One Fool At Least (6 page)

Bubblegum regarded me for a moment and then took pity. “We’ll give you some names you can call us, just to make it easier. Nicknames, like.” He studied the ceiling, apparently trying to think of an alias he liked, blowing a bubble while he did so.

“How about this?” He smacked the driver on the arm. “I’ll be Sven, and you be Olaf.”

The driver snorted and his cigarette, already precariously perched on his lip, fell onto his leg, burning a hole in his pants. “Ow! Son of a fucking bitch! Randy, you bastard, you made me laugh!”

“It’s
Sven
,” warned Randy with a glance at me.

“Right. Sven,” said Olaf, his cigarette restored. “And I’m Olaf. Okay. And you’re Madeline,” he said in a friendly way, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

“You sure you don’t want to call me Heidi?” I asked. They looked about as Swedish as my landlord Mr. Altschul.

Olaf laughed. “You’re cute, Madeline. I told, uh, Sven that after your wedding. I said she’s a cute little thing.”

“Wow, that’s great,” I said, staring hard out the window. There wasn’t much scenery to see; it was getting grayer and grayer, and a fog had settled on the road, obscuring the mountains. I had a thought. “Hey, just out of curiosity, if you guys are being paid to kidnap me, might you consider being paid more to let me go? My new family has quite a bit of money.”

This may or may not have been true, I really didn’t know, but I watched their faces hopefully. Sven turned and smiled apologetically, then worked his tongue until he blew another bubble. It popped with a sound like a gunshot, and then he said, “Sorry, honey. It’s not just the money, but the fact that he’d kill us if we let you go.”

“Who’s
he
?”

“Hey, Sven, I have a great idea!” said Olaf. “How about if you shut up?” He blew a cloud of smoke into Sven’s face as he glared at him.

Sven glowered back, nearly choking on his gum. “Do you have to do that, knowing I’m trying to quit? If it were the other way around, you’d be madder than hell, I guaran-fuckin-tee it!” he yelled.

Olaf merely grinned, then turned to wink at me.

I looked away, and we rode in silence for some time. Finally Olaf checked his rearview, then took an exit, drove into a Quik Stop gas station, and pulled his car around the back. “Up you get, sweetie. Here’s where we switch cars.”

There was a white car there waiting, keys in the ignition. They pulled up right next to it and hustled me out of my seat. I scanned for any sort of clue. I’m terrible about cars; I might note their color on the best of days, and anything beyond that—make, model—has never interested me. Now it interested me very much. A Taurus? I didn’t know too many car names. I cursed myself again for falling off the plane. I could easily have run for it otherwise. Somehow I didn’t think my captors were armed or experienced.

As it was, Olaf put a hand under my arm and helped me hobble to the other vehicle. Once I was installed in the back seat, he locked the doors once again. This time, almost as an afterthought, he took my purse.

He drove around to the front. “I need a pack of cigs,” Olaf said. “Get me some Kools—I’ll watch the girl.”

Sven sniffed. “You should quit, too,” he huffed before he slammed out of the car.

I scowled at Olaf. “Please smoke that outside. It’s making me sick. I’m allergic.”

To my amazement, Olaf looked chagrined. “I just do it to piss off my brother. I didn’t know it bothered you. Now you sit nice, and I’ll be right outside here. Don’t think about anything funny.” It was when he got out that I noticed the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. A cold burst of panic ran through me.

He leaned against the car and enjoyed his smoke, his eyes squinted against the gray glare. Today his T-shirt said “Indy 500.” He wore a flannel shirt over that, maybe to cover his weapon. His wrinkled face looked pleased, somehow, as though he weren’t facing Federal charges if he got caught, but as if this were any normal day, and he was enjoying fresh air and his tobacco fix.

I fingered the phone in my pocket. Olaf had left his window open, so there was no way I could call without him hearing me and confiscating it.

I sat, near tears. I rubbed my face, trying to calm myself, and heard a giant rumbling. I looked up to see a truck pulling into the gas station; a driver left his mighty engine running to hop out and ask Olaf something. With a glance at me, bereft and helpless in the car, Olaf took a few steps to meet him, obviously not wanting the guy within screaming distance.

I checked the door of the Quik Stop; Sven was still waiting in line. I whipped out my phone and dialed the number of Jack’s. I couldn’t hear it ring, but I heard his voice, his wonderful voice, loud with anxiety.

