She turned the page, stopping cold when she thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. She felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. Putting down the book, she threw off the covers, picked up the paperweight she kept on the floor by her nightstand, and tiptoed to the landing. The wooden planks were cold against her bare feet. She stopped, leaning over, the better to hear. Faint noises in the distance, a lone car probably speeding down Court Street. A streak of light shooting off the front window. She waited. Quiet again except for her racing heart. She retraced her steps, sat on the side of the bed, and checked the clock. It was after five. She decided to get an early start. They could use the money and who knew what Cassandra Thatchley was going to do before handing over the ransom. Cookie shook her head. Fina was always getting nuttsoville clients. If some guy ever stole one of her kids, she’d never give him money: she’d rip the guy apart with her bare hands.
After making the bed, taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she threw on her surveillance disguise—Clancy’s old hat and coat and sunglasses—grabbed a stool, and headed for Columbia Heights, Cassandra Thatchley’s street backing onto the Promenade. There was a large tree across from the client’s house, so Cookie opened her stool and sat behind it, her eyes glued to the batty woman’s stoop. She listened to her stomach growl and wondered if she could make it without food until noon. She was not a breakfast skipper. Matter of fact, she was not a meal skipper, period, end of story.
No sooner had she sat but it seemed the neighborhood sprang to life. A few early risers in this part of the Heights, probably going to work on Wall Street. She saw a car enter from the far end of the block and slowly make its way toward her—the newspaper delivery person, she realized when she saw log-like objects flying out of the driver’s window. She wondered who read those printed jobs anymore.
She was starting to get sleepy when a light came on inside the Thatchleys’ parlor. Cookie swallowed, feeling her heart pounding a tattoo in her temples. In a few minutes, the door opened and a hooded specter-like creature in black ran down the steps. Cookie shivered, wondering if she’d have to tail Cassandra so soon. The house’s front light went off and she waited until the form loped to the end of the block before picking up her stool and following. It was a man, she was almost sure, although the figure’s hips were a little too wide. But the gait was like a guy’s, probably Cassandra’s son. She watched as he got into a cab and sped away. No chance of catching him. Besides, her job was to watch Cassandra, so she went back to her tree and sat. She didn’t think the Thatchley woman would be moving so soon—the client’s handoff to the kidnappers wasn’t supposed to happen until noon. She opened her backpack and got out trusty Emma, opening it to one of the many dog-eared pages.
A smallish figure in a long black coat entered the block and walked toward Cookie. A female, this time, she was sure. Cookie checked her watch, a little after seven thirty, and waited while the white-mopped woman climbed Cassandra’s stoop and stood for a second before inserting a key. She must be Cassandra’s housekeeper. She entered the house and shut the door. Now the neighborhood was alive, pedestrians hurrying to who knew where, neighbors leaving for work, cabs all over the place. Cookie was so hungry by now she could eat a full-course breakfast. Ham and eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast crisped just right and oozing with butter. As she dreamed of the first bite, the Thatchley door opened again and a woman with long curls emerged. That had to be Cassandra herself. It was a little after eight in the morning and Cookie wondered where she was going so early. She stowed Emma and picked up her stool.
Cookie gulped as she prepared to follow. God forbid the woman should get into a car; she hadn’t thought of that. She’d never find her. But no, head down and hands in pockets, Cassandra Thatchley made her way down the block and turned into the park. Leaning on the back of the bench, she stared into space while Cookie hid behind a tree across the street. Waiting. Presently the woman turned onto Pierrepont, walked to Henry, and turned once again, stopping a few feet from Heights Bank before climbing the steps and disappearing. Cookie waited inside the doorway of the deli across the street, nearly fainting, what with the smell of richly brewed coffee. Hash browns, too. She’d order some of those just as soon as that Cassandra broad got to wherever she was going. Getting cash for the kidnappers. As she was picturing a steaming platter set before her, the scent overpowering, Cassandra Thatchley emerged, this time standing in front of the bank and counting a huge wad of money before stuffing it into a plastic bag, which she held in plain sight—what a stupid broad—and continuing down the block. Not for nothing, wasn’t this a typical Fina client? Counting her millions in broad daylight. The hour, close to nine in the morning.
