Dead for the Money

by Peg Herring

  Reiner turned on him, probably venting anger he wished he could direct at Bud. “How else did somebody get her away, carry her on his back?” Reiner turned to Bud again. “The state police are putting out an Amber Alert. They’ll watch the train stations between here and Chicago. We’ll get her back.” He added, “It’ll be up to you what to do with her then.”

  SEAMUS HAD NO IDEA where Mildred was or what sort of trouble her host was in. It was exactly the sort of situation he’d feared, one where he had no control. Ruefully, he admitted that he had no control of Mildred from the start. If the abductor killed the girl, would Mildred realize his intention in time and jump to another host? If she did not, if Brodie died, Mildred would become a lost soul. Being her mentor, Seamus knew it was his responsibility to see that it did not happen.

  As Bud watched Reiner walk away, Seamus called out a single word, hoping Mildred would obey. “Ship!”

  It was all he dared do. He tried to tell himself that Mildred had insisted on having her own way, despite his advice. If she was wise, she’d go back to the ship, realizing there was no more she could do for Brodie.

  He tried to look on the bright side. William Dunbar could rest easily: his grandson had definitely not pushed him. Seamus had begun to suspect, however, that someone else had.

  THROUGH ONE OF THE BOAT’S tiny windows, Brodie saw Cher and the bird watcher leave the boathouse. A few minutes later she felt the boat rock, heard the crack of branches and the swish of leaves through water. It became lighter outside. When the two returned, wet to their waists, she guessed that they had cleared the channel of their makeshift screen. They were indeed getting ready to go somewhere.

  What about the man’s assurance that she could go home? If he meant it, they did not need to go by water. It was less than a quarter mile down the beach to her house.

  The sound of something brushing across the bow was next, and she saw the bird watcher gather up the tarp and roll it tightly, fastening it with an elastic cord before disappearing. When she heard a bin lid bang, she guessed he had stowed the tarp.

  Now the two adults moved from one end of the boat to the other, checking the engine, the gas tank, and the sails. They secured some things on deck and stowed others in bins. Brodie peered out the small, round portholes on either side of the cabin, straining to see as much as she could. Two pairs of legs, one hairy, one elephantine, went back and forth, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, as they lugged heavy items.

  Something was about to happen, and she didn’t think she was going to like it. Once again, she looked around the cabin for a means of escape. Among the things the man had set on the table while undressing was a roll of duct tape, some change, and the tape recorder he’d carried when she first saw him. She picked it up, wondering what its purpose was, since he was not really a bird watcher. Turning the volume dial to low, Brodie pushed PLAY and held the recorder to her ear. She heard an animal, whimpering again and again—the sound that had drawn her into the woods.

  This was another indication that her kidnapper had thought the whole thing out ahead of time. Apparently he had told Cher his plan to capture Brodie. She had not approved, so he had proceeded anyway. Might Cher be willing to help Brodie escape? It was an idea worth pursuing.

  Peering out the window again, she saw the bird watcher go by with one of several gas cans he had lined up on deck. When he came into view again, the can seemed lighter. He was filling the boat motor cans, she deduced. He handed Cher the empty one, and she disappeared around the entrance of the boathouse. In a few minutes she returned without it. Finished with that task, they each picked up two bulging trash bags that sat along the wall of the boathouse and disappeared again. The bird watcher stopped to pick up a small spade as he passed. She realized they were going to bury their garbage in the woods, to hide the fact that they had ever been here.

  It seemed to Brodie that her captors were preparing for an extended trip. The boat was well-stocked and the gas tank was full. There would be no need to stop for some time. The empty gas cans and the bags of garbage indicated that the trip was half complete. They had come from somewhere in secret and planned to return the same way.

  The bird watcher’s promise that she could go home was a lie.

