Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Jerusha Jones

  But I was peeking through my lashes. In the back corner of the building, at the opposite end from the garage doors, there was a stubby build-out similar to the office. A walled-off section that had two doors. The storerooms Laney had told me about.

  Bigelow spun the knob on the closest door and prodded Walt though the opening, the gun still level and steady. I had no doubt Bigelow knew how to use it.

  Then Kliever tossed me in after Walt, and the door slammed behind me.

  Another heavy steel door, just like the outside entrance to the office. A key fitted into a lock with a metallic grating sound two separate times on the other side. They weren’t taking chances with us.

  But in Kliever’s groping and grabbing while he’d carted me to this prison of a room, I’d seen another clue—one that gave me some measure of hope and comfort. The open cuff of his flannel shirt had ridden up on his forearm, revealing a giant bruise engulfing a set of bite marks embedded in his muscle there. They were nearly pristine, but with a little gap where her recently lost tooth just right of bottom center was missing.

  Emmie had been the first to draw Kliever’s blood. That’s my girl.

  But I hated to think what he could have done to her.

  In the pitch black, Walt scooped me up, helped me stand. I felt him shift, and he patted the wall beside the door until he found the light switch. Blinking in the sudden brightness, he inspected me with his eyes, and in some places with his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I lost my cool and got us trapped in here.”

  “I was running out of impertinent things to say anyway,” I whispered back. “I got you into this, and for that I’m sorry. But thank you for being here.”

  Walt’s arms slid around me and gently pulled me into his chest. He rested his chin on my head, so I felt his throat vibrate when he spoke. “Squeaky? Whelan? Do you know these guys? How much time do we have?”

  “Probably only a phone call away.” My eyes were closed, and I inhaled Walt’s scent. Outdoorsy—like sawdust and, well, salty-smoky, like maybe bacon. I almost giggled.

  Focus. I needed to focus. I pulled away. “My dad told me to find someone named Squeaky. But coming from my dad—” I shrugged, “I’m still not sure what it means. I think Squeaky’s real name is Simon Ramos. Whelan is the last name of my Numero Siete—one of Skip’s money laundering clients. Dirk Whelan. Which is why they want me to return his money.”

  I wheeled around and started pacing. “Clarice did the initial research on Whelan. He’s a seedy mastermind of contraband, headquartered in Seattle but with representatives at all the major West Coast ports. It’d make sense he’s connected to an illegal scrap metal business, but much farther up the chain.” I reached the far wall and spun on my heel. The room was a small, windowless cube, maybe ten feet across.

  “I almost can’t believe how much of this stuff is local. We’re supposed to be in the idyllic countryside. But organized crime has its tentacles everywhere. It might be why Skip visited the area several years ago—” I waved my hand toward Walt who was still a pillar in the middle of the room as I passed by him, “when he met you.” Then I stopped stock still, and my jaw dropped. “There are two storerooms.” How could I have forgotten about that?

  The worry dent deepened between Walt’s brows. “Fill me in.”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. “They have the same type of heavy steel door.”

  He nodded slowly. “Both doors were closed when we were forced in here. Bigelow had to open this one.”

  “Both with second, keyed deadbolt locks—for valuable contents,” I breathed in a rush. “Where else would Emmie be?”

  Walt took two quick strides and spread his hands across the Sheetrock of the wall separating us from the other storeroom. Then he started knocking, sounding for the studs.

  CHAPTER 15

  Walt was going to try to kick through the Sheetrock. I could tell by the way he backed up and eyed a spot near the base of the wall.

  “Shhhh,” I spluttered. “We don’t have much time as it is. If they hear us crashing around in here, they’ll pull us out now.” I bent and fumbled with my boot laces, yanked Chuck’s switchblade out of my sock and handed it to Walt.

  He scowled. “Where’d you get this?” But he’d already pressed the button that flicked the nasty serrated blade open. “Nora, this is not the kind of thing—” He knelt and stabbed the point into the Sheetrock and started sawing. “Never mind. Just never mind. I’m not sure I can handle that information right now.” Chalky dust formed a rapidly growing pyramid on the floor underneath his cut line.

