Finding Floyd (19 page)

An older woman opened the door holding a
little girl's hand. They were giggling together as they walked
past.

She grabbed at the door and stepped back,
ready to run. I have to get away.

"I think you know who I am, bitch." He moved
closer and strong fingers seize her wrist painfully and held her in
place.

The stink of sweat, and stale cigar almost
made her gag as the frightening face twisted into a mirthless grin.
She struggled, determined to get away, until from below the rumpled
brown sweater, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed into her side.

"Do exactly as I say and nobody will get
hurt. You go in there, and I'll be right behind you, with my friend
here." He jabbed the gun painfully, making his point. "Maybe some
other people are dead too? Some of those nice little kids?" The
smile he gave her was more terrifying than the gun. "Now, we're
gonna walk nice and slow to your car."

She nodded, trying to think past the
immediate danger. Behind her another pair of moms and several small
children came bustling and laughing through the glass doors. I
can't risk anyone getting hurt. I have to leave with him. Where
were Chris and his damned FBI when she needed them?

"Start moving now," he growled.

Her car keys felt like lead weights in her
hand. She did as he asked, walking towards the vehicle, each step
an effort. The odds of surviving an abduction are almost
non-existent, if you enter a vehicle. I have to get away, but not
here. I'll jump out of the car as soon as he's driving, or I'll
grab the steering wheel and cause a crash.

"No, get behind the wheel. You're going to do
the driving," he hissed in her ear, and motioned her to the other
side.

Diane stumbled, and stared at him. Had he
read her mind?

"Open the door and get in. Remember, the gun
is on you. One smart move and you're dead meat. Now do it slow. You
got that?"

She nodded and got into the driver's seat and
sat motionless. Tears of rage and fear formed at the corners of her
eyes, but she dared not even make a move to wipe them away. She
heard him open the other door and get in. His door clicked closed.
She stared at the rear view mirror at happy families laughing as
they walked their children to their cars.

"Now, you do just like I tell you. Start the
engine and drive. You get to the road, turn right.

She moved her eyes toward him, then quickly
back. I can't see the pistol, but his hands hidden under that
sweater. Oh Chris, please help me. As she backed slowly out of the
parking space, she began to silently pray.

* * *

"Oh my gosh! Yeah, I recognize him. He was
just here a few minutes ago. Why, is he a criminal or something?"
The young checkout clerk's eyes were as big as saucers.

Bingo, thought Rodriguez. Finally got a hot
one. She proffered the picture of Toricello once more, urging the
girl to take another look.

"Okay now, try to remember. What was he
wearing?"

"It was something brown, I think. A brown
shirt and pants. No, maybe it was a jacket, but it was brown. Hey,
is this guy dangerous?"

"Just answer the questions," barked
Rodriguez. "What did he buy and how did he pay?"

"Let's see," said the clerk. "I know he got a
case of the bottled water that's on sale and some other stuff. I
forget what. He was right there." She pointed to the checkout
lines. "I was working on register number three. It'll be printed on
the tape."

"Ok, great. How did he pay for the things?"
asked the agent.

"Oh yeah, it was cash. He gave me a fifty
dollar bill. Spent, like twenty five."

Agent Rodriguez was already briskly walking
toward the door. "Thanks, you've been a big help," she said, over
her shoulder.

Outside, she circled the big parking lot, not
really expecting to find The Blowtorch even though he'd just left
the store minutes before. Her gaze settled on the library parking
lot directly across the street and what she saw caused her to
sprint in that direction. Bruno Toricello stood beside a light blue
compact car and sure enough, he was wearing a brown sweater. Next
to him was Chris's tall blond girlfriend. The two slipped into her
car. Nice. Now that he no longer has his truck, he's got Blondie
driving him around.

Weaving around startled shoppers, she yanked
her gun out and took aim at the car as it slowly backed out of the
parking space. Frustrated, she stood by the roadside watching cars
passing by and the parking lot full of innocent bystanders.
Holstering her pistol, she pulled out her phone to call it in, and
then decided there was something else she could do.