  Brodie searched the cabin again, looking for something she could leave behind as a clue that she had been in the boathouse. She found nothing. She thought of leaving the uneaten sandwich, but some animal would undoubtedly carry it off long before anyone found it. Nothing else was unusual enough to signify her presence. Still fearful of the bird watcher’s motives, she was not about to voluntarily give up one of the few articles of clothing she wore.

  She probably only had a short time until they finished burying their trash. Her eyes darted around the tiny room. What could she leave behind?

  The tape recorder! If someone found it, especially Bud or Scarlet, it might explain why she’d left them. Brodie opened the window latch and swore softly. “Shit!” A moment later she amended, “I mean, ‘Shoot!’ Sorry, Gramps.”

  The little window was hinged and only opened a few inches. Grasping the tape recorder in one hand, she slid her arm out the opening as far as she could get it. Her position was unwieldy, and she had to twist her neck to see where she was aiming. There was a clump of weeds at the entrance to the boathouse. If she could throw the tape recorder that far, the leaves would cushion the drop, and they might not hear it hit or see it as they passed. Finding it, though, would be a clear sign to Bud that someone had been here recently. It was the best she could do.

  She hesitated, fearing she’d miss and launch her clue into the water. She had to hurry, though. At any time they would return, and there she’d be, her skinny arm stuck out like a monkey in a cage. Hefting the device gently once, twice, like the horseshoes Gramps had taught her to throw, Brodie let it go. There was a sharp crack followed by the rustle of leaves.

  “What was that?” They were just outside the doorway. Brodie hurriedly pulled in her arm and closed the port. By the time the man entered the cabin, she was sitting innocently on the bench. “Did you hear something just now?”

  “It sounded like a bird hit the wall,” she told him calmly. “They do that—fly in here and then get scared when they can’t find the way out.”

  He nodded. “Dumb birds.”

  Cher, who stood at the top of the hatchway, huffed in derision. “Guess that’s where the term birdbrain comes from. Come on. Let’s get this done.”

  The man hesitated, looking at Brodie. She tried not to look toward the window, to the spot where the tape recorder had landed. She hoped that contact with the doorpost had not broken the little machine beyond repair.

  Turning, he gave her a friendly grin. “It won’t be long now.”

  Soon she felt the boat bounce as the weight of the two adults left it again. Grunts and a swishing sound at the bow followed, along with some words Gramps would not have approved of. After a couple of false starts, the boat began to move, water lapping against the sides as it slid through the shallow channel. She felt the boat’s bottom bump a couple of times, heard the rustle of leaves and the scrape of branches moving and snapping back into place. Light flowed in through the portholes, and they were out of the enclosing woods and onto the lake itself. One more push sent the boat scooting forward. It stopped with a jerk as the man pulled on the tow rope, bringing it to rest in a few feet of water.

  It was quiet for a moment. Then the boat bobbed, and she heard two thumps hitting the deck. The captain and his helper were aboard. A period of activity followed that Brodie could not see, but from the movement, the man’s impatient instructions, and the hum of a winch, she surmised that they had set the mast upright again.

  A few minutes later the hatch opened and Cher came down the steps, wet and puffing with exertion. She glanced once at Brodie and then sat down opposite her, lighting a cigarette and picking up her puzzle book and pen. Above them, the engine sputtered once, twice, and took off, and the boat moved smoothly forwa
rd. Brodie was on her way somewhere, unknowing and unwilling. She twisted around to get a last look at home. Would she ever see it again?

  Once they were into deep water, the engine stopped. The bird watcher came below with a crank, inserted it into a spot near the steps, and turned it. A rumble sounded below their feet as the keel lowered to its full extension. That done, he disappeared up the steps again. Next Brodie heard the sounds of the mainsail being hauled up. When the wind caught it, they began to move again, but this time silently. After a few minutes, he shouted down, “You’ll be able to come on deck as soon as we get a few miles north, Brodie.”

