Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (36 page)

“I need to get out of here.”

“A few more days. Can I get you anything? Water?”

I hadn’t met her, but it was as if I’d known her all my life. My heart raced. I was in a room near Brandy.

I flexed my arms and dug my nails into the leather. I tried to stretch it, then assessed the progress with my fingers. Maybe it gave a little.

As I worked, I tried to sum up my situation. I was in a windowless room, probably an attic. Next to me was Brandy. So far, so good. There were two men in the house—Henry Gruber and the one who’d taken me, Ben Small. It seemed they had unlimited access to needles filled with a deadly substance. Not so good.

I was having trouble staying focused and had a splitting, head-ripping migraine, complete with noise in my ears and spots before my eyes. I tried to stretch my arms as far as I could to reach my legs … but, no, that wouldn’t work. What if I could get my knife? I worked on that for a while and was dozing when the door opened. Ben or Henry? No time like the present.

“Henry?” I asked him to rip the tape from my mouth. Apparently he couldn’t understand my gibberish because he made no reply. Footsteps approached my cot. I heard him breathing. The air was different. It was Ben; I felt his malevolent presence.

“You heard me, get out of there!” a voice said from the doorway.

Ben pounded across the floor. I heard his heavy tread running down the stairs.

My heart was beating double time. That was a near miss. I had to escape or I’d be killed. It hurt my shoulders like hell, but I managed to get two fingers inside my back pocket. I felt the top of the knife, but I couldn’t grab it. My arms were screaming with pain, so I rested.

Then I had an idea. What if I could rip my pocket enough so that the knife would fall out? I was struggling with it, trying to cut the first of many tight stitches with my thumbnail, when the door opened again, and a bright light shone through the tape.

“The lawyer’s pain has just begun. She would have gotten her daughter back had she followed my instructions. But she couldn’t leave it alone. She had to meddle. She had to involve you. This happened because she interfered.”

Henry Gruber. I tried to answer back, but without another word, he slammed the door.

In a few minutes, I continued gnawing at my pocket. It was a long, slow process, and I had to take a rest every few minutes. There were probably five or six heavy-gauge stitches anchoring the top on each side, and they weren’t budging. Where was flimsy material when I needed it?

By now I’d worked up a good sweat. I switched to the other side of the pocket and was rewarded with a slight rip, but the angle was excruciating. The tape over my eyes and forehead tore at my scalp. I tugged again and heard a rip. I squirmed my butt side to side to see if the knife would slip out. I succeeded in getting it part way through the opening, but it got stuck in some of the loose threads.

By this time, sweat was cascading down my cheeks and arms. My fingers were slippery. I yanked some more and felt more thread give way. Twisting and arcing, finally I felt the knife fall out. Felt around the hard mattress, but couldn’t grab it. I was just about to give up when I swear, some bit of luck, the knife slipped into my fingers, and I opened the blade.

I needed to hold it in both hands and gnaw the leather. That took all my strength. I stopped to feel my progress. Nothing, not even an indent. I was ready to give up when I decided to try to hold the knife with one set of fingers while I held the leather taut and sliced, stopping in time so I wouldn’t slit my wrists. I pictured the lifeless form of my mother, her wrists slit.
I know you didn’t kill yourself, Mom. I know you were innocent. Now please help me.

The blade began to cut the leather. I felt it loosen around my wrists. One hand was free. That’s all it took. After I untied my feet, I stood, shaking out my muscles and trying some deep bends. The room began to spin, and I had to sit for a minute or two. Then I began ripping the tape off my mouth and eyes, praying the men wouldn’t return before I’d freed myself and Brandy.

I reached in my jacket pocket for my flashlight. Gone. I felt my other pockets for my cell phone, wondering if it would work. No phone. I’d have to wait until my eyes adjusted to the dimness.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, my heart pounding. Although I could open my eyes, white spots continued to swim in a blurred circle, driving me nuts. I wondered how long it would take before my vision returned, or if it would return at all, and tried to figure out a way to handle Ben Small when he came back, because I had no doubt he would, and this time with a deadly load. Soon the spots lessened, and I stood at the edge of the bed, practicing my jabs and dodges and high kicks until I got dizzy and had to sit again.

