Joseph's Kidnapping

by Randy Rawls

  “Yep. He’s finished. Besides, I may have to work with him again. Now he owes me one.”

  “That’s stupid.” She paused. “Well, at least tell me who put him on you?”

  “Don’t know, but Richard’s not the type who’d take a real dirty job—doesn’t have the guts. I believe him when he says it was to report on me. I can live with that.”

  “Damn it, Ace, this is too spooky,” Wanda said. “I mean, driving fast around the countryside is one thing, but those three thugs could’ve hurt you. What do you think? Was it Joseph’s kidnapper or some enemy from your past?” She crossed her arms and looked away from me. In a still quieter voice, she continued, “Take me home. I, I need to be alone to think about this mess. I have to decide if you’re worth all the baggage you’re carrying.”

  “Wanda, but we, I mean I—”

  “I said, take me home. I’ve had quite enough for one night.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t like it, but I learned a long time ago that arguing with a woman accomplishes less than arguing with a cactus. Plus a woman’s quills are a lot sharper. I accepted the fact I’d sleep with the cats. Besides, I needed to think. I had no clue who hired Richard, and I wasn’t as sure of myself as I tried to sound.

  * * * *

  Sunday morning I ignored Annie’s call for breakfast and slept late. Wanda’s recalcitrance the previous night still stung. Sweeper and Striker loved my decision. They took it as an invitation to play. They galloped around the cottage, sounding like a herd of longhorns in full stampede. Every ten seconds, they bounded across the bed. Ten seconds? Yes. After their fifth trip, I timed them. Ten seconds flat. And they hit every room in the house.

  I was determined to wait them out, and I did. They tired and returned to bed—bringing one of their favorite toys, a miniature soccer ball with a bell in the middle. The game began as they wrestled for control of the ball and sought every advantage in their attempt to score. Any referee would have red carded both of them for Ungentlemanly Conduct, or whatever the equivalent is in the cat world. They growled, scratched, pushed, pounced, bit, gnawed, grappled, and many other violations of the rules of the game.

  But no matter my opinion, the game continued. I’ve never figured out what constitutes a goal with those two, but they appear to have a system, and they pursue it with vigor.

  After about thirty minutes of spirited combat, they declared the game over, buried the ball under my pillow and lay down to nap.

  This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I shook the comforter a couple of times as I crawled out of bed, disturbing their naps. They rewarded me with sleepy, belligerent looks.

  I remembered Frank had stocked the larder with the essentials. I needed coffee. Although I’d slept alone, I felt as tired as if Wanda and I had spent the night in sexual combat. Too much scotch, too much adrenaline, or too much of both last night.

  The boys’ food dishes cried out for refills, and I accommodated them, then cleaned the litter boxes while the coffee brewed. I refilled their water bowls, and they were set for the day. I wished my needs were as simple.

  As I sat in the dining room, staring out the window, sipping my first cup of coffee, I thought of the breakfasts Annie had been feeding me and the dinner I’d scrafed down last night. That put me on a severe guilt trip so I decided I’d go for a walk to burn off a few calories and, maybe, lower my cholesterol.

  As I put on my athletic shoes, I had a better idea. Last night, Richard had warned me his employer would hire someone new to follow me. That still had me baffled. I had no clue who would hire Richard unless it was Melon. But somehow Melon didn’t strike me as the type who’d hire a Private Detective. If he wanted someone followed, he’d bumble along doing it himself. I sat with one shoe on and one shoe off, trying to solve the mini-mystery.

  Nothing came to mind, so I limped into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. “My ex-wife, Janice,” I said. “Maybe she hired someone to tail me.” No, that didn’t make any sense. We hadn’t had contact in years. She had no interest in me. She’d married a guy with a much brighter future than mine, or so I’d heard. Who would spend the money to have me surveilled? Maybe some ex-husband I’d nailed. But there had been so many, it would be like working my way through an impossible maze. I let that thought go.