  “I took it off a drug dealer.” I meant for my explanation to reassure Walt. So he would know that carrying a vicious switchblade wasn’t my usual pattern of behavior.

  Instead, he stopped sawing and turned to gaze at me, his mouth open in a slack-jawed frown.

  “Not like that,” I blurted. “I mean, sort of. He’s Kliever’s nephew, actually. Bringing it was a last-minute, just-in-case sort of thing.” But my bumbled words weren’t helping. I nudged Walt’s shoulder. “Hurry. Please hurry.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you need a full-time bodyguard?” Walt grunted between the rapid zhhip zhhip zhhip sounds the knife was making in the wallboard.

  “That’d be a little inconvenient.” I squatted next to him. “Except for right now, of course.” The drywall flap was starting to torque and wobble, so I pressed against it to give Walt better leverage while he cut the last side.

  He tore the rectangle out with a final rip of the thick paper coating, revealing an identical wallboard nailed to the opposite side of the studs.

  More cutting. I hovered over his shoulder, but there was even less for me to do to help in the tight quarters. Walt’s knuckles were scraped raw by the time he knocked the loose chunk of Sheetrock out the other side and flipped the knife closed.

  I edged in beside him—basically shoved him over—and wriggled my head and shoulders through the hole. I didn’t think he would have fit anyway.

  “Emmie?” I craned my neck around, trying to see into all the corners of the dark room. A narrow slit of light fanned under the door, but it wasn’t enough to see by. “Emmie?”

  A muffled whimper sounded from my right, and a rubbery squeak against the concrete floor.

  “Push me through,” I hissed to Walt.

  He grabbed my knees, and I locked them so my legs were stiff. I slid on my left hip and shoulder as he propelled me into the room.

  Once free of the rough opening, I scrambled to my feet and stumbled across the floor toward the door and the light switch.

  My girl. Oh, my girl.

  “I need the knife,” I called, and Walt tossed it though the opening.

  I couldn’t cry. I was, but I couldn’t. I needed to see past the wavery welling in my eyes.

  I knelt beside Emmie and propped her against me as I worked carefully to cut the duct tape wrapped across her mouth and around the back of her head. Her golden-brown eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, dry for the moment, but so huge, so scared.

  “Shhhh. It’s okay, honey. Shhh,” I murmured over her. “Darling, baby.” I was so afraid I would nick her with the knife.

  At last, I’d cut through the tape on both sides of her mouth. “This is going to hurt.” I cradled her on my lap and plucked at a corner of the tape. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’m going to take it off fast, all at once. Try not to make any noise, baby.”

  I closed my eyes too. It was too much to bear. And then I ripped.

  Emmie flinched and choked back a sob. Angry red welts rose on her cheeks where the adhesive had been.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I kept whispering over and over as I cut the tape binding her ankles and wrists.

  When she was free, she lunged at me, fierce and desperate, and clamped onto me like a limpet. Her entire little body was heaving with sobs. I cried into her hair and rocked her.

  “Baby, we have to keep being brave.” I squeezed the wor
ds around the swelling in my throat.

  “Nora.” Urgent and low. Walt was peering at us through the opening. “Give me the knife. Then pass those canisters through the hole.”

  I scooted across the floor with Emmie still in my lap and handed the knife to him.

  “Good to see you, kiddo.” Walt smiled at Emmie and disappeared.

  I gave her another squeeze, then pried her off me. “Go through,” I whispered. “Go to Walt. Hurry now.”

  My sweet, sweet girl. She did exactly as I told her—cast one worried glance at me over her shoulder, then scootched through the hole on her tummy. As the last of her rubber-toed sneakers eased out of view, I realized that all of her clothing was intact.

  Her pink hoodie with the striped T-shirt underneath, jeans, socks, shoes. Kliever had bound her—probably because she’d bitten him—but he hadn’t molested her.

  I hadn’t acknowledged that it was there—the hard terror that had been coiled in my gut. But at that moment it vaporized, giving me impetus, lightening my soul, freeing my body to move the way it needed to.

