by GC Smith
The kid shrugged causing the vivid multicolored print of his shirt to billow around his protruding gut. “Jeez, mister, I only delivers. AAA Couriers gives me the stuff and they tells me where at to take it. I don't never know who send it.”
“All right,” Trent said, handing the kid five bucks. The kid stuffed the tip into a pocket of his baggy shorts and left the office with a rolling gait.
MacAndrews asked, “What's the message?”
“The rest of the payout instructions,” Trent said. “I'm to transfer the money to a numbered account in the Caymans Depository and Trust. The note says any trace attempt will be useless. That's correct. I'm familiar with Caymans banking laws.
“I'll comply with their demands, but I'm afraid that they'll kill her anyway. I'm getting John Donal in on this.”
“Who's Donal?”
“Probably the best P.I. in the business.” Trent explained that it was Donal who had uncovered the Capers's madness and solved the razor murders. But, they disappeared before they could be apprehended,” Trent said.
MacAndrews heard him out and then said, “I'm going over to Moultrie Bay with you.”
“What for?”
“I'm the one who hired Capers and provided him a base of operations. He stole my Ferrari and the Blowfish's bus from my hotel's parking lot. If I'd checked up on him, as I should have, he never would have gotten close enough to Miss Chatrian to pull this off. His accomplice used my name. Capers has involved me in this kidnapping and I'm staying involved until he's caught.” MacAndrews stopped, then said, “I suppose I sound like a ass, but I'm damn mad. I don't like being used.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The Blue Ridge Mountains
September 15
Near dusk Claudia waked. Sleep had restored her, the drug hangover was gone. She moved from the bed across the room to a high window. Dense coniferous trees, pine mixed with spruce, crowded in on the ground around the cabin. Claudia surveyed the room. It contained a double bed flanked by Maplewood night tables. A chair upholstered in cheerful yellow chintz matched curtains that hung at the window. Beside the chair was a low round table. A dresser, also of Maplewood, was backed by a framed mirror.
Claudia looked at her image in the glass and pushed at her disheveled hair. Her dress was wrinkled and soiled. Her dark eyes and hair emphasized the stark whiteness of her face.
A radio sat on a night table and she turned it on,
shocked as her voice filled the room.
I need you near me, when cold winds blow I need you near me, wherever I go.
I need your loving, every day, every night. Your body up close; you holding me tight.
I've traveled alone all over this land. I thought I was free, no one holding my hand. But, I didn't know the ways of your love. How we fit together, like a hand in a glove.
…Need you. Need you. Near me.
The music faded and she heard the disc jockey say, ‘Straight to you from WHCM Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was Claudia Chatrian, the purring cat, with “Need You Near Me.” Tops the pops and country charts. Cross over record of the decade.
‘Where is our lady, Claudia? The police report no progress in the search for her and her abductors. When news breaks we'll have it for you at once here on WHCM.’
The announcer said that she had been missing two days. So today must be Sunday? Monday? She wasn't sure. Footsteps approached the room. She was terrified that it was the one she thought of as the simian, or the other man, Pete whoever, who had exhibited a cold efficiency when he drugged her. Her arm muscle ached where he had inserted the hypodermic needle.
The bolt slipped back with a sharp click.
Claudia turned toward the door as the blond man came in. “Hi.” His voice, soft and pleasant, matched by his smile.
She backed away, wary.
“Are you feeling better,” he asked? She stood frozen.
“Don't be afraid. This is a business deal. When your lawyer comes through with the money, it will all be over. You'll go home.”
Struggling against paralyzing fear, she asked, “Where are the others?”
“They've gone to get the ransom money.”
She found the courage to ask, “May I wash? I feel filthy.”
He smiled again, “Of course. Wait just a minute.”
He left the room, keying the lock as he went. Minutes later he returned with a roll bag. “There are fresh clothes for you. And makeup and things. The bathroom is down the hall,” he said, holding the door and allowing her to proceed him.
