The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  “Why, Molly?” Mitch demanded.

  “To save her,” she replied, munching on her cake.

  Mitch shook his head. “Okay, will someone please tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  And so Molly did. She told him about how Des had hollered at her to make a run for it. How she’d escaped out the kitchen door as Des fought Clay for his gun, which had gone off twice and shattered the glass but missed her. How she dashed around front to the lane, which was teeming with state troopers who’d heard the shots and wanted to know what was going on. How she ran right by them and straight into Jen’s house to tell Jen’s mother. “If I’d told the troopers myself they would have held me there,” she explained. Then she’d dashed out the door of their house and run straight for Big Sister to e-mail him.

  Bella picked up the story from there. She’d come home from dinner with her yoga mates to find Molly there. When Molly told her what had happened she phoned Des’s friend Yolie Snipes. Yolie came right out to question Molly, then advised them that Molly may as well stay put on Big Sister for now. Sour Cherry had already been completely evacuated except for Emergency Services personnel.

  “Mitch, the situation could not be worse for Des,” Bella informed him, her face etched with concern. “Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva are holding her hostage in the Procter house. They’re armed, dangerous and desperate. They’ve already killed Molly’s father.”

  “Clay kept telling Des that they didn’t,” Molly said. “But she doesn’t believe him, and neither do I. They killed my dad.”

  “And now they’re going to kill Des unless the authorities back off,” Bella went on. “They want safe passage out of there. They intend to take Des with them. Once they’re safely across the border in Mexico they say they’ll release her.”

  “Like hell they will,” Mitch said grimly. “Molly, where’s your mom right now?”

  “She’s safe,” Bella answered. “Des is the only one there with them.”

  “Okay, I get the picture….” Mitch said. “But in the immortal words of Harry Longbaugh, better known as the Sundance Kid, who are these guys?”

  Molly repeated what she’d heard Des tell Clay in the kitchen—that the Feds were convinced he and Hector were big-time drug traffickers who’d turned her home into a crystal meth stash house. The meth was hidden down in the root cellar, Molly believed, because Clay had ordered her never, ever to go down there. When she asked him why he’d smacked her so hard that her ear rang for a whole day.

  Mitch was genuinely shaken to learn that Clay Mundy had struck this little girl. He went to Molly and hugged her. Or tried.

  “Now is not the time to get all feely, Mitch,” she scolded him. “Des needs us.”

  He released her, glancing over at Bella. “Not to be negative, but do we know for a fact that Des is still alive?”

  “No, we don’t,” Bella had to admit. “No has spoken with her. Or seen her through any of the windows. The hostage negotiators keep asking Clay to put her on the phone, but he refuses to.”

  “She’s alive,” Molly said insistently.

  “How do you know that?” Mitch asked her.

  “Because she has to be.”

  “They don’t know if she’s wounded or she’s tied up someplace or what,” Bella said fretfully. “Which Yolie told us creates a very troubling, uh, what did she call it, sweetie?”

  “A hold fire scenario,” Molly answered promptly. “They’ve got this big huge SWAT team in place but right now it’s a standoff.”

  Bella nodded. “Yolie said if it lasts much longer they may have to resort to bean bags.”

  “That means they fire a charge from a shotgun that won’t kill anyone,” Molly explained. “It stings and distracts the perpetrators while the SWAT guys storm the building.”

  “But it’s very risky,” Bella pointed out. “Because they don’t know exactly where in the house Des is.”

  “Mitch, I know where she is,” Molly said. “Just before Des went for the gun Clay was talking about showing her the stash of drugs in our root cellar. First, he wanted to tie her up with a rope. I swear that’s what he did. Tied her up and threw her in the root cellar. That’s why no on has seen her through the windows.”

  “Makes sense. What did Yolie say when you told her?”

  Molly lowered her eyes. “I didn’t.”

  “She sure didn’t,” Bella added disapprovingly. “This is all news to me.”

  “Why didn’t you, Molly?”

