1 Take the Monkeys and Run

by Karen Cantwell

  “Barb! Barb! What was that?”

  Gathering my wits, I wondered what to say. Elvis and I peeked out the window and watched while the limping, scarecrow-man grabbed Howard’s arm and pulled him toward the shed.

  “Barb!” Roz tried again. Elvis, definitely agitated, crawled across the room to the bathroom door.

  “We got a problem here. Keep this door shut.” Then he shut the door and returned to my side. By now, with great effort, the man had dragged Howard’s body behind the shed. No longer able to see Howard, panic finally kicked in. Was he dead? I needed to find out. I turned on my stomach and crawled a couple of feet, then stood, ready to bolt for the door. Thoughts about how or where I would go were not formed in my mind at all—I was running on pure impulse. Elvis was up and stopped me dead in my tracks, holding me back far too easily with both of his arms. He seemed to know exactly what I was doing.

  “You can’t go out there,” he said, his craggy face serious and stern. “You’ll ruin everything.”

  “But he might be dead! We need to find out.”

  “If he’s dead, he’s dead. Ain’t nothin’ we’re gonna do to change that. And right now, dead or alive, we got us bigger problems. From da looks a tings, I’m tinkin’ No Toes ain’t here to wish us a Happy Birthday.”

  Toes. Suddenly things made sense. “It was you,” I said.

  “Me?”

  “Screaming that night behind the vacant house. You were calling his name.”

  Elvis nodded.

  “For crying out loud, can’t any of you have normal names? How about John or David or Michael. Does this freak have a real name?”

  “His given name’s Frankie. That’s why we calls him No Toes. So’s not to confuse.”

  I was really starting to have my fill. I wanted my Colt and my Brad Pitt policeman to ride in on their white horses and whisk me off to a safe place where I’d find Howard alive and happy, playing a rousing game of Monopoly with my girls.

  Elvis kept me pinned with his bearhug, probably assuming I still might want to run off in search of Howard. The thought of running into No Toes and his very large gun, or Viviana, or worst case scenario—both—had disabused me of that idea quickly.

  “You can let me go. I won’t run,” I said, defeated. Depression and pessimism were taking over. My cheeks tingled—the feel of a cry coming on. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms into them, hard. Sniffing and breathing deeply, I worked to get a grip. Focusing on thoughts of my girls and making it through this to see them again was helpful. And then there were Roz and Peggy—this had been all my stupid idea from the beginning. First, snooping at House of Many Bones only to discover death and rot, then this whole let’s-follow-Colt-and-see-what-he’s-up-to thing. I’d landed us here, so I needed to see us through safely. With my palms still pressing my eyes tight, I sat on the bed, expecting to take a moment and gather my strength. No sooner did my butt hit the mattress than the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door shot me straight back up. I threw down my hands and pointed my eyes straight at the door. Would the person on the other side come bearing an instrument of death? Was this the end? It seemed like I’d been asking that question a lot over the last few hours.

  Elvis motioned for me to hide behind him while he positioned himself, gun ready. We both heard a light knocking on the door.

  “Hey ladies! Yous okay in there?”

  I blew out a sigh of relief so hard that it tickled Elvis’s ear and he swatted at me. Elvis tore the door open in a flash, pulled Frankie in, poked his head out, looking both ways then quick closed the door again. Frankie looked very surprised.

  “Hey! What’s da deal?”

  “Shhhhh! Keep it down and don’t talk. We don’t got a lot of time—get it?” ordered Elvis, fast and furious. Frankie put up his hands and nodded, obeying his obviously superior co-worker.

  “No Toes is here. He shot Sammy—Howard.”

  “Sammy? You were supposed to . . . you know—get ridda him.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t, okay? More about that in a minute. You see him?”

  “Who, Sammy?”

  “No!” Elvis was losing his cool. “Did you see No Toes?”

  “No.”

  “He’s got an AK. Like he’s on a killin’ mission. You know where Viv and Max is?”

  “Sure—they’re upstairs watchin’ Survivor. Why you tink I had to turn on da generator? Can’t miss dat stupid show . . .”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. You don’t trust me?”