“Maddy?”

“Jack, listen. We were traveling north, but I couldn’t keep track of all the turns, because he covered the compass. Then we exited and pulled into a gas station called Quik Stop. We switched cars—we’re in a white car now, and I’m not sure where we’re headed next. But we’re going toward the mountains. That means toward the Cat’s Teeth, right?” I was yelling, hardly able to hear my own voice.

“Did they hurt you? Are they hurting you?” Jack asked, sounding lost and far away as the moon.

“No—no. I’m okay. They’re being decent. It’s two old guys. One of them is named Randy. This is about Slider, Jack. The guy’s coming, I have to go. I love you, I’ll try to call again!” I clicked off hastily, depositing the phone back in my pocket.

Olaf peeked at me, then continued smoking.

I was sweating, fearful they would know, somehow, by looking at me.

Sven returned, tossed a box to Olaf over the top of the car, and slouched back into his seat, slamming the door. He played around with the radio dial, stopping at a classic country station.

“You like country?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said tonelessly.

Olaf and his smoke smell got behind the wheel, and the car began to move.

“This is a great one,” Sven said as some guitars twanged in my ear. “It’s Conway Twenty.”

“
What
?” Olaf hooted. “What did you say, you idiot?”

Sven looked uncertain. “Why?”

“It’s Conway Twitty, you moron. Twitt-tee,” Olaf drawled, tapping his cigarette absently and missing the ashtray with about an inch-and-a-half of ash.

My foot was starting to throb painfully, and somehow their brotherly bickering made it worse. “Guys,” I said. “I think my ankle might be broken. Any doctors where we’re going?”

Sven turned, a stricken look on his old face. “I saw the fall. It was a bad one. You just cartwheeled right down those steps. I had to laugh at the time. I asked Jim—I mean Olaf—is that the girl who got married, and he said yes. Then we saw you lying there, and I said, ‘Is she dead?’ and he said, ‘I think we just got ourselves a Plan B.’ ”

Olaf smacked him on the arm. “You didn’t answer the question, Gomer. You never answer a goddam question.” He looked at me in the rearview. “We can get you some pain medicine. I don’t know about much else till we get there and I make a call.”

His eyes flicked back to the road. “So, this is your honeymoon, huh?” he asked heartily.

“Yes,” I said, in a tone so icy that I saw both of them flinch. After that they let Conway do the talking.

For the first time I got a glimpse of the mountains through the fog. They purpled the horizon with a mysterious light. With Jack I would have found them beautiful. As it was they were ominous. They were barriers.

A light rain began to fall and Jim/Olaf switched on the wipers. Conway Twitty stopped singing, and someone named Dan Seals started crooning “Meet Me in Montana.” Eventually Marie Osmond joined in. Apparently the two lovers in the song had been separated, and they longed to be together again. I listened, biting my lip to keep it from quivering.

I have never, before or since, heard anything so sad.

About an hour
later the mountains looked much closer, looming like battlements. I figured we were just a few miles south of the Felines. The car turned into a wooded area with occasional houses visible at the end of long driveways. I’d been watching for police cars, but we hadn’t encountered any. The road, in fact, was fairly empty. “I should be dropping breadcrumbs,” I murmured to myself.

Olaf chuckled. “Just about there. Then we’ll put that foot up, and get you some coffee or a sandwich, and you’ll feel lots better.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said. Now that I’d spoken the words the reality was suddenly urgent. “Right now.”

“Give me two minutes,” said Olaf, with a nervous glance at me. He was obviously one of those men who feared women and all their mysterious bodily functions.

By the time he pulled into a gravel driveway in front of a brown and green house, I was at the car door, playing with the handle. Olaf unlocked it, and Sven helped me out. I barely took notice of my surroundings; the men hustled me through the front door and to a washroom in the main hallway.

Once I’d availed myself of the facilities, checked the bathroom as a possible escape route (no windows) and checked my face in the mirror (still there, but pale and frightened), I peeked out the door and saw that the two men had moved to what seemed to be a kitchen farther down the hall. I shut the door again and pressed re-dial on my phone.

Jack answered. “Jack, where are you?” I asked, almost whispering.

“I’m at the Quik-Stop! Pat is here, too, and the police, of course.”