  “Because it’s my fault Des is in trouble,” the girl explained. “See, I accidentally left my library book over there. And it was due back. You have to return them on time. It’s really important.”

  “It’s not that important.”

  “It is, too, Mitch! And don’t you ever say otherwise because you are totally wrong. When I went over there to get it Clay wouldn’t let me leave. So Des got in the house with this totally lame story about us going to a Connecticut Sun game together. She put her life on the line for me. I can’t let anything happen to her, Mitch. I just can’t.”

  “So why didn’t you tell Yolie where you think she might be?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  “I repeat, why didn’t you?”

  “For the same reason I didn’t tell her that I also know how to sneak Des out of there right under Clay and Hector’s noses.”

  “And this reason is …?”

  “Because you’re the one who has to save her, Mitch. You two love each other. You belong together. Duh, don’t you know that?”

  “Molly, this is a serious life and death situation. We’re talking about real life here, not some dumb old Hollywood …” Mitch caught himself, sighing inwardly.

  Molly peered at him quizzically. “Not some dumb old Hollywood what?”

  “Nothing. I was just about to say the very words that a certain green-eyed individual used to say to me at times like this. Allow me to appreciate the irony of the moment.”

  “Mitch, you have to decide. Are you going to save Des or aren’t you?”

  “Neither. I’m calling Yolie right now and telling her everything.”

  Molly rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, you are not. Come on, will you? We’re wasting valuable time.”

  Mitch barged past Bella into the kitchen and dug around in the cupboard under the sink for the box of Cocoa Puffs he’d left hidden there behind the drain cleaner and furniture polish. Returned to the living room with it and plopped down in the easy chair, munching on a chocolaty good handful. That was one of the really great things about Cocoa Puffs—you never had to worry about them getting stale. “Okay, go ahead and tell me what you want to tell me. And I’ll listen. But I’m making you no promises, understood?”

  “Okay,” Molly agreed. “But first you have to tell me something really important.”

  “Which is …?”

  “What in the heck did they do to your eyebrows?”

  CHAPTER 13

  DARKNESS.

  Such total blackness that Des could not even tell whether her eyes were open or shut. Slowly, as she came back to the land of the living, the first thought to enter her semiconscious mind was that she’d gone blind. Must have. Until, that is, another explanation crept its way in: There is something over my eyes. Yes, that was it. She was in a hospital bed wearing thick protective bandages over them. Got herself into an awful accident of some kind. What kind? Had she been high-speed chasing someone? Did she flip her Crown Vic? Have to be airlifted out by Life Star helicopter? Had Mitch come to see her yet? Was he right here by her bedside? She couldn’t remember. Started to reach a hand toward her bandaged eyes … and discovered she couldn’t. Not without experiencing a spasm of pain in her shoulder so intense that she couldn’t so much as move her hand. Either hand. Her wrists seemed to be joined tight behind her back. It was almost as if someone had cuffed them that way. Or bound them together with some sturdy …

  And now she remembered.

  Molly running for the French door
s. Her diving for Clay’s Glock as he opened fire. Wrestling him for it. Hector jumping her from behind. And then the explosion in her head that made everything go black. Hector must have cracked her over the head with something. And then they’d tied her up and dumped her here in this totally black place that smelled of damp earth and mold. The root cellar. Of course, they’d shoved her through the trapdoor into the root cellar beneath the kitchen.

  But where was Molly?

  As she lay there, blinded only by the darkness, Des took inventory of herself. She lay on her side in a fetal position, ankles bound together as tight as her wrists were. Something was stuffed in her mouth, she realized, her tongue probing it carefully. A rag of some kind. Her head ached something fierce, and the back of her neck felt wet. Her head wound must have bled. Her ribs throbbed where they’d kicked her. Arms seemed to be bare. The ground felt cold against them. Her fingers groped for the back of her shirt. It felt like a T-shirt or, no wait, a polo shirt. Right, she’d changed out of her uni before she got here. Which was when? How long had she been unconscious? How much time had passed since Molly made that dash for the door?

