Cornered

by Brandon Massey

  She remembered yesterday-was it yesterday? — when she and Mom and Daddy had talked about letting her get her own cell phone. She wished they had done that before this happened.

  But Giant had a phone.

  She had seen it clipped to his belt. She had never seen him talk on it, but he always had it with him, maybe so Mr. Leon could call him and tell him what to do.

  She crept to the closet door. She peered out of the doorknob hole.

  Past the glowing lantern, she saw Giant’s huge, dusky shape in the shadows on the other side of the room. He sat in the chair, blocking the door.

  It had been a while since Mr. Leon had made Giant leave her alone. Giant didn’t appear to be moving.

  Was he asleep?

  She realized that she was sucking her thumb again. Annoyed, she pulled it out of her mouth and wiped it on the front of her nightgown.

  She decided to keep track of how long Giant went without moving. Watching him, she counted silently to herself: one one hundred. . two one hundred. . three one hundred. . four one hundred. . five one hundred. .

  By the time she reached fifty one hundred, Giant still hadn’t moved. All she saw was the gentle, rhythmic rising and falling of his broad shoulders.

  He had to be sleeping. This was her chance.

  She started to open the closet door, but her knees were trembling so bad that she didn’t trust herself to walk. She bowed her head, put her hands together in a steeple, and whispered a prayer.

  Dear Lord, please keep me safe, please keep Mom and Daddy safe and help us get home so we can be together again. Okay, God, please? I promise to do anything you want me to do if you bring us home safe. Thank you, God. Amen.

  She was never a hundred percent sure God was listening when she prayed, but her knees quit shaking.

  She slowly pushed open the door, hoping it didn’t make a squeaky noise. She couldn’t have thought of a better time for her to be able to hear, but she had to do the best she could and try to feel what was going on.

  Giant didn’t stir, so perhaps the door was quiet.

  She was glad she was wearing her house shoes. She remembered that they never made any noise at all. You’re like a ghost, Pumpkin, Daddy had told her one day, when she came upon him in his office at home and he turned to see her, startled.

  That was how she imagined herself. Like a ghost. Floating quietly across the room.

  As she drifted closer, she confirmed that Giant was definitely asleep. His eyes were shut, his face slack. A strand of drool hung from his parted lips, and chocolate stains spattered his white T-shirt.

  Her nose wrinkled. Jeez, he smelled so bad it gave her a headache.

  Giant’s tree-trunk legs were sprawled in front of him, thick arms crossed over his belly. She remembered how he had shown her the girl’s names tattooed on his big stomach, and she felt such a chill that she had to stop thinking about it.

  The cell phone was in a holster on the waist of his jeans, right beneath his elbow.

  Holding her breath, she tiptoed closer. She reached for the phone. She closed her fingers around it.

  Giant stirred.

  Arm extended, she froze, breath trapped in her chest.

  I’m a ghost, he can’t see me, I’m a ghost, he can’t see me, I’m a ghost. .

  Smacking his lips, as if in his dreams he were eating candy bars, he sleepily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drool coming away.

  His hand dropped from his face and fell across her outstretched arm.

  She choked down a scream.

  Giant’s fingers were cold and wet with saliva. But his eyes remained shut.

  Slowly, she lifted the phone out of the holster, his hand resting against her arm. Very, very slowly, she backed away.

  His hand slid away from her and hung loosely at his side. He didn’t wake up.

  She let out a slow breath, and retreated to the closet.

  She knelt to the attic hatch, but before she crawled inside, she thoroughly scrubbed her skin where Giant had touched her.

  58

  The blown tire grinding against asphalt, Corey swerved off the wide thoroughfare, with all of its strip malls, car dealerships, traffic lights, and street lamps, and turned onto a darker, quiet residential street. As he rattled down the road, the truck’s back end shimmied, and the steering wheel shuddered in his grip.

