Trash Course

by Penny Drake

  Junk slipped and slid around the back of the truck as it continued down the highway and I wondered where the hell we were going. Uncle Lawrence didn’t move. A shoebox fell onto his back and popped open. Rubber bands—thousands of them—cascaded over him like tiny snakes.

  “The Russian mafia must have been watching me,” I said. “They put the pictures in my mailbox and the jack-in-the-box in my car. So why didn’t they just kill me?”

  “They may have felt that another murder would call too much attention to the case,” Ms. Hawk said. “Or perhaps they were hoping that if you didn’t drop the case, you would lead them to Lawrence Peale.”

  “And I did. Dammit! But why didn’t they kill him?” It was weird discussing this in the back of a drafty, smelly truck filled with junk and an unconscious old man. Not ten feet away sat two armed men who would happily fill my brain with bullets.

  “They need Lawrence Peale alive,” Ms. Hawk said. “Perhaps he knows something.”

  “The notebook,” I breathed. “He had a complete schedule—time and place—of their arrivals. They must have learned about it and realized it could destroy their operation. That’s why they were searching his house. They picked the lock and went in. They somehow avoided the cement block deadfall, but that guy from Georgia triggered the magazine trap and suffocated. Problem was, they couldn’t find the notebook—or anything else. So the Peales and the Russians need Uncle Lawrence to tell them where the notebook is, since they’re working together on the child trafficking, but the Peales want him alive for something else—so he can tell them where the treasure is.”

  “That would be my assessment as well,” Ms. Hawk said. “All we need to do is rescue the two of you.”

  “Is the GPS in my phone tracking where I am?” I asked Ms. Hawk.

  “I’m just now checking on my laptop. Hold on…hold on…” I heard keys clicking in the background. The truck swerved abruptly and someone honked a horn. I almost dropped the phone before I recovered my balance.

  “I have you,” Ms. Hawk said. “You’re moving eastbound on I-94.”

  “Heading for Detroit,” I said. “The warehouse? Maybe you should call the police and have them meet us there.”

  “It would turn into a hostage situation,” Ms. Hawk said. “Do you think you can escape?”

  I glanced at Uncle Lawrence’s prone form. “I probably could, but I don’t know about—”

  A tone beeped in my ear. Startled, I checked the display. A call was coming in from a number my phone didn’t recognize. Could it be…? I told Ms. Hawk to hold on a second, then accepted the call.

  “Terry!” came the welcome, reliable sound of Zack’s voice. “Are you all right?”

  Relief flooded me like warm water. “Me? What about you? I saw you get shot, but—”

  “The EMTs said the bullet barely grazed me,” Zack said. “I lost a little blood and I have a Godzilla-sized headache, but I’m perfectly fine otherwise. They wanted to take me to the hospital, but I took off.”

  I realized my throat was thick and a tear had leaked from my eye. I brushed it away impatiently. This was no time for that sort of thing. The car ride had smoothed out, and I cast a wary eye toward the cab of the truck. No sign I had been detected.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I’ve got Ms. Hawk. Let me get you on three-way.”

  A few button clicks, and the three of us could talk at once.

  “I’m on my way to the Arboretum, Mr. Archer,” Ms. Hawk said, after a terse explanation for Zack. “We can drive to the warehouse together. I think it would be best if we called the police.”

  “So do I,” said Zack. “They get paid for this kind of thing. Besides, the Free Press will probably pay a pretty penny for the pictures.”

  “Just get my good side during the hostage negotiations,” I said, feeling less tense by the moment. With Ms. Hawk on the way, everything would work out. It wouldn't dare not.

  The three of us clicked off after that. I put my cell in my breast pocket, settled in next to Uncle Lawrence, and waited. And waited. I checked the time on my cell. It was taking way longer to get to the warehouse than it should have. This wasn’t right.

  The truck slowed, then made a quick turn that tossed me off balance again. I fell against Uncle Lawrence and thought I heard him groan softly. Another quick turn in the other direction threw me off again. A garbage bag full of empty milk cartons burst open and bobbled over me, dribbling sour milk everywhere. What was going on?

