Authors: Donna Richards
She stood to pace. What to do now? Call Stephen? No. He’d never drive her within fifty yards of a bad guy. He couldn’t very well recognize any of the Hayden people by himself. Call Hank? No. He’d be noticed.
She smiled. She’d notice him. Besides, he was tied up with something important or he’d never have left her. That left only one person.
But how could she get there? Stephen had her car at the shop. She spotted the trailing edge of a feather boa from Elizabeth’s discarded nightgowns draped over a chair across the hall. She smiled. Elizabeth.
* * *
Everything was proceeding as planned, better than planned, she thought as she sat behind the wheel of Elizabeth’s fire engine red corvette. She smiled. No one would imagine sheltered little Angela Blake behind the wheel of such a sporty, adventurous car. She had found the keys under the floor mat. Now she almost wished someone familiar, though non-Hayden related, would come along, just so she could show off the wheels.
Even though she had been sitting in the car for two hours, her heart still pumped adrenaline every time a new car pulled into the lot. She’d already scoped out the location of the actual box. Box 269 was almost disappointing in its lack of individuality. A smallish box, located in the midst of a bank of smallish boxes, all displaying the same metallic fronts and sequential numbers.
Who would have thought that such a plain, boring box could hide a fraud scheme costing Hayden hundreds of thousands of dollars? Angela 262
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checked her watch. The sign posted above the boxes indicated that the mail had already been distributed. Hayden’s check should be resting comfortably in one of those metal pigeonholes. Her stomach growled, it was almost one o’clock. She should have packed a lunch along with the plastic bottles of water. She drank those sparingly as the post office didn’t offer public bathrooms, and she didn’t want to risk missing her prey if she hurried off in pursuit of one.
A car pulled in the post office driveway. Angie watched the car’s progress in her rear view mirror. It looked familiar, but after several hours of watching cars, they all had familiar qualities. Still there was something about the determined set of the driver. The car pulled into a parking spot two cars down from her own. She squished down in the bucket seat, hoping to be less conspicuous. A man got out of the car and turned briefly in her direction. Tom Wilson! She knew it. Satisfaction couldn’t cancel out the effect of the adrenaline pulsing through her system. Tom turned and headed for the post office’s main door.
The fact that Tom was here was not enough proof. He could be here on Hayden business. After Tom entered the building, Angela slipped out of the red monster and followed. She would have to see him open the box and physically remove the check.
The post office had three alcoves dedicated to the metal boxes.
TImone’s box was in the second one. She could walk down the hallway, past the second alcove, and hope Wilson’s interest centered on the box’s contents, and not on people. It was all a matter of timing. She walked slowly towards the first alcove, affording Wilson enough time to find his key and open the door. She walked purposefully by the opening to the second alcove. A quick glance to her right confirmed her suspicions.
Wilson pulled an envelope out of the box. She had him. She had…
“Angela Blake.” Angie jerked her head in time to see Suzy Schaffer, ex-high school cheerleader and former next-door neighbor. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Of all times to have her wish to see non-Hayden people answered.
Angie could feel Tom’s glaring gaze boring into her back. “Hello, Suzy. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
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“Was that you in that red corvette out front? I thought it was you, but it’s been so long.”
Angie heard the tiny metal door slam. With her peripheral vision, she saw Wilson turn her way.
“You know it’s so good to see you up and walking and everything,”
Suzy chatted on. “I always felt so bad when you were confined to that bed.”
“Hello, Angela.” Tom stepped to her side. “I thought you were home sick today.”
“Uh-oh, busted.” Suzy gave her a sympathetic look. “I better be going.
Say hi to your mom and Stephen for me.” She smiled. “Especially Stephen.”
Angie twisted her lips in a parody of a smile before turning to Tom. “I guess you caught me playing hooky. Do me a favor. Don’t tell Hank that you saw me.”
“Hmm…. And you’re here for…?”
“Stamps.” She answered quickly, remembering that a self-service stamp machine resided at the end of the hallway. “With my ankle, it hurts to wait in lines at the window.” She made to walk past him toward the machines when she saw the “out of order” sign. “Shoot.”
“Did that young lady say you’re driving a red corvette?”
“I had an accident a few nights ago and a friend lent me their car.”
“Nice friend.”
“Yes.” She agreed, turning toward the main entrance, anxious to escape the awkward conversation.
“That looks a lot like Elizabeth’s car.”
“Does it? I wouldn’t know.” She pushed the front door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She paused.
“Stamps?”
“Thanks.” She stepped aside. “I almost forgot.”
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“That surprises me, Angela.” His lips twisted in a light sneer. “I get the impression you don’t forget much.” He let the door close in her face and walked briskly to his car. While Angie watched through the front plate glass windows, his car roared to life and backed out of the parking space much too fast for safety. It sped down the main street, burning rubber toward Hayden. Once back in Elizabeth’s car, she picked up the car phone to call Hank and tell him of her discovery.
“Put that down.” A voice said from the back seat. She replaced the handset and swerved to look behind her. A not too steady gun barrel slanted up at her.
“Mr. Burroughs?”
“Turn around and face the front.” She did as she was told. “I don’t want to use this, Angie, but I will if I have to.”
“But why…?”
“Because you went and stuck your nose into things that didn’t concern you. Now start the car and drive to the freeway and no funny stuff.” His voice, rising from the floor of the back seat, held more confidence than the hand holding the gun.
“I’ll do what—”
“No talking,” he hissed. “I don’t want anyone poking around, looking to see who you’re talking to. Now drive.”
She pulled Elizabeth’s convertible out of the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction from Hayden. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw a police cruiser several cars behind her. She jerked the wheel in a sharp turn and aimed the car for the curb until the sight of a looming telephone pole caused her to correct. The muzzle of the gun poked into her side.
