Take the Monkeys and Run (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #1) (24 page)

“This isn’t happening!” I whisper-screamed as I tried to strangle the poor phone’s little neck. If my life didn’t depend on eventually connecting to Howard, I am very positive I would have chucked the gizmo hard to the floor, smashing it into pieces.

Peggy broke her silence. “What’s your network? If it’s Phone-America, I have trouble with that one all of the time. I can’t ever get a good signal. Maybe you should switch.” Either Elvis didn’t like her criticism of Phone-America or he just didn’t want us bringing attention to our happy little convention in the bathroom.

“Yous,” he whispered, pointing at her, his finger so close to her face she went cross-eyed. “Keep dat trap shut.” Then he played Charades, imitating a zipper being closed across his mouth.

Peggy mimicked his motion and nodded, expressing that she understood. I figured that might shut Peggy up for, say, five minutes. Then he pointed at both of them and said, “Stay put—don’t move from dat spot. We’ll be back.” He moved to the door, putting his ear close. His one visible eye moved around in its socket, as if its motion coincided with his thoughts of what he heard or didn’t hear. Finally, he pulled his head away, saying to me, “We’ll go out in da room—you go to da farthest window, hear? See if yous can call from there. I gots to stand at the door and be ready for Frankie—no doubt he’s gonna be here any minute.”

Elvis opened the door ever so slowly, peeking out to make sure no one was in the room. He motioned that the coast was clear, opening the door wide enough for us both to slip out. Two very large windows met in the far left corner of the room. Between me and those windows was the bed. To our left, about ten feet away, was the door that opened up to the hallway. I crawled across the bed, then down onto the floor and over to the corner, where I crouched. The windows were quite large, nearly as tall as the wall itself, and probably four feet wide, making it nearly impossible to stay hidden from the outside. Rain pounded hard against them. I looked over at Elvis. He stood poised at the door, his gun now at the ready, pointed at the door. Was he going to whack Frankie? What sort of convoluted Mafia mess had I gotten myself mixed up in?

I flipped my phone open, but before my finger could make contact, the phone started ringing. I must have inadvertently taken it off silent mode when I’d dialed Howard the first time. I touched “talk” without looking at the caller ID. “Howard?” The responding voice was distinctly feminine, and distinctly that of my mother.

“Barbara? Barbara? Are you okay? Oh my God, I’ve been so worried about you!”

“Mother! I can’t talk now!”

Unfazed and talking a million miles a minute, my mother rattled on. “Barbara! I’m in the hotel room with the girls. There are men from the FBI standing outside our door and they won’t let us out. And I’m watching the news! They’re live at a scene—a man was shot at and he says the shooters kidnapped two women. There are two abandoned vans. One looks like yours! Callie said she heard you scream when she called. Did Eric find you?”

“Mom, I’m going to hang up now . . . .” My phone vibrated, alerting me that another call was coming in. This time I looked at the caller ID. Howard. I needed to make sure my mother didn’t screw things up. “Mom, I swear, DO NOT call me again or you’ll get me killed!” I pushed talk again, disconnecting my mother and bringing Howard to life in my ear.

“Howard?”

“Barb! Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, I can hear you!”

“I can see you. Look out the window.” I turned around, moving to a half-standing position and scanned the expansive lot which was only partially lit from the floodlights on the other end of the house. If he could see me, I must be able to see him. Finally, way back by the tree line, I saw a small light flash on and his face was illuminated. He was holding a flashlight up to his face and wearing some sort of dark-colored rain poncho, the hood pulled over his head. He was waving his left arm back and forth high over his head to attract my attention. I smiled, jumped up and down and waved back. He was probably seventy feet from the back corner of the house and I noticed he stood only ten or fifteen steps away from a wooden, double-door utility shed.

“I see you! I see you!”

“Listen, Barb, don’t ask questions, just listen.” It was very hard to hear him because the rain was so loud in the receiver. I could tell he was trying not to yell, but still be heard.