Toricello and Diane were talking calmly when
she began to snap a series of pictures. As the car turned in front
of her, she caught Bruno's face clearly as he leaned close to Diane
and smiled. As they sped off she continued until they were out of
sight.

She ran for her motorcycle. Chances were slim
that she could tail them, because in the center of town there were
any number of side streets they could take, but she was going to
try. After a futile attempt to locate the car, she called Chris
Owen. Even though I've lost them, this would be so worth it. As she
listened to the ringing phone, she thought, I can't wait to see his
face when I show him that blondie bitch is as guilty as sin.

Diane was petrified with fear. The kidnapper
had her bound securely to an old wooden chair with duct tape. A
long strip of the sticky tape had been cruelly wrapped around the
back of her head and over her face, gagging her and making it
difficult to breathe. After binding her up, the man had left
without a word. She'd heard the sound of her car engine starting
down below and then he'd driven off.

Now she was alone in a dimly lit room with no
idea where she was. As terrified as she'd been when that awful man
was with her, it was more frightening after he'd left. Her heart
raced as she tried to guess how long he'd been gone. What if he
never came back? I don't want to die slowly in this disgusting
place. It was cold in the unheated room and her back and arms, in
the unnatural position had begun to ache. Her hair was pulled
cruelly by the tape that covered her mouth. Taking slow deep
breaths, she tried to calm herself.

The animal that had abducted her had forced
her to drive to a lonely stretch of road and stop the car. Dragging
her onto the passenger seat, he'd blindfolded her and tied her
hands. After that he'd gotten behind the wheel and driven for what
seemed like hours, but it was probably far less. She'd tried to
keep track of where they'd gone, but he'd made several turns and
she'd lost all sense of direction.

When the car stopped, she'd listened
carefully to the sounds around her. There was no clue as to where
they were. He'd come around the car, opened the door and dragged
her out.

"Come on, we're gonna take a little walk."
He'd jerked her upright and forced her to climb a rickety flight of
wooden stairs. Still blindfolded, she'd stumbled, but he kept a
firm grip on her arm. Hauling her into a room, she'd tried to
scream as he pushed her into a chair, but only a stifled moan
escaped through the gag. After he was satisfied that she was
securely bound to the chair, he'd uncovered her eyes. Blinking, she
saw what looked like a small studio apartment. Everything was
filthy. The windows were covered with curtains that looked as
though they'd never seen a washing machine. On the coffee table was
an ashtray containing several stale smelling cigar butts.

The Blowtorch! Chris had known that the
Blowtorch was in his basement by the smell of his cigars. Did they
call him that because he's always puffing on a cigar, or was it
because of the way he murdered his victims? Oh my god. I can't
think about that.

A fresh lightning bolt of fear zigzagged
across her brain. Does he realize that Chris and I are friends?
Well, Chris is much more than a friend after last night. The
thought made her want to cry. If he tries to rescue me, he could be
killed. I have to get out of here somehow.

Escape! I've got to at least try to escape.
Flexing her legs and arms, she tested the strength of her bonds.
She could barely move and her hands, tied tightly with the duct
tape behind the chair, were growing numb. She couldn't see how he'd
wrapped her ankles, but it was uncomfortable. Moving her fingers
along the back of the chair she searched for anything she could
latch onto. If only she had enough leverage to stretch the tape,
perhaps... One knuckle scraped painfully against something rough,
something other than the smooth wood of the chair's frame. She
explored further. It looked like the small head of a nail,
protruding slightly, just a quarter of an inch, or less. It was
sharp, but was it sharp enough? She fidgeted around in the chair in
an effort to work her hands closer. Finally, she was in a position
to worry the tape on the nail head. Rubbing up and down, she could
feel the nail cutting. It wouldn't be easy, but maybe, if she kept
sawing at it, she could cut the tape enough to free her hands. I
have to manage it before the Blowtorch returns. With determination
born of fear, she went to work.

Catching the edge of the duct tape on the
nail, she pulled upwards. Carefully, she repeated this and
gradually saw progress. For the first time, she was encouraged. It
would take a while, but she began to see that it would be possible
to work through the tape and free her hands. If only she could
finish before he came back.