  “Sure, I trust you. That’s why I wants you to listen. Sammy—Howard—before he got shot, he made us a deal. We help the Feds get information from Viv and Max, we get us a free ride. Better yet, Viv gets put away. For a long time.”

  “Yeah? What makes you tink he’s on da up and up?” Frankie asked, not appearing convinced his welfare was protected by this scheme.

  “He promised me on her life.” Elvis looked at me while my eyes widened to the size of basketballs. Frankie seemed impressed, and I sensed he was taking to the idea, but he still shook his head.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed Frankie by the collar and put my nose up to his.

  “Do it! Just do it! You’ve got his word for crying out loud! Just say yes and let’s get on with this before that crazy toe-less creep finds us and obliterates us all!”

  Frankie was obviously startled by my outburst. He also had my spit all over his face. I let go of his collar, thinking maybe I’d gone a little too far. Frankie grabbed a clean and nicely ironed white hanky from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his face silently. While replacing the hanky, he spoke.

  “Fine. I’m in. But if Sammy is dead, how we know da deal is still on? Where is he?”

  I’d had enough of the “Sammy” talk. “Okay—time out!” I demanded. “Right here, right now: how do you know Howard is Sammy Donato? According to Viviana, he changed his name when he was a teenager.”

  Elvis was looking anxious. “We need to talk ’bout dis now?”

  “Now.” I put my foot down.

  Elvis took another weary swipe over his face, shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “It’s like dis: Tito whacked Sammy’s pop, but felt real bad about it, leavin’ Sammy fatherless. Tito didn’t have no pop growin’ up, so I tink he could relate. Anyways, he had us sorta follow Sammy and his mom over da years, slip her money on da sly, stuff like that. Tito essentially paid for da kid’s college.”

  “Did he know about the money?” I asked.

  “Sammy? No. And Tito nearly lost it when Sammy—Howard by then—joined the FBI after graduating. Word on da streets was he had a vendetta.” Elvis was talking fast and acting very nervous. “Frankie here nearly had a heart attack when he seen dat yous twos bought that house on White Willow Circle. Needless to say, when Max caught dat mole at Parks and Rowe and whacked him, Viviana had a little sit-down wit Sammy. Told him yous and those girls a yours would suffer if he got involved—and better yet, he should do everything possible to stop the investigation.”

  I finally had my answer. Howard had moved out to protect the girls and me! He wasn’t leaving because he didn’t love me anymore. While I took a mental moment to rejoice, Frankie got back to business.

  “Survivor’s gonna be over any minute,” Frankie said. “We’re runnin’ outa time here. You didn’t answer my question. Where’s Sammy?”

  “Could you call him Howard please?” I requested rather forcefully.

  Frankie made a face. “Where’s Howard?”

  “Toes dragged him behind da shed,” Elvis said.

  “’Cuz if he’s dead, we don’t got no choice, Snoopy, but to let Viv have her way wit you and your friends. Can’t take no risk if we don’t got protection, y’know?”

  I understood that Elvis and Frankie were only friendly to me as long as they remained safe from the wrath of Viv, or from incarceration by the keepers of the law.

  Frankie continued, “Of c
ourse, wit Toes here, this could all be moot.”

  Moot? A man who regularly butchered the English language actually used the word “moot”?

  “Who the heck is this No Toes?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “Does he really have no toes?”

  “On one foot,” Frankie reported.

  “What?”

  “He’s got one foot wit no toes. His cousin ran over his foot.” As usual, Frankie had to look to Elvis for assistance. “Ain’t that it?” Elvis nodded an affirmative.

  “So, he has some toes,” I answered, pointing out the obvious.

  “What?”

  “Well, he doesn’t have NO toes—he has some toes.”

  “He gots no toes on that foot, so he’s No Toes. Do you really want to keep talkin’ ’bout dis when he’s ‘round here somewhere’s wit an AK?” Frankie made a very valid point. I remembered AKs from Bruce Willis’ The Last Boy Scout. Bottom line: AKs are bad.

  “What’s his problem with you guys?” I asked, since it seemed important.

