In the distance, a sudden bark of laughter, children yelling. I waited for my heart to slow before continuing. There was a side door, and I tried turning the handle, but it was locked. I leaned softly against it, putting my ear to the metal, standing still for a few minutes. Not a sound. If my hunch was correct, Cookie and Clancy were somewhere on the premises, maybe even inside that garage, but if they were, they weren’t making any noise. If they were still alive. I pictured them dead, their bodies lying on the cement floor inside or dumped in some field close by. I froze. Their death was on my hands. I banished the thought and forced myself back to the present.
There was a high wooden fence surrounding the gallery, the back extending beyond the Henry Hudson to the next property, which I thought must be the gift shop. It had no garage, so I walked the length of the fence until I found a latched gate. Since it was unlocked, I went inside, trying to get my bearings and, above all, trying not to make a sound. I crouched for a couple of minutes, taking in every inch of the property—a backyard with a tree, the whole edged with a bed of flowers just beginning to bloom. Then I found what I had been looking for, a way into and out of the Henry Hudson’s backyard, just in case we needed it—three loose slats between the gallery’s backyard and the gift shop. I made my way over to the slats and knelt, lifting a piece of wood and peering inside.
“That’s my secret passage.” A voice behind me.
I jumped and turned. A small boy stood there, smudged and grinning up at me. He was wearing jeans and tennis shoes with a hole in one of them, a big sockless toe exposed. Encrusted hands.
“Can I borrow it? I promise not to tell,” I whispered, hoping he’d take the hint and lower his voice.
“It’ll cost ya,” he said in a high-pitched whine.
With quick movements, I put the pepper blaster in my left pocket and scrounged in my right pocket for loose change. I brought out a dime and placed it in his outstretched palm.
“Do you live here?”
He shook his head, stowing the money. “Staying with my gran,” he said, pointing to the gift shop.
“Promise you won’t tell?”
He shrugged, turned, and ran away, pressing the dime to his cheek.
I worked on the fence until I was sure the slats would give way, should we need them for our escape, and left, but not before reaching around and marking the bottom of one of the slats with a clump of dirt so that I could find it, even in a state of panic. I retraced my steps and moved the BMW a few feet so that it was directly adjacent to the gift shop’s gate. After stowing the keys in my back pocket, I walked around to the front of the gallery, squinting into the midmorning sun. No squads, no unmarked cars that I could see.
Henry Hudson Fine Arts
Brushing myself off and running splayed fingers through my kinks, I felt the outlines of my pepper blaster still in my pocket and opened the door to an expensive hush inside the gallery. It smelled of glue and wood and oil. Not bad. The artwork, all of it dear, I supposed, was arranged just so on the walls, I’d give the owner that. The floor was hardwood of course, highly polished, but I could see as I walked around that I was tracking in dirt, small clods of grass and earth marking my wake. Not my problem.
There were two other couples inside making a slow turn through silent rooms filled with paintings artfully framed, some of them abstracts, others figurative, a few collages made from different material. All of them pleasing. One wall held three of Lake’s paintings. She hadn’t mentioned those. A mobile hung from the ceiling and I reached up and gave it a tug. It whirled. There were vases on pedestals along with two or three marble sculptures, one, the head of a little boy that bore a likeness to the child I’d met in the backyard.
“Anybody here?” I asked in a loud voice. “I’d like to buy a painting. I need one for my living room. Maybe two. Red accents, and I see one I like, but I need a pair. I need them now. Money’s no object. I can spend up to thirty dollars on each one.” My armpits and forehead were sweating, and I brushed dirt off my jeans.
The two couples looked at me for a second before forming a huddle. They spoke in low tones, inching toward the front of the gallery. One woman who was dressed in a long skirt and spiky sandals, bejeweled and smelling of Shalimar, gave me a sidelong gander. I heard a titter coming from the other woman. Truth be told, I must have looked a sight, dirty from exploring the backyard, hair a mess, stomach protruding to short-term parking.
