then on she was always tied down, with one in diapers and another on the way. Just the kind of big, sprawling, raucous passel of kids Frank had always dreamt of—and that Lucy had refused to give him.

  As much as he loved Lucy, he couldn’t deny it had hurt him deeply when she’d drawn the line at one child. By the time he met Anne Marie, John was six, an only child and destined to remain so. Anne Marie was from a big family and wanted to make another big family with Frank. He couldn’t have been more thrilled. This sweet twenty-three-year-old beauty desired nothing more from life than to be with him and make his babies. But there was that other side to her personality, too—the decisive, pragmatic side he found equally appealing.

  After tonight, he’d have to add possessive to the list of Anne Marie’s character traits. Not that he minded. On the contrary, he was immensely flattered. Never in his life had he imagined a woman would go to such lengths to keep him all to herself.

  “I also wanted to tell you,” Frank said, “that from now on, there won’t be any secrets between us.”

  The line was silent a moment. “What do you mean, from now on?”

  “I know you were behind this whole thing with Lucy. I tracked her down.” A wry chuckle escaped him as he opened the driver’s-side window and tossed out the used tissues. “It’s just like you to carry out a bold plan like this—scaring off the competition, staking your claim. You have no idea how that turns me on.”

  “Who’s Lucy?”

  “There’s no need to keep pretending, sweet pea. I know you hired that guy Will. Lucy figured it out too. She tried to say your name, but he gagged her before she could blurt it out. I realized it could only be you, though, especially with no ransom demand. I didn’t tell Will I knew. See, he made up this cockamamie story about Lucy hiring him herself—for kicks, can you believe it? Guess that’s all he could come up with on the spur of the moment. Still, you gotta give the man credit. He never mentioned your name, not once. I wish I could instill that kind of loyalty in my employees. Anyway, I just let him think I bought his story and eventually he had to let me go. I mean, what was he going to do, keep me prisoner too?” He thought he heard Anne Marie sit up in bed.