Claudia recognized the bag as hers, obviously taken from her hotel room. She opened it to find clothing, lingerie, shoes, makeup, and toiletries all of which belonged to her. Having the bag with her own things was somehow comforting. She showered and changed. The clean clothes felt great.
Before leaving the bathroom, Claudia examined the tiny window set high in the wall, as in the bedroom, it too was secured. Escape appeared to be impossible.
But the knowledge that the others had left somewhat reassured her. The blond man seemed sympathetic, giving her faint hope that she might be able to maneuver him into helping her. She didn't know how much time she had before the others returned, but she was certain that it would not be much.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Moultrie Bay, SC
September 15
Donal sat at the kitchen counter nursing a three aspirin hangover with a steaming cup of black coffee. The cat stood on the counter, shoving her furry head under Donal's hand, insisting that he pet her.
The previous evening had started out sedate enough but two hours into the USC, Moultrie Bay campus, Board of Trustee’s black tie reception, Victoria had tapped his shoulder and whispered: “Duty's done. They'll never miss us. Come-on, baby, let's get out of here.”
“God,” he muttered, and thought, getting out of the USC reception had been quick and easy; getting home was a whole other story. Evening had turned to night and night to
morning. It had been five A.M. when they had finally rolled in. Gourmet dinner at the Moultrie Bay Inn and then, like fools, driving to a redneck bar in Jasper County.
What a joint, parking lot full of both shiny new and rusted pickups; bar full of good old boys and their babes drinking Bud long necks. He and Victoria joining right in. Dancing and drinking all night. The taxi home had cost eighty dollars, Victoria tipsy, laughing and chattering throughout the ride, threatening to get a 'cute little tattoo' like one of those worn by the women they had met in the dancin' and fightin’ joint. Adding to injury, Donal, after today's NFL game, would have to get Mike or A.J. to drive him back to the Jasper County bar's parking lot to get the XK 120. If she doesn't have a head as bad as mine, there ain't no justice in the world, Donal thought.
Donal heard the kid kachunk the Sunday Fishwrap against the front door. Carefully he moved his worn carcass from the stool and retrieved the paper. He returned to the kitchen, poured a second cup of coffee, and pulled the thick red rubber band from the paper.
A front page story carried the head:
ACTRESS - SONGSTRESS, CLAUDIA CHATRIAN KIDNAPPED
-- FOUR MILLION DOLLAR RANSOM DEMANDED
Donal glanced at the grainy AP photo and skimmed the
details of Claudia Chatrian's abduction. Jesus Christ, he thought, the Gazette is supposed to be a newspaper. This reads like shit in a supermarket checkout tabloid.
Donal tossed the front section aside and turned to the sports. The Carolina Panthers were two and ought on the new season having lost the opener to the Falcons in overtime and week two to Tampa Bay by a point. Unfortunate losses, but still, not a bad start. They just might have a season; if their QB played up to his ability; and if the coaching staff had managed to teach hanging on to the ball to the fumble-prone backfield. Today's game against the 'Niners' would be interesting.
Victoria appeared, fresh faced, eyes sparkling. She pecked Donal on the forehead and chucked the cat under its chin. “Morning, lover. Any chili left in the 'fridg
e?”
The cat purred. Donal groaned.
Victoria wore a short robe, silky midnight blue, sashed around her trim waist. Her hair, still sleep tousled, gleamed gold as the sun caught it. “I'm starved. Beer and a bowl of chili will hit the spot.”
Donal again groaned, “My God, Victoria, after last night how can you?”
“Hung over, baby?”
“You're not?”
“Nope. Any cheese in the fridge,” she asked, rummaging? “How about jalapenos and onions?”
“You're unbelievable.”
“Does that mean that you don't want any?”
“God no, I don't want any.”
Donal felt queasy just watching her ladle the red glop into a bowl and hit it with a triple shake of Tabasco. She stirred hot peppers, onions, and cheese through the viscous concoction and popped the mess into the microwave oven.