  I stepped through scattered junk. It was spread on the floor and up a rickety metal shelving unit as though it had propagated of its own accord like mold spores. Laney had said the storerooms had been cleaned out, but it looked like the employees assigned the chore had been lazy. Or maybe their shift had ended, and the task wasn’t worth the overtime.

  Walt wanted the canisters. I pawed away dirty rags, broken parts of who-knows-what, scrap ends of lumber, plastic buckets, blackened sponges. It was like a scavenger hunt.

  I came up with five dull green propane canisters covered with grime, their paper labels brittle and flaking. A couple were empty; the rest only barely swished when I shook them.

  “And the thing that looks like a handle with a metal tube nozzle.” Walt’s arm came through the hole, pointing. “Check for a striker too.” At my puzzled look, he kept talking, patiently. “It looks like a coat hanger that’s been bent into a pair of tongs, with a small basket at the end. There’ll be a flint tip on one of the arms. Seven, eight inches long.”

  I ran my hands over the stuff piled on the shelves, holding up things that looked close to Walt’s description.

  “Nope. Nope. Yes!” He backed out of the opening, gesturing to me with his retreating hand. “Quickly. Turn the light off.”

  I shimmied through the hole into the second storeroom. Chalk dust sifted through my clothing, rubbing like sandpaper against my skin. I had grit in my hair and mouth.

  Walt had been busy while I’d been rummaging for and shuttling his requested items. He’d cut another hole through the drywall, this time on the back wall and bigger. He’d torn a flimsy layer of insulation out of the hole, exposing the corrugated metal that sheathed the building.

  He spun the handle thingy—it had a gauge and valves attached to it—onto a propane cylinder. “You and Emmie stay back—against the door. This is going to be slow. I don’t know if there’s enough fuel or if the line is clear. All kinds of things could go wrong with this.”

  Short of a massive explosion, I didn’t think much worse could happen at that moment. I’d seen Walt welding before, so I trusted he knew what he was doing. I picked up Emmie and held her on my hip, the door handle digging into my back. I bit my lip as Walt flicked the striker.

  Nothing.

  Strike. Strike.

  He jostled the canister and fiddled with the dial. Strike.

  Nothing.

  Walt unscrewed the handle, rolled the canister on its side, and grabbed the next one. I’d lined them up in order from what sounded like the most compressed gas to empty. But if the canister that had sounded the most promising didn’t work—I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in Emmie’s neck.

  Strike. Strike.

  Whoosh.

  Blue flame shot out of the end of the nozzle. Walt adjusted the regulator and aimed the flame, beginning the long process of melting a line through the corrugated metal.

  He should have been wearing safety goggles, a face mask, gloves. Beads of molten metal started dribbling down the siding and cooling in narrow strands.

  Burning through metal wasn’t quiet. I hoped the steel door—so good at blocking out noise—would also dampen the propane torch’s fiery whoosh for anyone on the other side.

  The flame sputtered and went out. The top line had been cut, and Walt had worked about a third of the way down the first side. He calmly spun the empty canister off and attached the next one.

  Strike. Whoosh.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and watched the tiny gap lengthen, stretching. Walt was crouched, tense but steady, completely focused on his work.

  A thump traveled across the wall, shuddered between my shoulder blades. Emmie’s head snapped back, her eyes huge—she’d felt it too.

  And in that instant I knew what it was—the door to the other storeroom being thrown open.

  There was no time. I slid Emmie down my body and pushed her toward Walt. I snatched up an empty canister and bent to the side of the hole between the rooms while also trying to keep an eye on the door handle to our room. Our kidnapper’s reaction would be completely dependent upon how curious he was, and how quickly he became angry.

  The torch was too loud for me to hear him coming, but the light in the other room snapped on and his shadow dimmed the hole opening.

  I waited, knowing he’d have to scrunch down and contort his body to get his head far enough through the hole to see what was going on. It would be a vulnerable position and not terribly smart, but I hoped that surprise and fury were circumventing his analytical thinking at the moment.

  I pressed against the wall, counted to five, then rammed the canister, base end first, through the hole with everything I had.