“This is very important. Elvis is working with us now. He’s going to get Frankie on board. Once he does that, everyone is safe. Where are Roz and Peggy?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Great! That bathroom has a window—tell them to crawl out and jump—it’s only about a five foot drop. We can get them to safety.”

“What about me?!” I screamed.

“Do you trust me?”

I couldn’t exactly answer that question immediately. There were definitely trust issues, given the fact that he’d lied to me for our entire married life. For all I knew, he was really Sammy Donato, Mafia mole, working within the FBI to uncover their methods of bringing down the mob. Howard correctly interpreted my silence.

“Let me re-phrase that—YOU HAVE TO TRUST ME. Are you listening carefully?” he asked.

Did I have a choice? “Yes.”

“A plan is in place to sting Viviana. You’re part of that plan. Keep this phone with you and do what Elvis says.”

“Okay,” I relented.

“Good. Now . . .” A loud pop rang out and simultaneously Howard flew backwards, as if being pushed by some strong force. The phone flew out of his hands, and he landed flat on his back. Confused, I thought the pop was lightning.

“Howard! Howard!” Our connection was gone. I shot an anxious look at Elvis, who had heard the pop and was already on his way over to the window. As we both looked out at Howard, sprawled on the ground, we saw a long-legged male figure move in from the wooded area to Howard’s left, limping as if unable to fully utilize his right foot. The man, soaked to the bone because he wasn’t wearing a coat of any kind, bent over Howard’s motionless body, apparently checking for vital signs. After the very brief check, he stood up, facing the house and bringing to view a long rifle or automatic weapon of some sort, which he rested on his shoulder pointing into the air.

“Ah, crappola!” muttered Elvis under his breath, throwing us both to the floor. “We don't wanna let him see us.”

“Who is that?”

Elvis shook his head and rubbed his face with his hand. “That’s No Toes. Dis ain’t good,” he said. “Dis ain’t good.”

Chapter Nineteen

QUICK MENTAL RECAP: KIDNAPPED BY Mafia gang ruled by insane, chain-smoking reject from the sixties—female; discover husband has alias name and FBI badge that he’s been able to keep hidden from me for seventeen years (reminder to self: get a clue!); follow half-baked scheme provided by Brad Pitt look-alike to make a quick getaway through guest bathroom; wind up playing bad game of Twister in bathtub with Elvis Presley wannabe; witness the whacking of FBI husband; hear Elvis Presley wannabe proclaim, regarding husband’s whacker: “That’s No Toes” and follow up with obvious comment, “Dis ain’t good.” Would Al Pacino be caught dead in this movie? Definitely not.

I stood motionless in front of the window, staring down at Howard’s body.
Who would play him in the movie? Duh! George Clooney, of course. Silly question, Barb. Silly question. How about Colt? He always strikes me as a young Robert Redford, but of course, Bob is way too old now to play Colt. Wouldn’t want it to look like the time Clint Eastwood tried to play a forty-year-old photographer in The Bridges of Madison County. Shirtless and flabby pecs. Nope. That was just plain wrong. Colt. Colt. Where IS Colt? Colt was with Howard in the Camry. Where is Colt now?

I must have been in shock. My thoughts were a frenzied attempt to distract myself from seeing my own husband shot dead before my eyes. Roz’s voice calling from the bathroom snapped me right back.

“Barb! Barb! What was that?”

Gathering my wits, I wondered what to say. Elvis and I peeked out the window and watched while the limping, scarecrow-man grabbed Howard’s arm and pulled him toward the shed.

“Barb!” Roz tried again. Elvis, definitely agitated, crawled across the room to the bathroom door.

“We got a problem here. Keep this door shut.” Then he shut the door and returned to my side. By now, with great effort, the man had dragged Howard’s body behind the shed. No longer able to see Howard, panic finally kicked in. Was he dead? I needed to find out. I turned on my stomach and crawled a couple of feet, then stood, ready to bolt for the door. Thoughts about how or where I would go were not formed in my mind at all—I was running on pure impulse. Elvis was up and stopped me dead in my tracks, holding me back far too easily with both of his arms. He seemed to know exactly what I was doing.