“Probably don't want a beer either. What time do we have to be at A.J.'s?”
“Before the one o'clock kickoff.”
“You and Mike and A.J. going to scream at each other again?”
“Sure. Yellin' is the best part of watching football. Besides, football in the South’s religion.”
“That’s college ball.”
“Not on Sundays it ain’t. We’ll convert you yet.”
“Never.”
“Oh, yes, we will, sweet lady.”
“Oh, no, you won't.” Victoria picked up the front
section of the fishwrap. “Johnny, did you see this article,” she said?
“What article?”
“The kidnapping.”
“I glanced at it but didn't read more than a sentence or two of that tripe. Who's Claudia Chatrian?”
“You live in your own world, Johnny Donal; football and felons. Claudia Chatrian's is about the best known name in the U.S., if not the world. She acts; she sings; she designs tres chic clothing.”
“Oh, yeah,” Donal said, “now I know who she is. She sticks fancy labels on stuff and charges beaucoup bucks.”
“Not stuff. And her prices are in line.” Victoria took the lapel of her silk robe between thumb and forefinger, and leaned forward, showing him the tiny embroidered CC logo. “This little number is a Chatrian.” Victoria picked up the bowl of chili and her beer, and said, “I'm going to shower and dress, it's getting late.”
“Gonna eat the chili in the shower?”
She stuck her tongue out at him and left the room. The cat followed.
Donal turned his attention back to the sports section, checking the rest of that day's NFL schedule. He refilled his coffee cup for the third time and looked again at the front page photo that accompanied the kidnapping story, his curiosity aroused by Victoria's interest. He began to read the article. Minutes later he dropped the front section into the scrambled pile of the rest of the newspaper, thinking that the story he had just read was a lot of Hollywood hooey. A publicity stunt, pure and simple. He stretched, glanced at his watch and said, “Christ.” It was a ten after twelve and he went to get dressed.
Victoria came out of the bathroom pinning her hair away from her face with combs. Without makeup, the spray of freckles that crossed the bridge of her nose was distinctly noticeable.
Donal loved them.
Victoria didn't.
Donal said, “Five minutes.”
Victoria smiled and shrugged. The cat, now on the bed, turned her head slightly sideways, her expression quizzical as if she was wondering just what manner of a fantasy world Donal inhabited.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Columbia, SC
September 15
“Goddamn Ellerby,” Jack Faulkner muttered and then continued silently -miserable paper shuffling fuck will convince himself that putting me up for this detail is a favor. He lit a fresh cigarette from the glowing stub end of another and crushed the butt in a crystal ashtray.
Faulkner's week had been both interminable and miserable. His wasn't a personality suited to playing agency toady to fat pricks from across the pond and their dumpy hausfraus. His also wasn't a personality suited to the toadying up to big ego politicians. The role didn't sit well. He was testy and facing yet another week as tour guide, errand boy, and general factotum was making him even more so. Adding insult was the fact that they were in Columbia, South Carolina, his home town, and he couldn't go home. His orders were to stay with his charges and that included staying in the hotel with them and accompanying them to all functions.
This reception held at Industrial Commissioner John Bertram Wiley's residence was doing nothing to improve his mood. He'd rather pay for his booze and drink it in company of assholes of his choosing.
Faulkner put his empty cocktail glass on the tray offered by a pretty peaches and cream complected server dressed in traditional, if a tad tight, black uniform dress and white apron. He gave her a quick glance, mentally rejecting her, remembering his concerns about young stuff and the current crop of STD's virulency. Too bad, he thought, licking his lips, she looks good enough to eat. He shrugged, took another martini from the girl's tray, and crossed the room.
Agnes Wiley, her arm linked in Marta Matthewson's, held the silver framed photograph that she had snatched from atop the piano, a highly polished ebony grand.
Faulkner overheard, --It's such a shame, Marta, that you were not able to attend Joan's wedding. Why the Senator came to our home after the reception and we all had such a delightful time. He's so witty. I do love those racy little stories he tells.