I decided to expand on my image: I needed them gone. “Did anybody hear me? What kind of service is this? And I have cash, too. Just short on time. I’m very late.” Remembering Alice’s white rabbit, I added, “For a very important date. Hello, goodbye?”
More whispering from my audience.
With that, I tore the nearest painting off the wall, talking loudly about how I had company coming and I needed to impress them, my husband’s boss and his wife, and where was the help? I walked to the door behind an empty desk and banged on it with my fist.
The two couples, their eyes popping, tore open the front door. I watched them run down the block and disappear.
Wiping my forehead, I stumbled to the front and surveyed the scene in the commons. There were children playing near the fountain, blossom petals falling, a few pedestrians holding packages and strolling. No squads or unmarked cars. No police in sight. My three teens were seated in front of the ice cream parlor, eating what looked like splits or large sundaes and running up a bill.
Pepper blaster in hand, I lumbered to the back and banged on the white door with my shoes. In a few seconds, I heard the sound of a heavy tread. Nearer.
My heart beating double, I threw the painting aside and braced myself, the blaster aimed in front of me at what I judged to be eye level, but I was not prepared for what happened next.
Him
I felt sweat trickling through my curls as the footsteps got louder, watched the knob turn and the door open.
One of the largest creatures I’d ever seen stood before me. He was clad in a white- and black-striped sleeveless shirt, his head shaped like a huge round white moon, his eyes like two raisins in a blob of dough. Stringy hair fell around his gargantuan neck. I hoped he was alone.
“Who are—”
He didn’t finish because I blasted him in the chest with mace, covering my ears to protect them from his howl.
He doubled over in pain, falling flat on the floor, writhing and screaming for help.
“Where are they? The blonde? The man? And don’t tell me you don’t know or I’ll spray you again.”
“In the back! Help me. Water!”
Frantically I looked around and saw a bucket on rollers and a slop sink at the end of the hall. I jumped over the man, flew to the bucket, filled it with water, and rolled it back. With every ounce of strength I had, I picked up the bucket and dumped the water over him, jumping back to avoid the cascading liquid.
His hand stretched out and grabbed my purse, ripping it from me and throwing it against the wall before he sank again to the ground.
I watched my bag sink into a puddle of water, out of reach, and in the end I had to abandon it.
Shaking with what I’d done, I asked him again, “The blonde?”
I couldn’t understand his muffled reply. He screamed in pain again, scrunching himself into a ball.
“Get up and lead me to them and make it fast or I’ll spray you again.”
He was struggling to his feet, tottering onto his knees, leaning against the wall and grunting, his mighty thighs bulging, his legs like tremendous tree trunks trembling in an earthquake.
Suddenly he was on his feet and lunging toward me, his huge head like a giant bowling ball aiming for my middle.
I grabbed the mop and lunged at him with the handle, hitting him in his prodigious gut. There was water all over the floor, and my pepper blaster flew out of my hand as he howled, his fat fingers reaching for me and missing.
Sweet baby Jesus, don’t let me fall, I prayed, sliding on the wet floor and teeteri
ng, hitting the wall just in time and missing him by millimeters as he reached for me and missed.
Losing balance, he slammed to the floor again, water splashing all over me.
I ran past his writhing bulk to the end of the hall where there was a door. It was slightly ajar. I yanked it open, giving him a backward glance as he scrambled to his feet, watching the walls shake as he fell again.
In the Dark
I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, waiting while my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Listening for the sounds of the huge man’s footsteps, I heard nothing except for my own breathing.