  And where was Molly?

  Had the little girl taken a bullet or gotten away? Was she safe? Was she lying dead somewhere? Or was Molly down here with her in this root cellar, bound and gagged same as she was? Des made a soft, inquiring noise through that rag in her mouth. More like whimper than anything else. Listened for a response. Heard nothing. Not so much as the sound of someone else breathing. She was alone down here.

  Unless Molly was with her but was dead.

  Slowly, Des tried to wriggle into a seated position. But she couldn’t seem to make her body obey. Any sort of a movement made her head ache so badly that she began to feel really nauseated. Which was so not an option. Not with that damned rag stuffed in her mouth…. I cannot throw up. I must not throw up. I will choke on my own vomit and die a horrible death like Mr. Jimi…. She flopped back down to the damp earth, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Breathed slowly and evenly through her nose, in and out, in and out. Steadying herself until the nausea passed. But she would have to take it easy. Was showing all of the classic symptoms of a concussion, including that weird memory muddle when she’d first come to. Thinking Mitch would be there by her bedside. Whew, how ill was that?

  She could hear sirens now. And cars approaching. Lots of cars. Brakes squealing. Doors slamming. There were rapid footsteps on the creaky kitchen floorboards directly over her head, followed by the murmur of angry voices. She did not hear a girl’s voice. No Molly. Just the two men, Clay and Hector. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. Only that they were arguing about something.

  The gunshots, of course.

  The troopers on the barricade had heard Clay open fire and now the cavalry was coming. Which meant she hadn’t been out for more than twenty minutes. Also that Clay and Hector were in some deep, deep trouble. Armed SWAT teams would soon be boxing them in from every direction. As her fuzzy brain grabbed hold of just how utterly screwed those two were, something else dawned upon Des:

  I am their hostage.

  They hadn’t dumped her down in this cellar to rot. She was their human bargaining chip. And Molly? Molly must be dead. Had to be dead. Why else would they bother to keep me alive? She’d gotten the poor girl killed. Should have called Rico as soon she’d heard from Jen. Shouldn’t have gone in solo. But she had and Molly Procter, age nine, was gone.

  Des lay there, grief-stricken and tormented by guilt. And yet also curiously aware that she’d be spared from having to cope with these awful feelings for long. Because she and Molly would be linked for eternity on this night. She was not going to get out of this alive either. It would not end well. She felt it. She knew it. Not because her life was passing before her eyes right now so much as because it was exposing itself to her. Allowing her, once and for all, to see the absolute truth of things with incredible clarity. Like the real reason for those dizzy spells. The elevated blood pressure and pulse rate. The constant clenching in her stomach. Abandoning the art that had given her life so much glorious purpose. Put it all together and it added up to fool. She knew that now. Knew what her own body had been trying to tell her all along:

  I should have stayed with Mitch.

  She’d convinced herself that she was happy with Brandon. He felt right. Their life together felt right. Hell, it was the life that she was supposed to lead. And Brandon was the man who she was supposed to be with, until death do us part. Except she’d been lying to herself these past three months. She hadn’t taken Brandon back because she loved him. She’d done it because she was nothing more than a great big wuss. Brandon was the easy choice. The safe choice. Not to mention so handsome and accomplished that there wasn’t a sister on the planet who wouldn’t trade places with her in a heartbeat. None of which counted for a damned thing, she realized now—when it was too late to make it right. But at the very least she could admit the truth to herself as she lay here in the Procters’ root cellar on this the last night of her short and unheroic life.

  I should have stayed with Mitch.

  Instead, she’d blocked out her feelings. Refused to recognize how happy she’d been with that tubby, schlubby Jewish man who’d spent most of his own life sitting in dark rooms staring at a wall. How desperately she’d missed him. Mitch Berger had been her soul mate. When they hooked up she finally became the woman who she’d always wanted to be. Someone who never had to hide a single feeling. Someone open, unafraid, confident, herself. Even now the doughboy was still inside of her. Just hearing from Bella that he’d be working in L.A. from now on with Miss Hawaii had been enough to floor her. And yet when he’d handed her his heart, free and clear, she’d wimped out. She who wasn’t afraid to walk into the line of fire.

