Hostage For A Hood

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The accident took place at exactly fourteen minutes after nine on Monday morning at a blind intersection where Elm Road crossed Main Street at an oblique angle. It involved two automobiles, one a seven-year-old black sedan and the other a brand-new two-toned job, stolen at daybreak from in front of a doctor's office over in the residential section of the town. The seven-year-old sedan had all of the best of it.

The accident also involved two men, a woman and a medium-sized French poodle. No one was injured, except possibly in spirit, and there were no witnesses. The woman was at fault.

Both drivers were sober and neither was speeding at the time. Material damage was well under a hundred dollars. There was no other property damage. But for a completely insignificant, everyday run-of-the-mill accident, the repercussions were fantastic.

Detective Lieutenant Martin Parks, normally in charge of homicide, but a policeman who kept in touch with almost every activity of the small but efficient Brookside force, would be and was the first to admit this. The lieutenant was not a man given to superlatives or overstatement.

Joyce Sherwood was the woman involved. She had been driving the black sedan. A split second before the crash, she realized what was about to happen. Simultaneously with the realization, she knew herself to be at fault. But she was given no time for idle reflection, and even as she instinctively jammed down on the brake and opened her mouth in the beginning of a small scream, there was a rending crunch of metal against metal and the accident was an accomplished fact.

The impact wasn't great, but it was sufficient to throw the poodle from the seat of the sedan to the floor, where it crouched in hurt, shocked surprise. Joyce herself was shaken up and bruised when her slender, small body rammed forward against the steering wheel. But even in that initial moment of shock, she instinctively reached for the brown suede leather bag at her side which contained the cashier's check for twenty-six hundred dollars. It was the check—which she had obtained only minutes before from the teller at the County Trust Company—which was responsible for taking her mind off of her driving and was indirectly responsible for the accident.

There were no witnesses because the intersection was deserted at the moment and the sound of the crash was not sufficiently loud to attract attention from a distance.

As is usual in such cases, there was a moment of utter silence after the two cars made contact. And then the poodle recovered his vocal cords, if not his dignity, and set up a howl. This served to unblock Joyce's temporary mental paralysis and she reached for the handle of the door at her side. As she started to twist it she saw the doors of the other car open and the two men step to the ground. They moved toward the front to survey the damage.

They were wearing police uniforms, and Joy experienced an odd sense of relief as her mind went to the certified check made out to cash. It was the last time she was to enjoy that particular sensation for a long, long while ....

* * * *

Monday morning.

The bed was a warm, soft refuge and she hated the thought of getting out of it, of getting up and starting the new day.

Actually, the day, for her, had already started, even though her eyes kept closing and she wanted to snuggle up against the firmness of his lean, slender body and fall back into sleep once more.

He of course had done exactly that. Fallen asleep again almost at once still holding her tight in his arms, still breathing heavily. He always did, and she always envied him for it, but it was an envy without irritation or jealousy. This was a very special morning and she would have liked to make an exception of it and join him in sleep and just ignore the clock on the side table next to the bed.

A very special day. The first anniversary of their marriage. It always struck her as odd, and a sort of lucky coincidence, that they had been married exactly one day before his birth date. It was thinking of this that suddenly brought her eyes open and alert again. Today it wasn't just a case of disentangling herself from his arms and getting up to prepare the quick breakfast they had together each morning before she drove him to the train. Today she herself had something very, very important to do. Something which she had been planning now for weeks and something which wouldn't wait.

She smiled to herself as she thought about it. And then she moved, hating to do so, slipping away from his arms and sliding over and letting her long, beautiful legs slip off the edge of the bed until her feet touched the floor. A moment later, as she leaned beside the bed reaching for the bathrobe, she saw that he had opened one eye and was looking at her. He half reached out a hand to pull her back to him once more, but she quickly laughed and stepped away.

It was always like this in the mornings; he wanted her then more than ever and she was only too glad to give herself. But this wasn't a weekend and there were things to be done. A lot of things.

Five minutes later she had made her hasty toilet and was back in the bedroom of the apartment, tossing on her clothes with a sort of careless efficiency. She reached down and took a corner of the sheet and quickly tore it off the bed, leaving him lying there naked and exposed, a bellow of false rage already on his lips.

"Come on, Bart," she said. "Get up, boy. You've had it." She laughed, running for the door. "Breakfast in exactly twelve minutes," she called over her shoulder. "You've got a train to make, my friend."

He groaned, rolled over and slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. He was smiling sleepily. He was very happy, very contented, even if he did hate the thought of the train which took him away from her.

He hummed to himself, a series of muted notes, off key, as he shaved, thinking of the things he had to do, the work down at the office which was waiting for him. The job was fine and he liked it. He was young and he worked hard and he was getting places. He just wished that he could get there a little bit faster. There were so, so many damned things he wanted; bigger responsibilities, more money. Money to buy things for her. A house of their own which they both dreamed about, out just a bit farther from the city and with a bit of land around it. The new car to replace the seven-year-old sedan which she used to drive him to the station (although he had to admit that the new car was something he wanted more for himself than for her—she was satisfied with the old Chevy.) Furniture, clothes, money for the children which they both wanted and planned on having.

He grimaced, having knicked his chin with the razor, and quickly washed off the remaining shaving cream with cold water. Well, anyway, they would be stepping out on the town tomorrow. It was going to be
his
birthday present to
her;
the tickets to the hit show, the dinner in town and the nightclub and dancing after the play. He'd arrange for the tickets as soon as he got into the office. That was one of the nicer parts about working for Markson Advertising. He was in a spot where he could get tickets for the top hits without giving up an arm and a leg.

She had the two soft-boiled eggs, the buttered toast and the steaming pot of coffee ready when he came into the dining alcove off the kitchen, still lacing his tie around his neck and jerking it into position. He didn't take the glass of fresh orange juice she was holding out, but instead reached for her, lifting her off of her feet and pulling her slender body close as he kissed her lips.

She shook herself free, almost spilling the juice.

"What's got into you?" She laughed. "I guess I'll have to cut down on your feed."

She stepped nimbly around the table, seated herself, and started to fill the two coffee cups.

"You'll have to step on it, my boy," she said, "if you expect to make that train."

"I'll make it all right, honey," he said. "This business of working certainly interferes with a man's pleasure, though."

Twenty minutes later she ran down and opened the garage doors.

Flick, the black poodle, barked wildly, scurrying around her feet for a minute or two, and then rushed out and found his usual fire hydrant. By the time she had climbed into the car behind the steering wheel, the dog had returned and leaped into the back seat. Bart joined her a moment later, having taken a minute or so to find his briefcase.