  And connected. With something hard enough that the canister actually rang in a reverberating peal with the collision. I hoped it was his face, maybe the bone of his forehead.

  He bellowed—a harsh, violent sound. But it was cut short, and that’s when I realized it was quiet. Very, very quiet.

  Walt had tossed the torch aside and was pushing, straining into the opening, his hands curled around the free side of the sheet metal, bending it out and back like a hinge. Emmie was beside him, but staring at me, her hand lifted, a wobbly finger extended.

  My ankle was pulled out from under me, and I fell hard on my side.

  I blinked through the black-spotted pain, tried to find my breath. Now that I was on the floor, I could see Kliever’s bloody face through the hole. Kliever was wide. This was one time when his bulky muscles wouldn’t be an advantage. He twisted his hand into the hem of my jeans and pulled.

  CHAPTER 16

  I went spread eagle. Kliever might be able to get my leg through the hole, but not the rest of me. I kicked and scrabbled, tried to dig my fingernails into the concrete floor.

  Then Walt had me around the waist, and I was pulled back into the right storeroom. I liked this room. You know, if I had to choose, I’d pick the storeroom with Walt and Emmie. I was thinking such bizarre thoughts, stretched out like a tug-of-war yo-yo band.

  Kliever’s fingers clawed into my ankle, tearing skin and paralyzing tendons. I moaned.

  Walt bent and thrust, a dull flash of the switchblade.

  Kliever screamed, and I was free.

  “Go—go,” Walt breathed hard in my ear.

  I was on my hands and knees, then tumbling from a push on my behind—through the exterior hole and into the dim wetness of a winter evening rain shower and rough gravel.

  Emmie came out next—landed on me, and I rolled with her. We were up and running without preamble. No time for analysis. Only speed.

  But I was limping. My ankle wasn’t working right. My foot was numb and floppy.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Walt was gaining on us.

  He scooped Emmie up, swung her around to his back, and she latched on, her knees and feet and elbows bobbing with his long stride.

  “Come on.” Walt cau
ght my hand and dragged me around a semitrailer. “Can you make it? Kliever will be out in a few seconds. We can’t stop.”

  I nodded. My throat burned, and my eyes were streaming.

  A stitch in my side and a blur of stinging, scraping, crackling, whipping—branches, vines, weeds tangling around my feet. Wet and slippery. Mud, rocks.

  My breathing echoed like ragged choking in my ears. The sound swirled up around my head like a mist, and I held my hands in front of me as I ran, trying to forge through both what I could see and what I could only sense on the periphery.

  Walt’s jean-clad legs pumped beside me, his strong arm holding me up, pulling me along, dragging and pushing. Like a harness on a dumb ox—this way, that way, dodge and sprint.

  And then Bertha—glorious Bertha, just sitting there, luminescent in the gloom, waiting for us.

  I thudded into her, bounced off her side. Walt wrenched the door open and shoved us inside, snagged his keys from the tree, floored the gas pedal before his door was even closed.

  I lay with Emmie on my stomach, curled my knees up, rolled her until she was wedged between me and the seat back, and then just cushioned her there. I knew she could feel me trembling, shaking uncontrollably, and I hated that she would know that kind of fear in me.

  But she didn’t object. She burrowed into me and was still.

  Bertha’s tires hit pavement, and the comforting sound of road spray whapping up into the wheel wells filled my head. I shuddered out a long breath—it felt as though I’d been holding it taut from the moment Bigelow had pulled the gun—long and cleansing, and a new awareness crinkled through the edges. Me—the real me—had just come back. From wherever she’d been while I’d been battling my worst nightmare.

  Walt’s warm hand was in my hair, stroking it away from my face. “We need to call Des.”

  “No law enforcement,” I croaked.

  “They’re going to flee. I’d be willing to bet Bigelow’s already gone. That’s why Kliever was on his own with us. Took the suitcase and ran, maybe he had to deliver it to that boss of his. You can’t let them have too much of a lead, Nora. Besides,” he smiled down at me and rubbed my cheek with his thumb, “they don’t have a bargaining chip anymore.”