Marta, distaste and impatience clear in the expression on her youthful face, searched the room for someone who would rescue her from Agnes Wiley. She spotted Faulkner.
Agnes continued yammering. “You will just adore our Joan. She graduated from Vassar only a few years ahead of you, I believe. Oh, I'm so looking forward to getting you and Joan together. And you'll love her husband. Micah is a business wizard. Just the other day John Bertram and I were marveling about how well he does with investments. And he's such a gentleman. A pure delight. My Joan selected a wonderful helpmate.”
Marta cocked an eye at Faulkner.
Faulkner read 'Rescue me' and moved to her side. “Mrs. Matthewson, pardon me for interrupting, the Senator asks that you join him.”
“Of course,” Marta Matthewson said, smiling thanks at Faulkner, “Excuse me, Agnes. Duty calls.” Glancing at the wedding photograph of Joan and Micah Capers that Agnes still held, she added, “Lovely picture.”
Faulkner followed Marta's glance. “Your daughter,” he asked, practicing a brand of diplomatic politeness hard come by but potentially useful to the SLED agent.
“Yes, my only child,” Agnes replied, handing him the photograph.
Faulkner looked hard at the man beside the woman bedecked in white. “She's beautiful. Married recently?”
“In July. I was just about to tell Marta that we are hoping that Joan and her husband, Micah, can to come to Columbia for a visit soon. But she's always so busy. Joan is a lawyer. Very successful. But I do wish that she would keep more closely in touch. I've been trying to reach her for weeks. Sometimes a Mother worries.”
“I'm sure that there is no cause for worry, Mrs. Wiley.
Her husband? He looks familiar. Is he in State politics?”
“No, Micah is an investor. And most successful.”
Faulkner handed the photograph back, stroking the hostess. “Your daughter is quite striking and her husband looks like a fine young man.”
“Yes, he is, Mr. Faulkner. We are very proud of Micah and Joan.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Wiley, I believe the Senator is signaling me to join him.”
Faulkner turned away from Agnes Wiley, a frown of concentration knitting his brow. Son of a bitch, he thought, Capers married to the State Industrial Commissioner's daughter. Him worming into State politics could spell trouble.
Faulkner stopped by the Senator's side and reminded the man that the entourage was due at their next stop in forty-five minutes. Then, he went into a bathroo
m, locked the door behind him, and lit a cigarette. Better get a line on Capers's activities, he thought; it's no comfort that he's managed to connect to the power structure.
No, Faulkner thought, no comfort at all. I don't like it one fucking bit. He flipped his cigarette into the bowl, pissed on it until the seam split, and flushed. He checked the knot of his tie in the bathroom mirror and smiled grimly at his image. Capers married, he reflected, if his wife is anything like her mother he has to be miserable. The thought made him snort with laughter, and, satisfied with his appearance, he returned to the cocktail party.
“What a fuckin' life,” he said under his breath, checking his watch to make sure that he had time to get the Krauts and their fraus out of here and on to the next stop on their itinerary. Faulkner shuddered at the thought of another week chasing all over South Carolina with this demanding entourage. He looked around the room pinpointing the locations of his charges who were going to have to be rounded up and headed out soon.
The attractive maid, now standing beside the door to the formal living room, asked, “Is there something I could do for you, sir?” She appraised Faulkner, eyes lingering on his crotch.
Faulkner, returned the compliment, surveying her, ankles to breasts, then looking directly into her lovely cornflower blue eyes, he shook his head negatively and replied, “Unfortunately, not at the moment.” But he felt a twitching. He moved a few steps away, stopped, reconsidered, and returned to where the maid stood. All caution concerning STDs were blown from his mind, dust before a wind. If he was to be forced to stay in a hotel here in his home town, he'd damn well get some use of it. He held out a closed hand to the maid. “Midnight; the Raddisson, room 808,” he said, opening his fisted fingers.