Cassandra would have lots of time to kill, Cookie thought as she followed the woman from a few blocks away. Cookie had to hurry to keep up with her. Now the woman was turning onto Court Street. Swell. Every crook’s dream, a woman alone with a wad of cash practically gleaming in the light, and didn’t they love this street to hang out on.
“Where’s this woman going?” She must have spoken that last one out loud because a pedestrian gave her a look before scurrying past. Cookie sped up and shot her back a special smirk.
Cassandra Thatchley picked up her pace and so did Cookie, a little out of breath. She could order bacon too when this was over and still lose her pound and a half. Two, probably, what with the tossing and turning all night. At least wherever the woman was going was downhill.
Then it hit Cookie. The plan to meet the kidnappers at noon must have changed. She wouldn’t put it past Cassandra not to tell Fina. Or maybe she had, but Fina hadn’t gotten the message because she was being held by the perps. So now Cassandra Thatchley was on her way to meet Dorset’s snatchers, and here she was, Cookie, all alone. Jane was somewhere with Fina. Clancy, Denny, and Willoughby were who knew where, chasing after Fina.
Her heart rode up into her throat. Think, Cookie. She pulled out her phone and began punching wildly, but the thing wouldn’t turn on.
Swell. She leaned against a brick wall, panting. She had to think. But just as she was ready to chuck it, her phone sprang to life, and she called the first person she could think of. Lorraine.
Downhill, at least it was downhill.
Cookie half ran trying to keep up with Cassandra as she talked into the speaker. “That crazy client is meeting the kidnappers now.”
“Cookie?”
Thank God the Thatchley woman was stopping.
“It’s me. No one but me.”
Cookie stopped, gasping for air and swiping at the sweat on her forehead. “I need backup. Prospect and Washington Streets. Hurry. Cassandra Thatchley’s early with the handover.” Ragged gulps of air. “You’ll have to grab the twins and take them with.”
“Twins are with their nanny. I’m in the car on my way to find Fina.”
“The whole world’s in their cars, trying to find Fina. I need you more.”
After she’d given Lorraine directions, Cookie unfolded her stool and sat behind a parked car. She shut her lids for a second, trying to steady herself, then kept her eyes peeled on Cassandra, who was standing by the lamppost doing a short pace, holding the plastic bag underneath one arm. How obvious could she be? She saw the woman look at her watch, then do more pacing. Round and round in a sort of circle the crazy broad walked. Stopped, shielding her eyes and peering down one street, then another. Looking at her watch again.
Would Lorraine make it before the kidnappers arrived? If not, Cookie would have to take care of the crooks herself. She could do it. Sure, she could.
Cookie looked down the street. A group of kids came into view. Ten to twelve years old, Cookie thought. About twenty of them. They must be heading for the pedestrian entryway to the Brooklyn Bridge just a few yards away. Laughing, shouting, the kids were happy. Who wouldn’t be, no school. Four or five adults with them tried to straighten the lines, bending to talk to some of the boys, who stopped their fighting.
Cookie jumped up and dow
n now. Where was Lorraine? What if the perp had a gun and one of the kids got shot? A line of cars waiting at the stoplight up ahead started to move toward her when the light turned green. Most veered off to enter the bridge’s roadway. Cookie squinted. But two of the cars were heading in her direction. Cookie didn’t know her cars, but one was dark and the one behind it was old. Lorraine’s. She was sure of it. Cookie almost wet her pants. That was the other thing she’d forgotten to do before she left the house. When would she learn to take care of herself? She’d just have to deal with it somehow.
The dark car stopped a few paces ahead of Cassandra Thatchley and a man got out. He must have been at least six feet and he wore a wool hat low over his forehead and eyebrows, his collar pulled up. Hands in his pockets, he walked toward Cassandra.