I realized I was in a cavernous room with a high ceiling and a smooth cement floor, a large door with a lift on one end. I smelled residual exhaust and gasoline—I must have been in the gallery’s garage, now being used as a storage area. It was filled with objects strewn all over the place—crates and rolls of canvas, easels, lamps, tables, chairs, couches, mattresses. A stack of dishes sat on one chair, glasses on another. I felt the outlines of a love seat, and as my sight grew stronger, I realized Lake’s furniture was mixed in with art objects. I recognized the desk I’d seen in her apartment, went over to it, and opened the middle drawer. The key to her studio was gone. I knew it would be, and I felt a coldness in the pit of me. I wondered what was inside the crates, but didn’t have time to open them—OCDE would see to that. I had to find my friends.
“Cookie?” My voice reverberated off the walls.
Suddenly I heard something, the scrape of a chair. I looked around. The far sides of the room were still in darkness. Another sound, a moan. I walked toward it, passing by familiar objects.
Then I saw a man.
“Clancy? It’s me, Fina!”
He nodded furiously. I ran over, and as I got closer, I could see him struggling, trying to tip himself over. His arms were pinned to the back of the chair he sat in, his legs, mouth, and eyes taped.
I ran to him, taking out my small pocketknife, and at that point, I realized I’d left my pepper blaster in the hall within easy reach of the giant. With a sinking feeling, I looked around, wondering if I should go back and retrieve the mace. No time. I heard thundering footsteps approaching. I had to free Clancy.
Panting, I began cutting the tape around his wrists. “Where’s Cookie?”
He mumbled something.
Fool, I’d forgotten his mouth was taped.
“I’ll get it off in a second,” I said, struggling with the tape.
His hands freed, he ripped it from his eyes and mouth while I worked on his legs.
Free at last, he tried to stand but fell back into the chair.
I heard the giant’s footsteps sloshing through the water. Closer now.
I reached for my purse and the bottle of water I always packed in it. No purse, and I remembered it, too, was in the hall, its contents probably drenched.
Clancy took tattered breaths. “I don’t know where she is. Not here, though. I heard her calling me.” More ragged breathing. “Then I think they must have taken her away, because I heard movement, heard her talking to someone. The garage door opened. I heard her struggling, someone saying to get in. ‘Not without my husband.’ Shouting, shoving. The sound of a truck driving away.” He was shivering.
I heard the scrape of a door, saw a slit of light at the far end of the room and, in it, the outlines of the fat man.
“Got to get out of here.”
“But we can’t leave Cookie. Cookie!” he thundered.
He was pacing, getting crazy.
“You said they took her somewhere.”
“But what if I’m wrong? What if it was a dream?” His head in his hands, he paced, tearing at his hair.
“Calm down. You’re a policeman, remember?”
Then something inside him took over. He straightened, taking shuddering breaths. “I remember now. I heard her say she couldn’t leave, not without me. I heard footsteps, listened to her pleading, heard ugly voices.”
Just then the fat man came into view, his arms extended. In his hands he held my pepper blaster, pointing directly at us.
Stumbling over furniture and hitting my knee on the corner of a crate, I ran toward him, crouching low and shielding myself as best I could.
I heard the pop of the blaster, thinking I’d feel the pain any second, but the water must have ruined it; I listened to the screech of metal on cement as he threw the mace at me and missed.
I bent low, lunging for his legs and felt more than heard Clancy coming at him.
“Out of the way!” he yelled.
I ran to the side and watched him tackle the fat man.
As if it were some macabre ballet, both of them fell to the floor, rolling and throwing punches.
I ran to them and stood on the man’s arms while Clancy straddled him, his thumbs pressing into the giant’s neck.
Gurgling sounds.
“Where is she?”
More gurgling as Clancy squeezed his neck.
“Let go, Clancy.”
Hoarse rasping from the hulk on the floor. “Big house,” he managed.
“Where?” Clancy asked.
The fat man didn’t answer.
“Got to tie him up first.”
“But if someone else comes?”
Frantically I searched and saw a spool of tape sitting on top of a crate. Clancy pinned the man to the chair, taping his hands and feet.
As Clancy worked, I asked the man which big house he was talking about. He said something about a large white barn with cows.