“You can’t go out there,” he said, his craggy face serious and stern. “You’ll ruin everything.”

“But he might be dead! We need to find out.”

“If he’s dead, he’s dead. Ain’t nothin’ we’re gonna do to change that. And right now, dead or alive, we got us bigger problems. From da looks a tings, I’m tinkin’ No Toes ain’t here to wish us a Happy Birthday.”

Toes. Suddenly things made sense. “It was you,” I said.

“Me?”

“Screaming that night behind the vacant house. You were calling his name.”

Elvis nodded.

“For crying out loud, can’t any of you have normal names? How about John or David or Michael. Does this freak have a real name?”

“His given name’s Frankie. That’s why we calls him No Toes. So’s not to confuse.”

I was really starting to have my fill. I wanted my Colt and my Brad Pitt policeman to ride in on their white horses and whisk me off to a safe place where I’d find Howard alive and happy, playing a rousing game of Monopoly with my girls.

Elvis kept me pinned with his bearhug, probably assuming I still might want to run off in search of Howard. The thought of running into No Toes and his very large gun, or Viviana, or worst case scenario—both—had disabused me of that idea quickly.

“You can let me go. I won’t run,” I said, defeated. Depression and pessimism were taking over. My cheeks tingled—the feel of a cry coming on. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms into them, hard. Sniffing and breathing deeply, I worked to get a grip. Focusing on thoughts of my girls and making it through this to see them again was helpful. And then there were Roz and Peggy—this had been all my stupid idea from the beginning. First, snooping at House of Many Bones only to discover death and rot, then this whole let’s-follow-Colt-and-see-what-he’s-up-to thing. I’d landed us here, so I needed to see us through safely. With my palms still pressing my eyes tight, I sat on the bed, expecting to take a moment and gather my strength. No sooner did my butt hit the mattress than the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door shot me straight back up. I threw down my hands and pointed my eyes straight at the door. Would the person on the other side come bearing an instrument of death? Was this the end? It seemed like I’d been asking that question a lot over the last few hours.

Elvis motioned for me to hide behind him while he positioned himself, gun ready. We both heard a light knocking on the door.

“Hey ladies! Yous okay in there?”

I blew out a sigh of relief so hard that it tickled Elvis’s ear and he swatted at me. Elvis tore the door open in a flash, pulled Frankie in, poked his head out, looking both ways then quick closed the door again. Frankie looked very surprised.

“Hey! What’s da deal?”

“Shhhhh! Keep it down and don’t talk. We don’t got a lot of time—get it?” ordered Elvis, fast and furious. Frankie put up his hands and nodded, obeying his obviously superior co-worker.

“No Toes is here. He shot Sammy—Howard.”

“Sammy? You were supposed to . . . you know—get ridda him.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t, okay? More about that in a minute. You see him?”

“Who, Sammy?”

“No!” Elvis was losing his cool. “Did you see No Toes?”

“No.”

“He’s got an AK. Like he’s on a killin’ mission. You know where Viv and Max is?”

“Sure—they’re upstairs watchin’
Survivor
. Why you tink I had to turn on da generator? Can’t miss dat stupid show . . .”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. You don’t trust me?”

“Sure, I trust you. That’s why I wants you to listen. Sammy—Howard—before he got shot, he made us a deal. We help the Feds get information from Viv and Max, we get us a free ride. Better yet, Viv gets put away. For a long time.”

“Yeah? What makes you tink he’s on da up and up?” Frankie asked, not appearing convinced his welfare was protected by this scheme.

“He promised me on her life.” Elvis looked at me while my eyes widened to the size of basketballs. Frankie seemed impressed, and I sensed he was taking to the idea, but he still shook his head.

“I don’t know . . .”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed Frankie by the collar and put my nose up to his.

“Do it! Just do it! You’ve got his word for crying out loud! Just say yes and let’s get on with this before that crazy toe-less creep finds us and obliterates us all!”