Cookie ran for them as Lorraine slammed on her brakes.
When the wool hat saw her, he began sprinting toward the stone steps leading to the bridge walkway, careening into the bunch of kids blocking his way. For a second it was bedlam as the man and the kids were buffeted about. That gave Lorraine enough time to catch up to him. Reaching out, she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him backward, tripping him as Cassandra disappeared and kids flowed around the struggling pair. Adults shouted, moving the kids away as if they were chicks in a barnyard.
“Sit on him!” Lorraine yelled when Cookie got there.
So Cookie did, hearing the grunt of the man as she sat, not too gracefully, on his back. Any minute she’d pee on him and maybe then he’d stop his squirming.
Cookie watched Lorraine punch in numbers and talk into her phone. “Quick. Police. Prospect and Washington.”
Slate Quarry Road
My whole body ached, and for several minutes I couldn’t open my eyes. I was alone except for a rhythmical suspiration coming from a few feet away—someone breathing, I soon realized. I kept very still and listened. There was a rustling of fabric or maybe it was straw, a faint sound of metal hitting wood, then a crunching. Soft munching. The rattling of a chain. Hooves stomping. An animal. I was in a barn.
“Hello?”
More crunching. My friend was eating. A soft moo.
“What’s your name?”
No response. I waited, wishing I spoke cow. More mooing.
I was no farmer, but I didn’t think cows were dangerous, especially when they were eating.
Listening to my friend in the next stall, I assessed my situation. Not only could I not find Dorset, but I’d gotten us into a total mess. I said us because Jane was in the same mess, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t blame her if she never talked to me again, assuming she was still alive. My heart started galloping and I had to assure myself she was, what, smart enough not to die? I swallowed and tried to imagine a peaceful scene, but it didn’t work.
I felt cold even though I still wore my jacket. I blew on my fingers to warm them. It was so dark I couldn’t see my hand even when I held it up in front of my face. I wiggled my toes and moved my legs, rattling metal. Opened my mouth. At least I wasn’t tied up.
Remembering my knife, I pulled it out of my back pocket. It was too small to do serious damage, but it might prove useful. I felt around for my bag but couldn’t find it. At best it was still in the trunk of the car that had brought us here.
I tried to stand, but the room started spinning, so I sat down again and tried to make sense of where I was and how I was going to hook up with Jane and how we were going to find Dorset. I needed a plan, and as I rolled the word around in my mouth, I think I might have slept. I dreamed of water. Denny and the twins were in a boat moving away from me. I reached out but couldn’t touch them.
When I woke up, I tried to stand again. Success. I took a few steps and halted. Something was digging into me, preventing movement. I felt a thick large band circling my ankle. I pulled on it and it rattled. Loose. Maybe I could slip it off, but owing to my foot, no such luck. I yanked on it, hoping I could break it. No luck. With my fingers I followed the chain as far as I could, twisting and half-standing by pulling the metal taut and leaning my good shoulder against the wall. I reached up for the end of the chain but couldn’t touch it. Losing my balance, I tumbled over, my back hitting wooden planks. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I told myself not to be such a wuss. I needed to get a grip. My life depended on it, and so did Jane’s and Dorset’s if and when I found them. If they were here. Scrunching into a ball, I rested my head on my knees and listened to my heart beating so loudly I told it to be quiet. I held my breath and the room started to spin. I think I might have gone back to sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw shapes through a watery blur. Maybe one was Jane? Straw all over the floor and a large pile of it in the corner. Slowly the forms began taking on greater definition. Looking beyond my chain snaking its way to a stud in back of me, I realized chinks of daylight were coming in from some loose boards on the far wall. I redirected my attention to the shapes I’d seen a moment ago. Not Jane. Instead, they were barnyard implements—a few pails, a strange-looking shovel, a rake, a pitchfork. If only I could get to them, I’d have weapons. I crawled as far as my shackle would allow and stretched until I thought my arm would come out of its socket, but for now they were unreachable.