  I decided to take a drive to see if anyone new would follow. I preferred to know my enemy so I could lose him when the need arose. Of course, that depended on whether Richard had reported in last night, and my adversary had had time to hire someone else. If I didn’t spot anyone, I’d be extra observant later. I started toward the bedroom, still limping in one shoe.

  Sweeper followed. When I sat down to put on my second shoe, he sat on his haunches and stared at me, his green eyes glowing. “Meow,” he said and jumped onto the bed, assuming his Sphinx position.

  “Okay, hot shot,” I said. “If you’re so smart, who hired Richard?”

  “Meow,” he replied, blinked a couple of times, then jumped from the bed and dashed from the room. I pulled the second shoe on.

  From the hallway, I heard a crinkling noise. Had to be the boys. I finished tying the shoelace, then stepped into the hallway to see what mischief they were into.

  Striker was in his stalking crouch, staring at a brown paper bag. He turned his head to me. “Meow.”

  A head appeared from inside—Sweeper. He looked up at me and stared hard, his green eyes shining. “Meow.” He hunched himself upward and started walking, dragging the sack along with him.

  “If you two guys are trying to tell me something, you’re doing a lousy job. I don’t get it.”

  Sweeper gave me one of his patented glares, stepped out of the bag, slapped it with his paw, and headed for the kitchen. Striker stared at me a moment, shook his head, then followed Sweeper.

  I thought about their actions, then assumed it was cat play. I could hear them in the kitchen, eating with gusto. Must have worked up an appetite with their morning calisthenics. I knew they’d take a nap after breakfast, so I returned to my plan to drive around to discover if Richard or some new surveillant would be behind me. When I met Melon tomorrow night, I couldn’t afford an unknown threat from the rear.

  Something else came to mind. Suppose Melon had hired Richard. Suppose his sounding less than brilliant during his phone calls was an Oscar deserving act. Suppose I’d misjudged him and was reacting as he wanted me to. I took my coffee into the kitchen and dropped into a chair. Melon was the obvious person to put surveillance on me. He could be a lot smarter than I had given him credit for. If so, had I underestimated him in other areas? If so, would it cost me dearly when I went to trap him?

  No. I discarded the whole idea of Melon because of what I knew about Richard. Although I might never let him cat-sit the boys, I was confident he wouldn’t take a job for a killer. If word got around, he’d be ostracized from our small circle. After all, we PI’s do have standards, in spite of what you see on TV. Besides, no matter how I cut it, Melon hadn’t proved to be brilliant in his handling of the situation, even if he was acting. I mean, three thousand five-dollar bills didn’t point toward an M.I.T. graduate.

  So I was still at square one, only with colder coffee. I had no idea who hired Richard, but I had his assurance that someone was out to get me, and would hire another surveillant. I refilled my cup.

  The weather was beautiful again, warm with a cloudless sky. I call it a high sky, so bright you must protect your eyes. I put on my sunglasses and dropped the top on the convertible. I wanted to stand out among all the SUVs, SPUTS, sedans and MMVs I was sure crowded Canton.

  When I checked my watch, I was surprised to find it was ten-thirty. I’d slept later and been slower than I’d thought. But that was good. It had given my friend more time to get someone on my tail. I headed for Canton where the tourists were out in force. I looked for surveillance, but nothing stood out so I drove straight through Canton and connected with I-20. I turned west toward Dallas and zoomed along at sixty or so. As the other veh
icles shot by, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching to see if any one vehicle laid back at the same distance. The warm air felt good, I felt good, and I still hadn’t picked up a tail.

  When I reached the first turnoff for Terrell, I crossed over to US 80 and doubled back toward Van Zandt County. I figured I’d take 80 to Van then swing down to 64. That way, I’d miss the mess in Canton and most of the tourists. It was the long way around, but it was a nice day, and I had nothing better to do, not with Wanda on the outs with me again.

  At noon, after enjoying the back roads of Van Zandt, I reached the turn off into Chip’s private road. There it was—Richard’s pickup parked alongside 1653.