  God, what a mess I’ve made of everything.

  And now she knew it. Now when she would never get the chance to tell Mitch how sorry she was. Because her time had run out. All Des had left were these last precious moments in this dark cellar where she could see things so very clearly. And maybe, before death came, take care of one final piece of personal business.

  Des closed her eyes and she prayed.

  CHAPTER 14

  “OKAY, WE HAVE TO be really, really quiet now,” Molly gasped in his ear as they neared the edge of the woods. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” Mitch whispered, his chest rising and falling from the dash they’d made across the Nature Preserve.

  “We can’t use our flashlight either—these woods are crawling with Feds. But I know the path home. Just follow me. And try to stay down, will you?”

  Into the darkened woods they plunged, hunkered low like two woodchucks in sneakers. Molly a silent, sure-footed creature of the night as she led them along the invisible footpath, her damp little hand clutching his. Mitch bringing up the rear blindly and not at all nimbly. He stumbled repeatedly over fallen branches and exposed tree roots. Fell to the ground more than once. But he found Molly’s hand and kept on going, nose to the dirt.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. Off in the distance there was a flicker of lightning. The all-out summer downpour that ace storm tracker Jim Cantore had promised would soon arrive in Dorset. For now the night air remained warm, drizzly and dead calm. Mitch was drenched with sweat, mosquitoes feasting on him.

  Molly had won out. He’d agreed to go along with her rescue plan. Hadn’t called Yolie. Hadn’t so much as thought about it. Des needed him. That was all that mattered. It meant everything in the world according to Mitch, which was to say the world according to MGM, RKO and the brothers Warner. When a woman from out of your romantic past needed you, you answered the call. So what if she’d broken your heart? If she was in danger you showed up. You didn’t wonder if it was the right thing to do. You didn’t hesitate. Did Cagney? Did Errol Flynn? Coop? The Duke? Hell no, pilgrim. Neither did Mitch Berger. Which explained why he was now dog-trotting his way through these woods with this strange, fearless little girl, armed only wi
th a little flashlight that he couldn’t use, a pair of wire cutters and Saul Mandelbaum’s old Baby Terrier—the pocket-sized iron pry bar that his grandfather opened crates with back when he drove a produce truck to and from the Hunt’s Point Market.

  Here was how Molly had laid out her plan before they left:

  “Our root cellar has four air vents, see?” she explained as she made a quick sketch on a notepad at the table. The vents resembled small windows in the farmhouse’s foundation. Mitch’s place had similar such vents. “They’re covered on the outside with quarter-inch wire mesh to keep the little critters out. Under the wire there’s this inch-thick plywood vent cover that gets screwed into place from inside the cellar. We put the covers in over the winter to keep our pipes from freezing. Once spring comes my dad takes them off or the kitchen gets all mildewy. Except he was so messed up this year he forgot. So the vent covers are still on, okay?” Molly paused to finish her glass of milk, licking her upper lip clean. Bella offered her more. She politely declined. “I bet Clay and Hector have never noticed them,” she continued. “It’s dark down there. And it’s not their house. So why would they even care, right?”

  “Right,” Mitch said, standing over her with his eyes on the notepad.

  “Anybody who’s standing outside can see three of the vents.” Molly ticked them off one by one with her pencil. “This one in front. And this one that faces the driveway. And this one over here by the chimney. So forget them. The troopers will spot you right away and blow the whistle.” She grinned up at him. “But thefourth one faces the barn in back. And it’s underneath the deck my dad put in when he installed those French doors. It comes out sixteen feet from the back of the house and it’s raised twenty-eight inches off of the ground. That should give you okay head clearance. And the vent is twenty-two and a quarter inches wide by fourteen and three-eighths high.”

  “Um, okay, just exactly how do you know that?”