A sound caught her attention and she froze.
It was an engine, coming closer. Was this her kidnapper, or was
someone coming to rescue her? She wondered where Chris was. The car
kept coming closer until the noise was right below her and then it
stopped. She could tell it wasn't her car. The motor definitely
sounded different. A door slammed shut. This room must be over a
garage. Heart pounding, she straightened into her original position
and waited.

Steps sounded on the stairs and paused when
they reached the top. Through the dirty glass panes at the top of
the door, she could see the dim figure of a man. The door swung
open and the Blowtorch stepped inside, a cruel smile on his
face.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

She stared at him, too frightened to
move.

"I asked you a question. You okay or what?"
he growled. "Nod your head, yes or no."

She nodded.

"Good, I'll be right back." He turned and
shot her a malevolent grin. "Don't go nowhere." The door slammed
behind him and his footsteps retreated on the stairs below.

Realizing that she'd been holding her breath,
she let it out with a rush, breathing in deeply through her nose.
Cautiously, she felt with one finger the edge of the tape where
she'd managed to slice through about a quarter of an inch. She
prayed that he wouldn't examine things too closely when he
returned.

In about ten minutes she heard him on the
steps again. He entered, carrying her purse and a plate of food.
The purse he dropped unceremoniously on a chair next to her and the
plate he set on the coffee table. From a cabinet over the sink he
retrieved a mason jar and a glass. These, he brought to the table
and settled onto the couch, sighing expansively. Opening the jar,
he filled the glass with a full measure of its contents, took a
drink, shuddered and grimaced.

"Ya know," he said, smiling at her. "You
can't buy any booze in this whole county! I tried." Reaching behind
him, he removed a pistol from his waistband and put it on the
table. Raising his glass, he said, "When I'm up in Jersey, I drink
nothin' but the best booze. Now I gotta drink this homemade hooch."
He took another sip.

Lifting the plate up to chin level, he took a
large bite of a biscuit with sliced ham, and chewed noisily as he
kept pushing the food into his mouth until the ham and biscuits
were gone. He stared at her while he ate. Unable to watch him
gobbling the food, she looked away and studied the room. If she
ever got out of here alive, she'd want to be able to describe it to
the police, or to Chris. Oh God, Chris, where are you?

"You're name is Diane Vandersmoot."

She started at the sound of his voice.
Wrenching her head back, she stared at him.

He chuckled. "Just nod for yes or shake for
no. I looked at your license and other stuff." He jerked a thumb
toward her purse. "In case you're wondering, your phone is in your
car on the charger. Wouldn't want the GPS tracker to find ya." He
flashed his nasty grin and snickered. "Hope nobody's trying to call
you. Okay, we're gonna try this again. You're Diane Vandersmoot,
right?"

She nodded, making the decision to be
entirely truthful with this monster, because she had no idea how
much he already knew.

"And you come from a little place upstate New
York called, Pippin's Grove. That right?"

She nodded.

"Uh huh, now that's real interesting." He
paused, sipping his drink. "You know, I had some money, matter of
fact, it was a lot of money that went missing in that same little
town last fall. You know anything about that?"

Nodding once more, she didn't like the
direction this interrogation was going. Maybe she shouldn't tell
him anything.

He produced a cigar from his shirt pocket and
lit it, with a gold lighter, puffing for a minute in silence. He
gestured with the cigar and remarked, "I find that pretty curious,
you being from Pippin's Grove, and my money disappearing up there,
in that same little Pippin's Grove place."

Clouds of smoke filled the room and she
wanted to cough.

Draining the glass, he refilled it, eased
back onto the couch and sighed. "This is another small town in the
middle of nowhere, and you show up here. Kind of a coincidence,
know what I'm saying?" He puffed furiously for a moment in silence.
The end of the cigar glowed red, and he tapped ashes on the floor.
"Now you're here. Where I just happen to be on a little vacation.
Did you ever think how many small, nowhere towns there are in the
country?" He leaned forward. "And you lady, just by coincidence,
come from Pippin's Grove. I don't like coincidences. Are you with
the FBI?"