  The truck halted. The doors up front opened and the truck rocked slightly as the thugs got out, though the engine was still running. Tension trilled through me. I was already half-buried in milk cartons, so I burrowed deeper into the truck’s junk collection, trying to be quiet. For the first time, I was glad Uncle Lawrence was a trashaholic. I was just pulling my right foot further into hiding when I heard the rear door of the camper top squeak upward. A waft of summer air caressed my ankle, and I froze. Was my shoe exposed? No way to tell.

  The men spoke in harsh Russian sentences that I couldn’t understand, and it sounded like they were only inches away from me. I wanted to yank my foot into hiding, but knew movement would only draw attention to it. I desperately wished I could see what was going on, but my vision was obscured by the very stuff that hid me.

  One of the men said something that drew a harsh response from his companion. Someone hawked and spat, and I heard a tiny splat not far from my head. My heart beat like a hummingbird’s, and I prayed with every ounce of strength that they wouldn’t notice a size eight woman’s tennis shoe sticking out of a pile of milk cartons. Just another piece of trash, nothing to investigate or get excited about.

  Metal clanked and thudded. They were bringing down the tailgate. I heard junk spill out of the truck, and the stuff over my head shifted dangerously. One of the men said something that sounded like swearing. I held my breath. A sludgy trickle of old milk oozed down my cheek. It smelled awful, but I didn’t move.

  A third voice joined the first two—Stanislav Yerin’s. He barked something that was obviously an order, and a moment later something slid out of the truck. The thugs were hauling Uncle Lawrence out. I took a slow breath tinged with the lovely smell of rotten milk, and hoped they would hurry up.

  The tailgate went back up and the camper door came down with a double bang. Footsteps headed back to the cab of the truck. I stayed put, just in case.

  The truck’s engine abruptly raced, snarling like an angry chainsaw. Before I could react, everything lurched forward. I burst out of hiding, but less than a second later the nose of the truck dipped sharply downward. Junk poured over me as I fell back toward the cab. I almost screamed, but managed to hold it in. What was—

  A terrible jolt, then a terrible splash. The dirty side windows showed water spraying in a thousand directions. Then the truck began to sink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I clawed my way forward as cold water poured in through the door above the tailgate. Junk swirled in dirty eddies, trying to shove me backward. The truck dropped toward the bottom in slow motion, and I felt the movement in my stomach. How deep was the water? Jesus, I had to get out. I batted aside a floating cardboard box and lunged at the tailgate. The back of the truck was pitch black, but my head was still in a narrow pocket of air, maybe six or eight inches’ worth.

  The truck was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. My hand hit metal, but I couldn’t see below the waterline. The water was cold, and my clothes dragged at me. Panic pounded at my chest. Where was the top of the tailgate? I fumbled around in the dark water, tilting my head back to keep my mouth and nose above water.

  The truck’s nose hit bottom with a jolting crash. I barely managed to gulp some air before I went under. A second later, the rear wheels hit, but with less force. Objects floated around me, and I heard my own heart pounding in my head. Already feeling desperate for air, I shoved myself toward what I hoped was the back of the truck. Utter blackness had enveloped me, and it didn’t matter if my eyes were open o
r closed. I felt another box and shoved it aside, then another. My lungs ached. Then I felt metal and a latch. The back of the truck! I shoved against the rear door, trying to push it up. It resisted—the water held it back. Another burst of panic ripped through me. This truck would be my coffin. I was going to drown, alone in the dark. Ms. Hawk and Zack would never know what happened to me. I pushed again, and the door opened upward with aching slowness. My lungs begged me to exhale and take in a huge gulp of sweet air, but there was none to be had.

  The door opened enough for me to slide through. I eeled out of the truck and kicked off the back bumper with all my fading strength. My belt, heavy with equipment, dragged at my hips and weighed me down, so I unclipped it and let it sink. The water was black as octopus ink, and I had no idea how deep I was. Water pressed painfully against my eardrums. I swam and swam. Was I going the right way? I couldn’t tell. I had heard stories of drowning people who got confused and swam in the wrong direction. Lights flashed behind my eyelids and I felt dizzy. I needed air, needed to breathe. Another stroke. And one more. Come on, Terry, you can do just one—

  I broke through the surface and breathed. It was the most delicious feeling. I sucked down breath after breath. An adrenaline rush took over, and I felt like I could swim the English Channel. Terry Faye—woman of steel!