Whatever drug Ben Small had given me was ripping my brain apart. The world was a cloud, and I felt like crashing on top of it. But the feeling would pass, I hoped, and I’d be free of it soon. As I did deep knee bends, I felt something rubbing my upper arm. The phone Denny had given me.

I tore off the armband and peered at it.
You saved my life, Denny McDuffy.
My brain was so fried, I couldn’t remember the passcode to unlock the screen much less how to speed dial Denny.

I heard footsteps outside. Slapping the tape over my eyes and lips, I threw the blanket over me.

A door opened, not mine. Voices again. I recognized Henry Gruber’s inflections. His questions were punctuated by Brandy’s mumbling.

After Henry Gruber’s steps had receded, I waited until my sight was better before I went over to the wall between Brandy and me. I tapped. No reply. I tapped again, this time louder, and I heard a rustle. Hesitant footsteps.

I rapped again and thought, what the hell. “Brandy?” I asked in my best stage whisper, and I have to tell you, my voice sounded like Dracula in drag.

Silence for a couple of seconds. While I was waiting for her to say something, I tried my usual code. It unlocked the new cell, and I punched in Denny’s speed dial.

“Fina?”

“Get me out of here.”

“Sit tight. We’re on the way. Getting your location from your phone. Whatever you do, don’t turn it off.”

Hope surged in me as I holstered the phone and turned back to Brandy’s wall. I did my whisper thing again into the plaster, calling her name.

“Who are you?”

“A friend. I’m getting you out of here. Sit tight.”

I crept along the wall, feeling for the door. Squatting down, I peered through the keyhole into a dimly lit hall. It was empty, and I made a run for it. I looked around, found another door, and hoped it led to Brandy’s room. I turned the knob.

Inside, it was a black hole, but warm.

I followed my nose.

When my knees hit the side of a mattress, I saw the outline of a form sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Brandy?”

“How did you get here?”

“It’s a long story. Do you want to hear it?”

Silence for a heartbeat. “Is it boring?”

I smiled. “How come you’re not in school?”

“That’s a long story, too. It’ll put you to sleep.”

I asked her if she was ready to leave.

She made no reply at first. I saw her nod.

“First we’ve got to hit a couple of guys in the balls.”

“Sounds good.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

She pointed to her back.

“You’ve been wearing your pack this whole time?”

She nodded. “It’s my stuff, but my phone’s missing.”

I heard a whirring sound overhead and watched as strobes flashed through the cracks in the boarded-up window. Enough light seeped in so I could see her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she was trembling.

“Here comes help.” I grabbed her and hugged her until she stopped crying. “Cut the crap and blow your nose. We’re getting out of here.”

Arm in arm, we started walking toward the door. My phone started vibrating.

I answered. “You’re not going to believe who’s with me. What’s taking you so long?”

“Be there as soon as I can,” Denny said.

Just then the door opened, and light from the hall momentarily blinded me. A figure was silhouetted and rushing toward us. I recognized the shape. Ben Small.

“Watch out. He’s got his needle,” Brandy said.

Chapter 70

Denny. In A Cold Sweat

As they turned onto a narrow two-lane highway, Denny’s heart vaulted into his throat. He slammed on the brakes. The road and driveway were jammed with cruisers, unmarked cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. Four firemen were running to the scene carrying a safety net. He managed to drive into a small gully on one side of the driveway, parking close to the farmhouse, a large turreted affair with a widow’s walk.

Denny and the others piled out of the Jeep, squinting up at a chopper directly overhead. He bent, hanging onto his jacket, his hair flattened in the downdraft. The blades whirred, and its Nightsun lights illuminated the scene, making it almost as bright as day.

As his eyes lifted to the widow’s walk, his head reeled. Fina was standing next to another woman. No, not a woman, a girl. Both of them were held in one fisted grip by a man waving something in his other hand. It didn’t look like a gun, maybe a knife. Hard to see without binocs.

“It’s Fina and Brandy Liam!” Jane said, yelling into the wind. “And that must be Ben Small. He’s got a syringe full of something.” She handed Denny her binoculars.

Ben Small shifted, pinning his captors by their necks in the crook of his arm. He moved the needle closer to Brandy’s neck. It glinted in the lights. Everything stopped, a surreal tableau.