  He needed to put distance between himself and the agents, but before he could do that, he had to lose the Silverado. With the ruptured tire it was useless in a chase, and every cop in metro Atlanta soon would have the vehicle description and tag on their hit list.

  He didn’t know what he would drive after he ditched the truck. He was counting on an opportunity presenting itself, a gift from fate or God or something. He had to believe this somehow was going to work out for him and his family-if he didn’t believe it, he would have surrendered peacefully back at the office.

  Running through a Stop sign, he veered onto another road, squinting to read the street sign. Rain-drenched oaks overhung the roadway, and large homes stood proudly on big, manicured lawns, windows darkened.

  He ground to a noisy stop between a Colonial house and a brick ranch and cut off the engine. He jotted down the approximate address on a slip of paper, to reference later when he needed to relocate the truck.

  As he was tucking the note into his pocket, his BlackBerry chirped. A call this time, not a text message. He expected to see Todd’s number, but Caller ID read: FBI-Atlanta.

  To reach him, the Feds had called either his home landline, which he had forwarded to the BlackBerry, or the cell directly, which was a private number. Either way, it made him uneasy. Wireless calls could be tracked, locations pinpointed.

  He paused for a moment, and then answered. “Yeah?”

  “Agent Falco here,” she said, her husky contralto so distinctive she needn’t have given her name. “Mr. Webb, look-”

  “Why’re you calling me at this number?” he shouted. “Do you have a warrant to tap this line or something?”

  “No, sir, we got the cell number from your mother-in-law.”

  They’d visited his mother-in-law. Great. Talk about real pressure.

  “Look, you need to stop running from us,” Falco said. “We’re on your side.”

  “Then why the hell were your guys shooting at me?”

  “They only wanted to detain you, they got a little overzealous when you resisted. I apologize.”

  “They should have stayed out of my way.”

  “I know what’s going on,” she said.

  “You don’t know jack shit. You think I’m helping Leon.”

  “That’s not what we think.”

  “He’s got my family-did you know that?”

  “Yes, we know, Mr. Webb. The fifty thousand you left behind in the briefcase was a ransom payment.”

  He fell silent, his surprise overtaking his anger. He didn’t know how the agents had figured it out. Regardless, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t help him.

  “We’ve been trying to locate your wife and daughter all day,” Falco said. “When we couldn’t find them, and factored in the money and your behavior, it finally dawned on me what Sharpe was doing to you.”

  “It took you long enough.”

  “Let us help you, Mr. Webb. Kidnapping is a federal offense, we’re experts at this.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve gotta do this myself.”

  “No offense, but you aren’t trained to handle these situations. We’ve got a great hostage negotiator, a crack team. We’ll get your wife and daughter home safely. I promise you.”

  Her voice was smooth and persuasive. He didn’t doubt that they had a top-notch crew. But he had created this hell for his family with his own deceptions and poor decisions. It was up to him to get them out of it.

  “Listen, stay out of my way, all right?” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

  “I can’t allow that, Mr. Webb.”

  “I’m not asking for your permission,
” he said, and ended the call.

  A few seconds later, Falco’s number popped up again.

  He shut off the phone, and for good measure, removed the battery, too. Falco had admitted that they weren’t tapping the cell phone, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t soon get a warrant to do so-and from his security work, he knew that cops could trace a wireless phone’s location even if the cell was powered off, so long as the battery was plugged in. He couldn’t risk their involvement.

  Climbing out of the pickup, he flipped up the hood of his windbreaker against the rain. A large aluminum tool box lay in the truck bed, lid pebbled with water. He opened it with a key attached to the ignition key ring, rummaged inside, and found a lug wrench. He stashed the wrench against his ribs, between the waistband of his pants and his jacket.

  Hands in his pockets, he marched down the sidewalk. He scanned back and forth across the street, looking for a car to borrow-he couldn’t think of it as stealing. His days of stealing were behind him.