  It was not much comfort to know that she had been right. He was not taking her home. She looked around her prison, scaled-down furniture, tiny windows, and the smell of mold and cigarettes. The stone-faced Cher worked on, lips moving slightly and wet sneakers squishing as she shifted with the motion of the boat. It was obvious she did not intend to explain the situation.

  The crazy voice in her head started in again. At first it sounded like noise, but she thought after while that a frantic voice was repeating, “Boat! Boat, boat!”

  That made no sense, but what could she expect? That’s what crazy thinking is—nonsense. With that thought, she took up the Coke and popped it open. She didn’t think there was any way to get a date-rape drug into a can of pop. It would keep her energy up so she’d be ready for whatever chance came along to escape.

  “SEAMUS? SEAMUS, it’s Mildred. I’m sorry to talk during their awake time. I know you don’t like it, but I thought you should know. Brodie is on a boat and we’re somewhere on Lake Michigan. I am helping her remain calm, and I’ll continue to protect her as best I can. Seamus? Seamus, can you hear me?”

  In a few seconds she heard one word. “Understood.”

  ONCE THE POLICE FOCUSED their efforts on trains to Chicago, there was not much for the family to do. Bud was uneasy, aware that Reiner did not see Brodie as a victim and equally aware that Scarlet thought the deputy was completely mishandling the situation. Bud was somewhere in the middle. He knew from experience that Brodie was capable of totally inappropriate action, but he also thought she had changed lately, becoming less likely to act out and more willing to fit in. Growing up, maybe. Because of that, and because he cared what Scarlet thought, he tried to look at the situation objectively.

  He wished there was something he could contribute to the search, something to keep from feeling guilty about Brodie’s disappearance. His head buzzed with noise, and he found it hard to think. If Brodie had gone unwillingly, he had to get her back. If she had gone for some reason of her own, he wanted to make sure his attitude toward her, or at least her impression of it, had not contributed to that choice. An officer of the state police had called to promise, in a professional, detached way, that they would bring Brodie home. He heard doubt in the man’s voice. So many young people disappeared because they wanted to. They ran off with a relative or a boyfriend. They hid out to punish their families for some perceived slight. The police knew that kids like Brodie, kids with troubled pasts, were capable of all kinds of wrong decisions. Bud tried to believe things would turn out all right, but it didn’t feel that way.

  He paced the house for a while, unable to think of anything to say to Scarlet, who watched out the window as if she could summon the girl with pure vigilance. Scarlet believed Brodie had been taken against her will. If that was true, the text message was a false lead, as the scent trail had been. Someone had deliberately tried to lead them in the wrong direction. Which direction did that person want them to ignore?

  “Let’s go up to the viewing point,” he said suddenly.

  Scarlet turned to look at him, and the blinds thumped gently back into place. “Why?”

  “If she didn’t run away, maybe she’s up there, hoping we’ll come looking for her. Besides, it’s high enough that we might see something we can’t pick up from ground level.”

  Scarlet shrugged. “The sheriff’s men have probably been up there already, but I guess it’s better than doing nothing.”

  They took the golf cart, bumping across the open space before picking up the two-track road that led up the hill. The heat clung to Bud’s skin like woolen clothing. He smelled his own sweat, the combination of exertion, humidity, and fear.

  When the ground smoothed and they were able to talk without their teeth chattering, Scarlet asked, “Had you noticed any change in your grandfather lately?”

  It took Bud a while to decide how to answer. “What do you mean?” He paused, avoiding the question. “Maybe.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “He was forgetful, I guess.” Bud tried to dodge a washout in the road and failed. The bump made Scarlet grab for a handhold. “Sorry!” He shook his head, arguing with his own thoughts. “Lots of older people forget things. Hell, I forget things, and I’m not old.”

  Scarlet seemed to sense there was more. “What else?”

  He let out a long breath. “Two of our vendors said recently that he’d called to place an order.”

  “Was that so unusual?”

  Bud smiled grimly. “Gramps hasn’t phoned in orders for twenty years. It’s done on computer, and we have an employee whose time is fully devoted to it.”