Despite the noise from the chopper, Denny felt a hush envelop them, except for the whinny of a horse from somewhere in the distance. His head began to spin, and he had to steady himself. He almost dropped the binoculars, so he gave them back to Jane. If he lost Fina, it would be his fault. He broke into a cold sweat. He wiped his forehead and looked at Cookie, who was motionless, gazing at the roof.

“Give yourself up,” one of the Feds said through his bullhorn. The words echoed in Denny’s ears. “No harm will come to you. Let the women go.”

“Never!” the man shouted.

Jane focused her binoculars. “He’s waving that needle all over the place!” She turned to the megaphone dude, a tall FBI agent in a black suit and tie. He had a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair that stood up in the wind like the tail of a skunk.

“Where’s the damn SWAT team?” she asked.

“Inside. There’s a back staircase,” he said. “We’re keeping him talking while they make their way up.”

The lights were hurting Denny’s eyes, but he kept squinting at the talky Fed, who popped the horn a couple of times and spoke again. “Give up now while there’s still time. We have rifles with high-powered night-vision sights aimed at your head. You can’t escape. Let them go now, and no harm will come to you.”

Denny held his breath. He knew the score—Ben Small could shove that needle into Fina’s neck faster than the sharpshooters could kill him. If he’d been home earlier, this never would have happened. The whole scene, all the manpower, all the lives wasted because of his stupidity. He damned himself for playing into Zizi’s clutches, had no idea why he hadn’t turned down her request for help. It was a ploy, he could see that now, his father’s trick. She practically threw herself at him. He felt rotten, dirty, and this was payback.

“I love you, Fina. I love you!” he shouted up to her. He was bawling like a baby, he knew it, but he didn’t care.

Just then a shot rang out. Ben Small staggered toward the edge of the widow’s walk, a trickle of something dark appearing at the corner of his mouth. Fina and the girl reached out, clinging to the pillars, but Ben Small encircled them in his grip, his syringe clattering down the roof tiles and doing a free fall. Blood streamed from his mouth as he wobbled back and forth like a mechanical clown, releasing his captives. He folded, slumping down to land inches from the gutter.

“They’re all going to fall if that rail breaks. Where’s the net? Get the net!” Jane yelled.

But another figure emerged from behind them, a man with a curly head of hair aiming a dark object. Denny couldn’t say for sure, but from where he stood, it looked like he held a small firearm, a Glock, perhaps the weapon used to shoot Ben Small. The man threw it high over the rail, then grabbed Fina and the girl from behind and dragged them to safety just in time. Denny heard wood cracking. In the high-powered beams, he saw rails splintering, debris plunging to the earth along with Ben Small’s body.

Suddenly the widow’s walk swarmed with men in vests and masks and automatic weapons. Two surrounded the man and cuffed him while three others held Fina and the girl.

Denny couldn’t wait. He raced to the house and up the steps.

“Stop that man!” someone shouted.

“Let him go—that’s Fina’s guy,” Jane said, her eyes blurring.

Chapter 71

Fina. Wrapping Up

Gulping fresh air, I hugged Cookie and clung to Denny. I looked at Brandy, who was pawing her head, trying to get the hair out of her face. Her lids were red. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“You’re a mess,” I told her.

“Good thing my friends can’t see me.”

“Or smell you.”

She started to laugh and choked on her snot. “Wish my dad was here.” She hesitated. “And my mom.”

“They’re both proud of you. You prevailed. Your dad’s probably smiling down from one of those fat stars.”

I punched in Trisha Liam’s number. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Hi, Mom. I love you, Mom … Right now.”

“Ask her when she’s having the party, and tell her it better be a big one.”

“And we want an invitation,” Denny said.

Trisha Liam met us at the door. She hugged her daughter and wouldn’t let her go. Ever the lawyer and organizer, she had chairs arranged and the equipment we’d need all figured out and at the ready. She wasn’t about to let her daughter travel to some precinct to fill out her statement. “She’s got school tomorrow. I have enough space and equipment right here.”

The special agent objected.

“If you make her go downtown, I’ll get God to crush your big head,” she told him.