  Most people in the neighborhood, however, appeared to garage their cars. He scoped a handful of vehicles parked in driveways or curbside, but they were newer models, most likely equipped with alarms and electronically operated ignitions, and he didn’t see any keys in plain view or unlocked doors.

  Reaching the end of the block without finding any prospects, he was deliberating which way to go next when he happened to glance behind him.

  Half a block away, a city police cruiser had pulled up to the Silverado, and the officer was shining a light inside. The light panned in Corey’s direction.

  59

  Corey turned away before the cop’s high-beam flashlight found his face. A wave of brightness washed over the sidewalk, and then receded.

  Casually, as if he were a local resident headed home perhaps after pulling a double shift, Corey strode forward. His teeth were clenched, and in his pockets, his hands were balled into clammy fists. The lug wrench felt like ice against his ribs.

  He heard the police cruiser crawling behind him. Corey quickened his pace.

  Keep moving, man. I’m nobody. Ignore me.

  The bright light found Corey again.

  Shit.

  A megaphone-enhanced stentorian voice boomed from the car: “Excuse me, sir.”

  Corey didn’t pause, and didn’t look.

  “Sir! I’m talking to you! Halt and turn around!”

  Corey ran.

  He sprinted into the front yard on his right. He dashed around the garage and plunged into the backyard, thick wet grass pulling at his shoes and legs.

  Behind him, a car door opened, slammed. One door opening and closing meant one cop giving chase, and if he had any luck, it would be one cop who’d spent too many hours hugging the counter at the local donut shop.

  A gigantic wooden playset dominated the back lawn. Corey remembered that he’d purchased and assembled a similar one for Jada a few years ago, a project that had taken two tedious weekends. In the rain-distorted darkness, it resembled the skeletal remains of some prehistoric creature.

  He circled around it and ran beyond the edge of the property, into a damp cavern of trees and undergrowth.

  The cop shouted at him to halt. He sounded out of breath, but he might have backup on the way.

  The land ahead of Corey sloped into a narrow creek. The ground was muddy and slick, festooned with vines that tugged at his pumping arms and legs. He nearly slipped, but caught hold of a branch and saved himself from tumbling into the creek. He reached the lower bank, jumped over the creek, landed on the other side, and scrabbled up the slope.

  Lights shone ahead, filtering into the woods. He wasn’t exactly sure of his location. But he kept running.

  Somewhere behind, the cop cried out in pain. Probably had fallen in the mud.

  Panting, Corey exploded out of the trees and into the glare of a street lamp. He was on another residential street. A row of duplexes ahead on the left. An apartment complex a quarter block ahead on the right.

  He ran to the apartments. The wrought-iron gates hung open.

  He looked over his shoulder, but didn’t see the cop following. Maybe the poor sap had twisted his ankle when he’d fallen.

  The apartment complex was a series of several four-story buildings, the units featuring patios and balconies, a network of paved lanes serving the buildings. The parking lot was empty of people, but full of cars, SUVs, and pickup trucks, myriad possibilities.

  He trotted past the vehicles, searching, thinking. He rounded a corner.

  Ahead, parked in front of an end unit and sitting in a pool of darkness, he finally found a good candidate: a white, 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.

  It was, ironically, the same model Leon had used to drive when they were living in Detroit, except Leon’s was black. The body was spotted with rust, but the tires looked good, and the Georgia tag was current.

  Best of all, the door was unlocked. It opened with a squawk.

  He slipped inside. Cigarette burns scored the cloth seats, and the air stank of smoke and stale beer.

  A pack of Newport Lights was nestled in the ashtray.

  He grimaced. Newports. Just like Leon. He felt as if he’d traveled in a time machine back to Detroit, into some twisted alternate universe.

  There were no keys in the ignition. He flipped down the sun visors. No keys there, either.

  Blue lights suddenly whirled across the apartments.

  He ducked in the seat, his nose almost aligned with the bottom of the faded steering wheel.