  Once my heart and lungs settled down, however, I took stock of my situation. The sky overhead was dark and cloudy, as was the water I was swimming in. A long wooden dock sat on low pylons just in front of me. Two men, their backs to me, were walking toward the shore. They dragged Uncle Lawrence between them. Now that they had gotten rid of the all-too-traceable truck, they were free to do whatever they wanted to Uncle Lawrence. City lights burned past them, illuminating unfamiliar buildings. We were nowhere near the Detroit warehouse.

  A small motored yacht was moored to one side of the dock. Its running lights were off, but I heard a motor purring. Someone—Yerin?—shouted something in Russian at the two thugs, who stepped up the pace. They were going to take Uncle Lawrence somewhere, and if that boat took off, we’d never find him again.

  Without a splash, I swam under the dock. Water lapped against the slimy pylons, and footsteps clonked on the wood over my head. I reached the boat and glided alongside it. Overhead, the thugs complained as they hauled Uncle Lawrence into the boat.

  I managed to reach the stern. The boat had two levels, and I wasn’t enough of a sailor to know what their names were. A glass-enclosed cabin sat up top. Below it, a deck ran all the way around the vessel. At the stern, a ladder went down to a little platform that lay just below the waterline in case a diver wanted to climb aboard. It was also perfect for a sneak like me. Thanking God the yacht’s lights were off, I made for the platform.

  Abruptly the sound of the motor intensified, and the boat started moving away from the dock. Biting back swear words, I lunged and missed. The boat turned, picking up speed. I lunged again, and this time I caught the edge of the platform and managed to haul myself onto it. The platform itself was about three inches below the waterline, so it made for a wet seat, but I was already soaked through. I thought about trying to climb aboard the yacht, and then I thought about the Three Goons with Guns, and then I thought how nice and comfy my current seat was. Perspective—the woman of steel’s best friend.

  The yacht slipped into deeper water, and I suddenly realized I had no idea what body of water this was. It could be the Detroit River, Lake Erie, or even a small inland lake. I felt at my breast pocket, deciding to check in with Ms. Hawk on my—

  —empty pocket. My cell phone, complete with global positioning system, currently lay buried in junk at the bottom of who-knows-what body of water. Automatically my hand flashed down to my belt. The pistol I had swiped from the thug in the Arboretum was gone, too, discarded with my belt. Great.

  Abruptly I missed Zack. I wanted to know he was near. I wanted him to make a joke or drive up in his ancient VW bus and help me out of this. I wanted him to wrap me in a towel and rub me dry with his strong hands. Stranded out here on the back of a strange boat filled with men who would kill me without a second’s hesitation made me feel frighteningly, achingly alone. Abandoned. I pressed my forehead against the back of the boat and prayed Zack and Ms. Hawk would somehow figure out where I was and ride to the rescue.

  Right. I firmed my jaw. In real life, no one rides to the rescue. In the end, everyone is alone. In the end, everyone abandons you. My ex-husband, my mother, my father. And now Zack and Ms. Hawk. I knew it wasn’t fair to blame them for my current situation, but there it was. Zack had gotten shot, the big idiot, and scared me half to death. If it hadn’t been for that, we might both be on this boat, and I wouldn’t be alone.

  Or Zack might have drowned in the truck. Or been found and shot by the Russian thug guys. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t here, in danger. But I wanted him here. It was all so mixed up. I was mixed up.

  My teeth chattered. The spray kicked up by the boat was cold. And then it came to me—I had to be on Lake Erie. Even in August, the Great Lakes are never truly warm, and now that the sun had gone down, I was feeling the chill.

  The trip went on and on. Water lay dark below me. The yacht didn’t once turn on its running lights, and I had no idea how Yerin was navigating. By some kind of GPS system, probably. Several times we passed boats and even ships with their lights full on. My hand was cramping up from holding onto the ladder, and I felt cold as a naked penguin. I’d have to find a way to warm up soon or I’d be in danger of hypothermia.