“You have a death wish, Angie? I said no funny stuff. You get pulled over and I’ll shoot you first, then the cop. Got that?” The gun pushed painfully into her ribs. She nodded.
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mirror. The cruiser turned off into a strip mall parking lot. Damn! Her heart thudded against her ribcage.
She glanced to her right. Her purse, with the cell phone inside, lay almost in reach. If she could nonchalantly just reach over and…
“Leave it,” he said. “And keep your eyes on the road.”
“Why you, Pete?” she asked, glancing quickly at the metal under her elbow. “I never imagined you’d be a part of this.”
“I said no talking. Don’t you do anything you’re told?”
“Relax. No one pays any attention to people talking to themselves in cars. I could be singing, or on a phone call, or…”
“Shut up and drive. Get on the freeway heading south.”
She turned onto the entrance ramp and merged with the traffic. The wind caused by the rapidly accelerating car blocked out the sound of any conversation. She saw Burroughs’s face in the rear view mirror. He hunched forward in the backseat, the gun never more than a few inches away.
“Turn off at Riverview, then take Ritchton.” If there had been any doubts before, his words confirmed their destination.
Once they arrived at the warehouse, he signaled her to exit the car.
She reached across the seat to grab her purse.
“I said leave it,” he snarled.
“But my medicines. I can’t—”
He poked the gun in her side. “Worry about this, not your purse.”
He hustled her inside. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she noticed crates and corrugated boxes stacked haphazardly.
“You’ve been busy,” she commented.
“No thanks to you,” he snarled. “I’ve been bringing stuff in ever since Renard started making noise about a physical. That was your idea, wasn’t it?”
“What are you going to do with me?” She looked around for an avenue to escape. Besides the narrow door they had come through and 266
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the closed receiving bay, there were two windowless doors along the back wall. He marched her to one of them.
Burroughs fished in his pockets, then slipped a key into a grimy lock.
He pulled the door open, releasing a foul smell of stale urine and mildew.
The stench alone made her gag.
“In there.” He shoved her into the dark, dank closet. The door scraped shut. The lock clicked.
She spun around, pounding the door with both fists. “Let me out of here. I can’t stay in this place. Let me out!” She pressed her nose by the crack in the door, hoping some fresh air might displace the fetid interior.
The rancid air pressed in on her with a weight of its own, much like a casket, much like death. “Please, Pete,” her voice broke. “I’m scared.”
“There’s a light switch by the door. You might as well quiet down
‘cause you’re going to be there awhile.”
Footsteps retreated. “No! Come back.” She pounded some more.
“Don’t leave me here! I need my pills.” The far door slammed with finality.
She was trapped in this hell on earth. “Please, come back,” she whimpered.
Her fingers slid down the sticky surface of the wall until they dragged over a light switch. With a flip, her consigned hell flooded with light and the rusty rattle of a long unused ventilation fan. A grimy stained toilet commanded one corner of the tiny room. An equally disgusting sink and filth-covered mirror filled out the back wall. She looked around, hoping one of the outside dirt-caked windows opened to the bathroom. No such luck. Her prison had four scum-encrusted walls, not much larger than her bedroom closet.
With horror, she glanced at a sticky black residue on her hands where she had pounded the door. Germs must thrive in this cesspool.
Stumbling over to the sink, she turned the faucets. Brown water trickled out, adding flecks of rust to the stained basin. Once the water began to clear, she thrust her hands under the cold stream. With some difficulty, she chiseled away the dusty, dried sliver of soap cemented to the sink.
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on the floor. Fortunately, the fan lessened the sharp ammonia smell, but nothing helped the appearance of the bathroom.
She kicked the gray towel to a spot near the door. A mouse dashed out from its folds. Angie shrieked, pressing herself tight against the sink.
The rodent sought safety along the floorboards. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She willed herself to calm the frantic pace. “Relax,” she said, her voice lost in the rattle of the overhead fan.
The mouse itself disappeared, but the floor bore witness to its frequent visits. She stomped on the gray rag, before using it with her foot to swipe a small area on the floor. Dust and dirt scattered in all directions. She sneezed repeatedly, then sat, touching as little of the floor as possible.
“Hello?” she yelled. Shoot. With the fan on, she wouldn’t be able to hear footsteps when Pete came back.
If
he came back. She shuddered.
With the ruckus overhead, no one would be able to hear her call for help.
Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to swipe them away. Someone had to come back for her. They had to. She couldn’t survive otherwise. And when they did, she would need to hear them coming. Her enemies already had advantages. They didn’t need surprise on their side as well. She glanced up to the ceiling fan/light.
Someone had to come. Someone had to hear her call for help. Her fingers reached up to the light switch. She bit her lip, and after one last look at the path of the mouse, switched the lights off.
* * *
Tom Wilson’s smile disappeared moments after leaving the personnel department. Something was up and he was willing to bet that Angela’s sudden appearance at the post office had something to do with it. He walked up to Cathy’s cubicle where he knew a half-full decanter of coffee would be sitting on a burner. How much did Hank know? Tom emptied some of the pot into a mug. What was Angela doing at that post office?
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Was she on to them? Absently, he pondered the possibilities while Cathy efficiently fielded phone calls. She turned towards him,
“Mr. Wilson? I have Pete Burroughs on the line. He’s trying to track you down. He says it’s important that he talk directly to you, no messages.”
Tom nodded before swallowing the hot liquid. “Can you put it in the conference room? Thanks, and can you tell Hank when he’s off the phone that I’ll be just a few more minutes. Thanks, hon.”
Great. With everything else on his plate, his nervous nellie of a co-conspirator required handling again. He closed the conference room door. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got her locked up, that’s what. But I don’t know what to do with her.”