  Raindrops plinked on the windshield. There was a leak in the seams of the roof fabric; cold drops fell and spattered on his head.

  His heavy breaths soon fogged the windows.

  Through the misted glass, he saw a searchlight playing across the buildings, tracking through the parking lot, raking across the vehicles.

  Then, quick footsteps approached, splashing through puddles.

  Corey reached inside his jacket for the lug wrench.

  If they found him in the car, he would not go with them willingly. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He only wanted to save his family-and God help anyone who tried to stop him.

  The footsteps went to the back of the car.

  “Who the hell are the pigs after now?” a man’s raspy voice muttered.

  The owner of the car. Damn.

  A key jiggled into a lock. The trunk creaked open. The guy grabbed what sounded like a paper bag.

  Now go away, Corey thought.

  The trunk lid thunked shut. The guy cleared his throat, spat wetly.

  Corey held his breath.

  Don’t open the door, go back inside.

  The guy spat again, muttered something under his breath about allergies.

  Please, go.

  Slowly, the footsteps splashed away. The searchlight moved on, too.

  Corey closed his eyes, sighed.

  He waited a few more minutes, and then he risked sliding up in the seat. The parking lot was dark and empty again.

  He pulled out the lug wrench. He smashed the flat tip against the steering column and cracked it open.

  Leon had boosted his Oldsmobile from a salvage lot. Every day when he wanted to drive, he had to hotwire it, and he’d taught Corey how to do it, too. Corey was not proud of the knowledge he’d picked up, but at the moment, it sure came in handy.

  In the dark, he had to fumble at the rotation switch, but after a few tries, he had it. The engine rumbled awake with a dull roar, the muffler coughing like an old man with a bad case of emphysema. But the gas tank was almost full.

  The subdivision where his family was being held was in Fairburn, a southwestern suburb. If he drove fast, he could get there within an hour.

  60

  In the bedroom, surrounded by soft lantern light, sitting on the mattress with her back propped against the wall, Simone struggled to stay awake. She had never been so exhausted in her life. It was late, perhaps midnight by then, but she was a night owl, so the hour had little to do with
her weariness. Her fatigue came from the fact that she felt as if she had been fed through a meat grinder, in every way-physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

  The only thing keeping her awake was her sixth sense that things were somehow building to a head, that a major breakthrough was looming on the horizon, and that if she fell asleep, she would miss it.

  But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. Leon’s story about Corey had wounded her more severely than any of the physical abuse to which he had subjected her. She knew she shouldn’t have believed Leon, knew that he was a pure psychopath and, as such, every word he’d spoken could have been a lie calculated to hurt her-but her gut told her that his story had an ugly seed of truth. Corey might not have murdered a man in cold blood, but he had done something terrible, something far worse than burglarizing a few houses, and it was that suspicion, that awful doubt she now held regarding the father of her child, the man who had long been the love of her life, that threatened to break her spirit.

  Groaning, she cradled her head in her chained hands. She squeezed fistfuls of her hair, her scalp burning.

  Hold on, girl, she told herself. Hold on a just a little bit longer. A change is coming, a breakthrough is coming. You’ve got to stay hopeful.

  Across the room, Leon opened the door. He carried a bottle of white wine, and two red Dixie cups.

  His return jolted her to alertness as effectively as an electrical shock, tension coiling in her muscles.

  “What do you want now?” she asked.

  “Look what I’ve got.” He grinned, raising the bottle as if it were a magnum of the finest champagne. “A little vino to pass the time, some for you, some for me.”

  She studied him carefully. His eyes sparkled; his movements were quick and jittery; his overall demeanor was jubilant. In his distorted perceptions, they might have been lovebirds who had gotten snowed in together at some log cabin in the Rockies. He appeared to have no idea that only a short time ago he had told her a story about her husband that had rocked the very foundations of her world.

  With her last reserves of strength, she decided to toss her playbook of psychology theories and strategies out the window and go for broke. It was now, or never.