  The motor slowed and I tensed. I couldn’t see around the yacht to our destination. I doubted I’d see much anyway—the darkness was almost absolute. As if in response to my thoughts, a spotlight speared through the night from the top of the yacht. It swept the surrounding water like a white finger. I held my breath and clamped my teeth together to stop the chattering. But the spotlight didn’t move in my direction. Instead it picked out a dock to the yacht’s port side. The motor shut off and the yacht glided forward, guided by the spotlight. It bumped against wood and rocked gently on the water.

  Men shouted in Russian and footsteps thumped above me. I couldn’t stay there. Bracing myself, I pried my stiff fingers from the ladder and slipped carefully into the cold water. I swam the few feet to the dock, slipped underneath it, and allowed myself a sigh of relief. I was safe. More or less.

  While Yerin and his men thumped around on the boat and dock yelling at each other, I scooted into shallower water. This area was a little warmer, though I was still shivering. I supposed that was a good sign. Lack of shivering was a sign of impending hypothermia. After a few minutes, all three men thudded over my head, still talking. I also heard the sound of a body being dragged. Poor Uncle Lawrence.

  The footsteps faded away. I counted to fifty, then crept out from under the dock and took a cautious look around. The yacht was moored not far away, its lights off. Beyond the dock, the island rose from the water like a hill floating on black ink. At the top of the hill sat a large, multi-story house, and several of the windows blazed with gold light. A path led up to it from the dock. It was too dark to see if the thugs were on the path, but I imagined Yerin and his thugs were hauling Uncle Lawrence along it. Once they got whatever it was they wanted, they would kill him.

  A breeze zipped across the water and washed cold over me. I shivered violently. All I wanted was a mug of hot coffee and a chair by a roaring fire. Hell, I’d settle for a cup of instant and a stool by the heating duct.

  The yacht looked deserted. Time was limited for Uncle Lawrence, but the boat had too many helpful possibilities for me to pass up. I dashed down the dock and jumped aboard. The deck rocked gently beneath my feet. I had to half feel my way toward the door to the main cabin, though the dim light that made its way down from the house helped.

  The door was unlocked, thank God. I scuttled inside and felt around the door jamb with fingers stiff from cold. I’m not much of a boat person, but I do know a few things, including the fa
ct that most people keep an emergency light on the wall—or whatever they called walls on boats—next to the door. And I was right. My numb fingers found a flashlight. I pulled my sopping shirt tail from my waistband, cupped it around the end of the light, and switched it on. The dim light was enough to see by but wasn’t bright enough to alert the thugs that someone was sneaking around their yacht. I hoped.

  The room seemed to be some sort of sun room, complete with a small kitchen area and wet bar. I guessed bedrooms were below and the bridge was above. High-class place, and all paid for with the lives of small children. Mama Bear growled softly inside me and I told her to be quiet—I needed to concentrate.

  A steep, narrow staircase led downward, and I took it. Yep—a short hallway with three sliding doors that opened into three tiny bedrooms. A fourth door opened into a pint-sized bathroom complete with teensy linen closet. Score! I was never so glad to see terrycloth in my life. I grabbed a towel and entered the first bedroom. It had a closet and a dresser. A quick check revealed clothing. Score again! A bit of rummaging turned up a set of sweats that were only a little too big. Drying off and pulling on fresh, dry clothes had never felt so wonderful. I found no underwear and my shoes were still wet, but I was beyond caring. I did a quick search for useful tools or weapons and came up empty. My lucky streak over, I bundled my wet things into the towel I had used, crept back upstairs, and tossed everything overboard. No use leaving my stuff around for someone else to find.

  I was getting nervous now. No one knew where I was or how to find me. I was completely isolated, completely alone. No Ms. Hawk, no Zack. Not even any cops. My breath caught in my throat, and I forced calm on myself. I’d be fine. I just needed to find a way to bring help.

  I headed upstairs to the bridge, this time with a washcloth over the flashlight to keep it dim. The controls made no sense to me, dashing any hope I might have had of using the yacht to escape. I couldn’t even figure out how to start it. My eye, however, fell on the radio. Yes! The Coast Guard would be here in a matter of minutes. I grabbed for the mike.