  “Ah, geez, this guy has been trouble from day one, ain’t that right Elvis?”

  “Trouble,” agreed Elvis. “He’s da whole reason you got those monkeys flippin’ around in your yard. We was supposed to teach him the monkey killin’ ting—the whole show, y’know: getting ’em from the lab, stackin’ the cages in the van, transportin’ ’em to the house, injectin’ ’em wit the sleep stuff. We been doin’ this for too long—we told Viv we wanted someone else to do the dirty work for a while. Turns out No Toes has a queasy stomach—who knew? He goes crazy when we pull out the syringes.”

  “It was a mess,” continued Frankie. “Elvis is in the other room choppin’ up Max’s dead Fed, and shovin’ the pieces into bags, cartin’ the bags to the truck. Meanstwhiles I’m runnin’ Toes through the process. I show him on three of the stupid apes, and make him try on the fourth. What does he do? Idiot leaves the cages open, couple of ’em get out, scares the crap outa the one he’s snuffin’, next ting we know, he’s out the door screamin’ and the flippin' monkeys is followin’ him.” My Italian buddies were shaking their heads in unison.

  “Mess is right,” agreed Elvis.

  “If you’ve been doing this for so long, how come I never saw your truck before?”

  “We always used the Great Falls house, but the pipes broke. Place flooded. Had to move the operation to White Willow.”

  “Why did you leave the head and the dead monkeys behind?”

  “We tried to catch those live ones outside, but it started to get light. We couldn’t risk it. We got ourselves outa there.”

  It all made sense to me now—the truck, the lights on in the house, the howl. The howl had been No Toes. Still, the story didn’t explain why No Toes had become homicidal.

  “I don’t understand, though, why you think he wants to kill you now?”

  “You saw dat AK.” Elvis was indignant.

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “We put the word out on the streets: No Toes is a fanook,” answered Frankie.

  I didn’t know that word. “Is that bad?”

  “That’s bad—means he’s a pansy. Gay. No one likes bein’ called a fanook—in our circles that is.”

  “I wonder where da hell he is now,” Elvis said, putting his ear to the door, while Frankie sat on the bed. I heard banging from the bathroom my two friends had been sequestered in. Moving toward the bathroom door, the banging increased, and along with the muffled voices of Roz and Peggy I thought I detected a male voice. My heart leapt, first thinking it might be Howard, alive. But I started sweating bullets when I considered it could be the AK-toting No Toes. I placed my hand nervously on the bathroom handle. Just then, it swung open and Peggy popped her face out. We were both startled, neither expecting to come nose to nose with each other.

  “Barb! Oh! You scared me!”

  “What’s going on in there?” I asked, not sure I was going to like the answer. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re fine. But you need to see this . . .” She opened the door wide, allowing me to see Colt sitting on the vanity. He had a large black vest on his lap and he was unwrapping the cloth bundle that Officer Brad had given us. He looked up at me, dripping wet, with a wide grin on his face.

  “Hey, Curly! How are you?”

  Chapter Twenty

  STUNNED, I IMMEDIATELY LOOKED TO the window, knowing that was his only way in. The banging I’d heard must have been the opening and closing of the window, which was now very wet and very muddy. In fact, the bathroom had become the center of a virtual mud-fest with Colt being the bearer of the brown slime. He was covered in it from the waist down. Miraculously, his prized bomber jacket, save some moisture from the rain, was untouched. Staring at Colt, I realized that I was becoming numb to emotion. I seemed to be operating on some sort of automatic survival mechanism.

  “I think Howard is dead. A man named No Toes shot him with an AK,” I stated matter-of-factly.

  “So that’s what happened,” he said, understanding lighting his face. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much.” He held up a black and very heavy vest, as if to prove his point. I had never seen a bulletproof vest with my own eyes except on TV shows and in the movies, but it looked familiar, and given Colt’s statement, I assumed that I was now seeing one in real life. I smiled, relieved.

  “You think he’s okay?” I asked

  “Darn tootin’ I think he’s okay. But we don’t have a lot of time, Curly. I need to explain things and explain fast. We’re up against the clock here. Bad weather’s causing us muchos problemos.”