“Damn.” I must have said that last one out loud because Bessie, or whatever her name was, began mooing again. Maybe she was hungry, or maybe she objected to a swear. She was moving back and forth in her stall, I could tell, because every once in a while she hit the planks separating us and I wondered what would happen if she hit them hard enough and the wood gave way. For one thing, I would be free.
Suddenly I was aware of a form before me, a finger to her lips. Jane.
“How did you?”
“Shhh! We’ve got to find Dorset. I keep hearing someone crying. It sounds like a ten-year-old.”
“It’s a cow.”
“Take that thing off your ankle.”
“That’s just it, I can’t.”
“Take your shoe off first. Then try.”
I could feel my cheeks burning as I slipped off my sneaker. Rocking back and forth, I was able to slide the metal past my heel and arch, although it scraped a large chunk of skin with it. I was free, but I couldn’t look at Jane.
She handed me a handkerchief, telling me to use it to staunch the blood. “You’ll need a tetanus shot unless you die first from the shock.” To her credit, she said nothing else, not even a “you owe me.”
With care I put the sneaker back on and took a few trial steps, glad Denny wasn’t there to see me crouching and limping like some ancient crab searching for water.
By this time there was enough light to see we were in a barn with animal stalls on both sides of a long corridor. It smelled deep and musty. Only one cow and no other beasts as far as I could tell.
We searched one stall at a time, opening each gate and moving swiftly, kicking straw with our feet, my shoulder and foot each beating their own drum.
The moaning grew louder as we walked deeper into the barn.
No flashlight, so we had to rely on ambient light, which grew brighter by the minute. The last stall was padlocked, and a shot of hope mixed with fear coursed through me.
I stared at the top of the gate, sweat pouring down my face, and felt my curls kink.
Jane stood next to me, breathing heavily for a second. “It’s your turn to climb.”
It was the least I could do. Glad I’d worn sneakers and thankful I’d insisted on climbing the backyard apple tree as a kid, I jumped up and clung to the highest board, a sanded two-by-four. My left foot screamed as slowly I ascended, grunting and sweating, until I reached the top.
“Hurry. I hear footsteps.”
I jumped down into the stall, careful not to land on my bad foot, and looked around. A hole in the roof let in light and I could see the sky, now a deep, clear blue. A few fading stars twinkled overhead, one of them maybe Mom’s special planet. I sent her a silent prayer and she seemed to wink back at me.
Then I peered
into the room. Strange, I know sometimes I make things up, but I had the distinct feeling I smelled lilacs mixed in with the other country odors. I remembered being in Dorset’s room and the strong scent of the perfume her father had given her. I headed for the mound of straw in the far corner and knew even before I’d uncovered the last blanket.
There before me, one hand clutching a red notebook, was Dorset Clauson. Over jeans, a sweater and blouse, she wore a blue coat with a collar and a baseball cap pushed down so low that it bent her ears. Her face was covered in dirt and streaked with dried tears.
She looked up at me, and I swear I saw stars twinkling in her eyes. “Do you play for the Yankees?” She grinned.
“Don’t be afraid. Your mom sent me. I’m here to take you home.” Although at that moment I couldn’t figure out how we were going to do that.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Hurry!” Jane cried, pounding on the gate. “Let me in!”
With that I heard sounds of a struggle and the lock turning. The gate flew open, banging against the wall, and Jane staggered in before us, her eyes wild, a stranger’s gloved hand over her mouth.
The pair inched forward and I realized something sharp must be sticking into Jane’s back.
The detective scowled a muffled something. It sounded like, “You’ll never get away with this.”
All at once she doubled over and elbowed herself free, headfirst flying into the stall, sliding across the dirt floor and landing in the bed of straw next to me and Dorset. Picking herself up, she lunged at her assailant, but with a jerk of her head, she stopped.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 27