“Okay. I’m not sure where we are, but we drove another, maybe, twenty-five miles—I think west? and then we turned left into a wooded area, a subdivision. I’m at a brown and green house, but I didn’t see a number or a street sign. The guys’ names are Jim and Randy. We’re somewhere right by the mountains. That’s all I know. Try to find me, Jack.” And then, because I couldn’t keep it to myself, I added, “They have a gun.”

“Maddy. Oh, God. I’ll find you, and I’m never letting you out of my sight again. Are you all right? Is your foot giving you pain?”

“It hurts, but they’re going to give me some medication.”

“Madeline. Hold on, I’m coming for you. Pat is already driving, we’re on our way. I love you.”

“I love you,” I whispered. “I have to go, someone’s coming.”

I stowed the phone and came limping out of the bathroom. Sven was at end of the hallway, peering toward me. “Were you talking in there?” he asked.

I stared him down. “I was crying.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence passed. Finally he said, “Come on, let me help you to a chair, here. Olaf’s gettin’ you some coffee.”

He helped me hop to a recliner that faced a large picture window. I was in a family room, dominated by a fireplace that had obviously never been used. There was very little furniture, just a couch and a couple of easy chairs, and a large-screen tv. My chair faced a picture window—just a huge pane of glass with no window treatments. The view was spectacular; I could see the road for maybe 100 yards until it curved out of sight. Beyond the curve lay a forested bluff, and beyond that I could see, of course, the gray of mountains. The light was growing dim.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Oh, about six o’clock,” Sven said, flipping on the television. He became immediately immersed in a rerun of some classic football game. I didn’t recognize the jerseys, and I rarely follow football anyway. I scanned the room instead. If I could just get away, it wouldn’t matter where I went. I could sit in the woods, call Jack again, and talk to him until he found me. I was very close to the door I’d come in. I could see the car out of the big window. What if Sven fell asleep, Olaf too? Could that happen? They were older guys; maybe they napped.

It was I, however, who felt myself practically nodding off in the chair. By the time Olaf brought me a cup of coffee, a peanut butter sandwich, and a large pill, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. “What is this? How do I know this isn’t poison, or some kind of sleeping pill?” I demanded.

Olaf shrugged. “It’s all they had. Tylenol 2. Take it or leave it. We’ve got you where we want you now, so I don’t really care what you do, long as you stay in the house. I gotta make a call.”

I sipped the coffee. It wasn’t bad. I sipped some more and felt it revive me. I took a bite of the sandwich, then ate it in about five mouthfuls. I ended up taking the pill, too. My foot hurt.

With food and pain deadening drugs in my system, I went back to hatching a plan. Sven was still immersed in football, his mouth hanging open, his hand absently pulling at some gray hairs in his ear. Olaf had made him a sandwich, too, and he’d eaten it loudly and quickly; now he burped every thirty seconds or so. I decided to try to get him to reveal information while he was distracted. He obviously wasn’t the brightest star in the galaxy.

“So, Randy.”

His head shot up.

“Come on, I know you guys are Jim and Randy. You said so in the car. Why pretend?”

Randy shrugged, pouting slightly. “You think you’re smart.”

“Obviously I’m not, or I wouldn’t have hopped in the wheelchair.”

Randy smiled. “Yeah. I guess so.” His attention was wandering back to the game.

“So what did you guys used to do? Before you became, you know—kidnappers?”

He huffed at that. “We’re not kidnappers. We’re just doing a favor for a friend. Sort of our boss. And we used to be solid citizens. Jim and I owned our own store. Been in the family three generations.”

“What was it called? Maybe I heard of it.”

“Bruder Brothers.”

I laughed. “That means ‘Brother Brothers.’ You guys know that?”

He stared, not amused. “No.”

“So what happened to running the store?”

Randy shrugged again. “Bought out. Sort of a hostile takeover. But he still keeps us on the payroll.”

“For the odd kidnapping and such.”

“You’re kind of a smarty-pants.”

“Sorry.” I paused, listening to Jim in the kitchen, where he was speaking to someone on the phone. I heard the words ‘not the way we planned’ and ‘do what we have to do.’ That didn’t sound good to me. I needed to get out of here.

“Randy. Why does your boss want Slider so much? Does he really think Slider killed Finn Flanagan, or does he just want to frame Slider? Did your boss kill Flanagan?”