  Colt spelled things out very quickly. As it turned out, he and Howard had seen Roz tailing them and knew I wasn’t far behind. When they figured out we’d been kidnapped, they were able to locate Roz and me with the tracking device they had hidden on my cell phone. I’d get my head around that one if we survived this mess. For now, I was thanking my lucky stars that Elvis hadn’t decided to throw mine in the bushes to the same fate as Roz’s. Howard had been waiting for his FBI team to arrive and position themselves nearby in a surveillance van, but instead got himself caught by Viviana’s gang on purpose—against orders to do otherwise—because he’d feared for our lives. He took advantage of his time alone with Elvis to arrange what the FBI had been planning to attempt for some time: striking a deal with Elvis and Frankie to help bring in Viv and expose the Pharmaceutical execs involved. Howard had been given the green light to make such a deal with the two thugs, in exchange for their amnesty. Colt acknowledged the presence of both Frankie and Elvis who were both standing behind me at that point, with Elvis continuing to keep a watchful eye on the bedroom door.

  Colt got down to business. “Frankie—I can’t say anymore until I know you’re on board.”

  “How do you know me?” Frankie was giving him a grim look through suspicious eyes.

  Colt stood up to answer. “Frankie, this is the FBI—you think I ain’t seen pictures of you?”

  “Who da hell are you?” Frankie sniffed suspiciously.

  “Colt Baron.”

  “You don’t look like a Fed.”

  “I’m not. In fact, I had a hard time convincing them to let me come in here instead of sending in one of their own. I was afraid Barb would freak if it was anyone but me.”

  I wasn’t very happy with the characterization that I could just freak at a moment’s notice. “Well, I’m not that unstable . . .” I started to argue.

  “I thought Sammy was runnin’ dis, but he’s stuffed away in a shed, dead for all we know,” Frankie argued. “So how are we supposed to trust you?”

  “Here’s the skinny,” Colt said directly to Frankie and Elvis, “there’s an FBI surveillance van serving as central command for this operation. It’s set up a half a mile down the road. There’s an agent in that van ready to run this operation in Howard’s place. She’s offering the two of you full amnesty if you cooperate. She has that authority. I’d take it if I were you.”

  “Sammy was on da u
p and up, Frankie,” said Elvis, still balancing between our bathroom talk and looking out for No Toes. “This is our way out.”

  “Fine,” Frankie said, shaking his head and putting his hands in the air as if giving up a fight. “I already told Snoopy I was in.”

  “Great!” Colt snapped up in a flash, ready to put the plan into action.

  “Curly, you’re key in this plan. Put this on,” he said, holding up the vest for me to slip my arms into, which I did. “Good. Now put this in your ear.” He handed me a small, black plastic device. “It’s an earbud—a small speaker. Put it in your ear. There’s a small, hair-like line attached. See that?”

  I nodded, seeing the almost invisible plastic thread.

  He continued. “Put that behind your ear—that’s how you’ll pull it out when you’re done. Now you’ll hear transmissions from Agent Smith in the van.”

  “Agent Smith?” I said with a hint of sarcasm. “This whole thing is feeling way too much like the Matrix.” Evidently Agent Smith had a way of hearing me, because a female voice came alive in my ear.

  “You think I haven’t heard that one before?” the lady’s voice said. The tight and testy voice was way too familiar.

  “Do I know you?” I asked, looking around the room, as if to find her in some dark corner.

  “You may know me as Patricia Webber,” said the voice again.

  “Oh my God! You’re Marjorie Smith, aren’t you? You mean you’re not having an affair with my husband?” I asked, trying to be funny. My eyes were still scanning the bathroom for a visual of her, not understanding how she could hear me, but I couldn’t see her. Colt, seeing me riddled with confusion, held up a small gold item that looked like a decorative medal. “It’s a bug,” he whispered. He turned it around, and on the back I could see a small, round, black button about the size of a watch battery.

  “No, I’m not having an affair with your husband,” said the voice, with no hint of humor. “You ready to get on with this?” Evidently she was actually as surly as the “Ms. Webber of PETA” she had pretended to be.