  “So what did these vendors do?”

  “One took the order and then called me to see what he should do about it. The other tried to explain to Gramps that he was mistaken. He got very upset and hung up. Then she emailed me.”

  “I see.”

  Bud sighed again. “I hoped it was some kind of aberration. Medication or even an infection can make an older person act weird, can mimic the symptoms of—”

  “Dementia?”

  “Yeah.” After a pause he asked, “You noticed it too?”

  “He drove Brodie and me to town a month ago and forgot the way home. She directed him, and when we got here, he insisted he’d been joking. She accepted his explanation, but I saw the fear in his eyes. I noticed, too, that he’d begun writing down things he should have been able to remember, like what time the evening news comes on.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ve only known him for a year, but I know the signs. My gran had Alzheimer’s.”

  “Did anyone else notice?”

  “Who would say anything? If they knew he was having trouble, Shelley and Briggs would simply watch him more carefully. Arnold wants—wanted to keep his job, so I suppose he would keep quiet and cover when he could.”

  Bud had told the police about terminating Arnold Wilk’s employment. They had found his room empty and his car gone, but Bud could not imagine Arnold kidnapping Brodie. Reiner, however, thought he might know something and wanted to speak with him. So far he had not been found. His parents in Indiana had not heard from him nor had any of his friends they had contacted.

  Bud did not comment on Arnold but asked instead, “What about Arlis?”

  Scarlet replied in an even voice, “I don’t think she would want to upset the apple cart.”

  “Yeah.” Bud suspected Arlis had not noticed a thing, being pretty much wrapped up in herself. As long as Will was there to pay the bills, she had been content.

  “She wouldn’t have confided in me, anyhow.” Bud heard a tinge of bitterness in Scarlet’s tone and wondered what it was like for her, living even partially under Arlis’ thumb.

  He returned to the point. “Well, I noticed. It’s why I proposed selling the business.” The golf cart slowed, chugging as they began the steepest part of the incline. “Gramps didn’t want to, so all my arguing did was make Reiner suspicious that I killed him.”

  Soon they caught glimpses of Lake Michigan through the trees. The lake sparkled in the late-day sun, its surface a million tiny mirrors that caught the dying light and magnified it. Bud parked the cart on the trail and followed Scarlet along the narrow wooded path to the open space.

  There was nothing to see, at least nothing unusual. A small boat was on the lake, a vintage model that was all wood.
Seeing it reminded Bud of their trip two days ago. Brodie had not seemed ready to run away. And he had reassured her, hadn’t he? Had his promise that her situation would be unchanged been enough, or had she feared he would…what? What could he have said that might have made her run off with a stranger?

  Scarlet stopped several feet back from the fence. “I haven’t been up here since—”

  Bud turned away from the lake. “Yeah.”

  She met his gaze directly. “It was not your fault, Bud.”

  “I guess.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “That isn’t a guess. It’s a fact.”

  He smiled weakly. “Okay. I’ll try to believe you.” Taking up the binoculars he had brought along, he surveyed the area. The little boat was headed north, away from them. It really was sweet, like the Alden Gramps had owned when Bud was a kid. White oak frame with mahogany, and bronze everywhere. Together they had polished that old boat until it shone.

  As the sail receded, Bud turned to survey the trees around them. “If Brodie were hiding up here, would she be more likely to come out if you were alone?”

  Scarlet’s lips pursed briefly. “She is not hiding.”

  “Sorry. She’s kind of famous for pranking people.”

  “Was.” His words seemed to spur a thought, however. “Bud, I think Brodie knew your grandfather’s mind was failing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Twice in the last month or so she confessed to playing pranks. I was surprised, because I thought she’d outgrown such things.”

  “What sort of pranks?”

  “That’s just it. They seemed pointless. From what I understand, her actions in the past were in retaliation for something she felt was an insult or unfair. Is that right?”