  I parked in front of him and got out. Richard slid out and met me halfway, his hands up in an apologetic way. “Take it easy, Ace. I need the money, and you’re easy to keep up with. That ragtop of yours stands out like a longhorn in a herd of Jerseys.”

  “You said you’d get canned. What’re you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d be fired, but my employer said for me to stay on you. Since you know about me, I can hang close and won’t have to hide anymore.”

  “You’re nuts, Richard. Do you think I’m going to let you follow me wherever I go?”

  “You don’t have much choice, do you? Oh, don’t worry, I won’t get in the way. I’ll just be there, looking over your shoulder.”

  “Suppose I kick the shit out of you. Would that change your mind?”

  “Nope,” he replied without hesitation. “That would be a waste of your energy. Besides, who says you’d be the one doing the kicking? It might go the other way.”

  He had a point there. He did have size and weight on me, and I suspected he fought dirty. I did, too, but he might know tricks I didn’t. Maybe another day when I had the element of surprise. However, with Richard behind me, I knew who tailed me and could call the plays my way. I changed my approach. “If we’re going to be companions, why don’t you tell me who hired you? Can’t hurt for me to know.”

  “Nope, can’t do that. Gotta maintain my reputation, you know.”

  I left Richard at his pickup, his reputation intact, and drove toward the main house. He again chose not to encroach on Chip’s property.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was ten p.m., Monday evening as I drove down 1653 with my lights off. I opted for an early start, hoping Melon hadn’t gotten an earlier one. I passed the church, then stopped about a half-mile later and pulled Frank’s old pickup truck into a small opening in the woods, as far off the road as possible. I got out, cursing as light lit the countryside then jammed a toothpick alongside the courtesy bulb button on the door frame to keep the light from glowing.

  I knelt and studied the area while reflecting on the lie I’d told Wanda, wishing I could have done it some other way. I told her I was going to the cottage to check on the boys, and I’d be back within the hour. At the cottage I dressed and kept moving. Now it was up to Chip to keep her occupied and out of my hair. Graveyards in the wee hours of the morning were spooky enough without worrying what Wanda might add to the formula.

  I lifted my packages off the passenger side, moved away a few yards, then turned and looked for the truck. I’d hidden it pretty good. I figured you’d have to be looking hard to spot it. Besides, if anyone was this far out looking for me, the gremlins had already struck.

  I knelt behind a tree and looked toward the road. Although I was using Frank’s pickup which Richard should not expect, I wanted to make sure. Also, I suspected Richard was not diligent to hang around all night waiting for me to make a move. His reputation back in Dallas was not all that high in PI circles. Five minutes later, I decided there was no one else around.

  Chip had roped the packages into a crude backpack, so I hefted them and walked away, hoping there were no poisonous things lurking in the grass. I thought about armadillos. I know they’re harmless, but they’re ugly and East Texas is their country. I wore athletic shoes that I’d painted black with shoe polish and a pair of tight black jeans. They were taped around my ankles to keep them from grabbing every bush I passed. It also protected me from sand spurs and creepy, crawly things like ticks, fire ants, and snakes. I may have grown up in the country, but that doesn’t mean I like wandering the woods in the middle of the night, or the things you encounter in the woods when you’re not watching.

  My head was covered with a black ski mask, and I’d blacked around my eyes as much as I dared. I couldn’t do anything about my white eyeballs, anything that would allow me to see. Black gloves and a black sweatshirt completed my ensemble. When I checked myself in the mirror before leaving the cottage, I’d looked like a stack of black with two white holes near the top.

  The boys had watched me dress and when I finished, they walked over and sniffed me. They showed no fear and curled up at my feet giving me a mischievous look. I couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad. I’d have felt better if they bristled, hissed, and raced from the room in fear.

  I worked my way into the woods about twenty-five yards perpendicular to the road, then turned and walked toward the church. I was concerned I might get off course and end up lost. I’ve never been known for an acute sense of direction. Map companies love me. I buy all their products.