“But that could be anywhere! Dutchess county is filled with farms and large white barns. Cows. Fences. Green rolling hills.”
He shook his head.
Clancy pressed into the man’s neck.
“Where?”
“Don’t know.”
“Does the name Maccabee mean anything to you?” I asked.
He didn’t have to say anything—I could see the answer in his eyes.
“Let’s get out of here. I know where Cookie is.” My heart was in my mouth, hoping against hope she was still alive.
“Do you know how to open this door?” I asked, reaching for the handle and pulling up. It didn’t budge.
“Got to be a button or chain around here someplace.”
In a few seconds, Clancy found the switch. The door opened, and the garage filled with light.
As we ran outside, I shot a backward glance at the clutter. In the middle of it all sat the fat man taped to the chair, his blubber spilling over the sides. He was rocking back and forth. We had only seconds to escape.
I pointed to the BMW parked several feet away, fishing in my back pocket for the keys.
“Quick. He’s untied himself!”
I opened the door and Clancy was about to jump in when I heard the wail of a child.
The giant came into sight.
In one paw he held the neighbor’s grandson, grasping him like a doll in front of his chest. In his other hand he held Clancy’s Glock, the muzzle pressed into the child’s temple. “Don’t move.”
The Child
We froze, the knot in my throat choking me.
Clancy’s training kicked in, and he spoke calmly. “Put the boy down. We’ll come with you. Just let him go.”
The fat man continued walking toward us, the little boy wriggling in his arms, crying. “The kid comes with us.” He nodded toward Clancy. “He drives. I sit in front with the kid.”
I thought fast. “You’ll have to sit in the back. The boy’s too young to ride without a child’s seat. I have one in the trunk.”
“No time,” he said.
“Whatever you say,” Clancy said. “Just put the gun down.”
He shook his head. The little boy screamed.
“In this town, the police are strict. If they see a young child riding in the front seat, they’ll stop us and the game will be over. You’ll be arrested with someone else’s loaded gun on your person. I’ll tell them how you captured my friends, kidnapped this chi
ld, and tried to kill me.”
A slight shake of his head. “Get in the car. Your friend here drives. The kid rides in the front with me.”
We were at an impasse, and the boy was shaking, tears streaming down his face.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. The child’s life was in my hands.
I doubled over. “My baby.” It worked once, why not again? The only trouble, I was too afraid to pee, so I screamed, “I’m having my baby!”
For a second, the man stopped, his eyes wild. Caught off balance, he reeled, and in that instant I lunged, wrenching the boy from his arms.
At the same time Clancy rushed him and grabbed the gun, aiming at his belly.
“Clancy, no!”
Now I’d distracted Clancy, and the man tore at him, picking him up like he was a sack of potting soil and throwing him against the fence. I heard the crack of wood and cringed.
After setting the boy down, I joined the fight, tearing at the man’s hair and scratching his face while Clancy pummeled him and the child bellowed on the sidelines. One of Clancy’s mighty punches to the jaw, and the giant’s face split, blood squirting. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he sank to the ground. A knockout.
I picked up the boy and we piled back into the car, Clancy holding him in his lap. We left the fat man’s still form by the fence.
I gunned the motor, the car jerked forward, and we sped around to the front of the gift shop.
The child, whimpering in his arms, was not about to let go of Clancy, so he held him while we got out of the car and rang the bell.
In seconds a distraught gray-haired woman opened the door.
“Trouble next door,” I said. “Your boy got in the middle.”
Amazed, she swept up her grandson from Clancy’s arms and hugged him. He clung to her neck. “Just like him. How can I thank you? Oh, my sweet boy, don’t do that ever again; listen to your gran.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I went to get my glasses to make him his breakfast. I was only gone an instant, but he’s so quick, he ran out the door. I’ve been frantic ever since, calling, running up and down the stairs and into the shop looking for him.”
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 23