  A noise from my right caused me drop onto one knee beside a tree. I froze, my breathing as muted as I could make it. Whatever it was, I’d come too close to crossing its path. The noise sounded again—something moving toward me. My eyes tried in vain to identify it, but with no success. I pushed my shoulder into the tree and settled onto both knees reducing my silhouette. I froze, attempting to become one with the tree. A moment passed, then I saw the intruder—a deer.

  He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed the air. With no hesitation, he bounded off along his back-trail. I grinned as a sigh of relief escaped my chest. However, his sensing me didn’t reassure me. He obviously smelled something that gave me away. I sniffed my arm—cotton.

  I settled until my butt was on the ground and my spine against the tree. I didn’t want to move on until I knew the deer had not attracted unwanted attention. Ten minutes later, I inched my way forward.

  Reaching the turn-in from the road for the church, I stopped and shielded myself behind the thickest tree I could find. My night vision had improved to the point I could identify outlines. I saw the church, the pavilion at the cemetery, and the open area around the church.

  Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and I hoped that meant Melon hadn’t shown yet. But to be safe, I waited another ten minutes.

  A couple of cars came by on 1653, but their headlights didn’t reach me. They kept moving. I backtracked about ten yards, took a right and headed for the graveyard. This was the tricky part. The woods on this side of the entranceway curved away from the church as the land opened up like a filled question mark. I didn’t want to get too deep into the woods, but I didn’t want to be too near the edge either. I had plenty of time before the appointed hour. Once in position, I’d be as safe as rain—if I ignored acid rain.

  Ahead, an owl hooted, and a mouse squeaked. Maybe the owl had found a late night snack.

  I checked my glow-in-the-dark Casio and saw it was eleven-fifteen. I’d used an hour and fifteen minutes getting to this point. Everything was going as planned, right on schedule. If Melon kept his word, and I had to believe he would, I still had three hours and forty-five minutes to implement my plan.

  I shifted the backpack which consisted of an abundance of sharp corners. I had to keep one hand under it to keep the harness from strangling me, which was a pain because it meant I couldn’t use both hands to ward off the branches, briars, and other assorted foreign objects that attacked me. Although I was sweating, I was thankful for the ski mask. It not only hid my pale skin but protected my cheeks from all kinds of vile scratchy things.

  I had my eyes down, concentrating on where I was planting my feet when I realized I was at the edge of the opening. I raised my head and looked around. My night vision had
reached its peak, so with the help of the half moon, I could see as if it were twilight. The chain link fence around the cemetery was about ten feet in front of me. I laid my packages down, then sat and leaned against another tree. My Casio showed ten minutes before midnight. I decided to study the area until twelve, then move in if I saw nothing. My heart pounded and sweat soaked the ski mask.

  After what I figured was at least ten minutes, I checked my watch. The seconds indicator had gone into slow motion. If I were to believe my eyes, I’d been there for two minutes. I studied the watch. It was broken, no doubt about it. A broken watch. Just what I needed to screw up my plan. I tried to remember when I last replaced the battery.

  I started counting—one Mississippi, two Mississippis, three Mississippis, four Mississippis. You get the idea. When I reached thirty, I re-checked my watch. To my embarrassment, the watch had stayed abreast of my erstwhile counting of Mississippis. So much for my innate ability to judge time.

  Midnight arrived and nothing had moved in the moonlight. I picked up my bundles and in a low crouch, started across the opening between the woods and the fence, forcing myself to move a step at a time. Motion is the enemy of stealth. Some might choose to dash in a situation like that, but not me. A person can detect movement even when he can’t see what makes it.

  I reached the fence and lowered the packages over. Then I crossed it making as little noise as possible. Once in the cemetery, I lay down, hoping I wasn’t on a grave. Again, several minutes passed with my scrutiny of the area. There was still no movement. I rose to a crouch and worked myself toward my target.

  I scooted from tombstone to tombstone, apologizing to the dead on whose graves I stepped. Since there were so many war veterans buried here, I trusted they’d forgive me and approve of my plan to apprehend a kidnapper. Of course, their women might have a different attitude, but I hoped male ghosts could control their female mates. Since it didn’t happen in life, maybe it could happen in the hereafter.