The Sexiest Man Alive (24 page)

“Who are they?”

Shayla snuffled. “The Skulls. That’s Reaper driving the truck. He’s tall and skinny, with these caved-in cheeks—like, you know, the Grim Reaper? He used to be Ricky’s buddy—until he turned on him. The big gorilla is Brimstone.”

“Brimstone—because he’s from Hell?”

“No, because he reeks. The other one—that’s Sonny. He’s one of the Yatt grandsons.”

Mazie thought hard, trying to figure out how this information could be used to their advantage. “What’s with the truck?”

“It’s like, the gang’s secret weapon. A ramp comes down and they can just ride their choppers up into the truck. It’s how they disappear when they want to. It used to be a furniture mover’s truck, until the gang stole it and fitted it out with holding racks for their choppers. It’s probably how they got away after they shot up that tavern.”

Mazie began to explore their surroundings, although the lurching truck made it hard to walk and she was thrown off her feet when the vehicle abruptly took a corner. Scrabbling around
in the darkness, she ran her hands across the motorcycles, which were held upright by metal stanchions. Moving by feel, she investigated the cargo hatch door. Locked—not an inch of give.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Mazie asked, trying to cobble together an escape strategy.

“Could be anywhere. Maybe Illinois—they’re linked up with some of the Chicago gangs. Or maybe back to Coulee County. They’re gonna put me on trial, Mazie. Papa Yatt will be the judge and jury. He’ll let them do stuff to me before—before they … Oh, God—I’m so scared. These men are worse than animals. They’ll kill us both.” Her voice trembled.

“No, they won’t,” Mazie said fiercely. “We’re going to escape. There’s always a way out—you just have to look for it. Come on—help me check out the truck, see if there’s stuff here we can use.” Having something to do would help keep Shayla from imagining the worst.

The back of the truck, they discovered, was stacked with crates and boxes. The gang must have been grocery shopping recently, Mazie thought, scrabbling her way through cans and containers—it felt as though there was enough food and liquor here for an army.

“What are we looking for?” Shayla asked.

“Anything that can be turned into weapons.” Mazie found a can that sloshed when she shook it. It had a lift tab top, and when she peeled it open, she smelled pears. “The edges of this lid are sharp—it could be used as a knife. You can turn almost anything into a weapon.” Fishing out a pear, Mazie popped it into her mouth, then thrust the can into Shayla’s hands. “Eat.”

“I’m too scared to be hungry.”

“First rule of survival—eat when food’s available.”

Working in the dark, trying to be methodical, they went through the supplies, taking small items and stuffing them into the large pockets of Shayla’s borrowed hoodie. Mazie was delighted when they discovered a case of bottled water, which might prove to be a lifesaver. The bottles would be hard to conceal, though, and it took some thinking before Mazie figured out how to do it. She removed the adhesive tape from Shayla’s gauze bandage and used it to strap a water bottle to each of Shayla’s legs. Luckily, the jeans weren’t ultra-skinny and the legs could be eased down over the bottles. She slid small packets of cookies and crackers and what felt like a tin of sardines into her underpants, where their bulk would be concealed by her skirt. The Skulls might pat them down or even strip them when they got to their destination, but they’d have to take the chance.

“Oh my gosh!” Shayla cried. “I think I found a Bic! Oh, no—I dropped it!”

Mazie stifled a groan. Seconds later, Shayla found the lighter again. A strike, and then a flare of light. Amazing how comforting that small glow in the dark was. It showed them their own pale faces, their eyes hollow and scared-looking.

“Your forehead,” Mazie said, noticing dried blood on Shayla’s forehead.

“Sonny banged my head against your living room wall when he grabbed me. It’s just a bump—I’m okay.”

The lighter was actually a Zippo, Mazie saw. Her spirits soared. Zippos were handier than Bics because you didn’t have to keep flicking to make the flame stay on. Using its light, they could ransack the supplies more efficiently. After about a minute the flame started to gutter and they reluctantly turned it off to save fuel. Shayla slipped the Zippo into her sock. They settled down on the truck’s floor, leaning against stacked beer crates, pulling the tarp over them for warmth and huddling close for comfort, with Muffin between them, a small, furry portable heater.

The darkness seemed to press down with a physical weight, and it was all Mazie could do not to reach for the lighter again.

“You think anyone’s looking for us yet?” Shayla asked.

“Yeah, probably,” Mazie said. A lie, meant to comfort Shayla. By the time anyone realized they’d been kidnapped, it would probably be too late.

If they were going to be rescued, they would have to do it themselves.

Mazie woke when the truck stopped.

Dry-mouthed and fuddled, she groped for the light switch, wondering whether she’d fallen asleep upright in her recliner, because she had a crick in her neck, and where was her reading lamp, and she really needed to use the toilet, and it was pitch-black in here—

The harsh rattle of an upraised door jolted her fully awake, the terrifying recollection of where they were suddenly returning. It was barely dawn, but even the pale light seared her retinas and she flung an arm up over her eyes, furious at herself for having fallen asleep.

She and Shayla were pulled roughly out of the truck, Mazie cradling a bristling Muffin, praying he wouldn’t attempt to bite anyone. The three men looked as half asleep as their captives and barely spoke. Communicating in curses and grunts, they shoved the women in front of them.

Mazie tried to see and memorize as much as possible. In a situation like this, the slightest advantage could mean the difference between surviving and dying. The truck was parked on a weedy driveway beneath a hulking monstrosity of a building. It appeared to be some sort of institutional building—a school or hospital—and looked very old, probably nineteenth century. Constructed of weathered, dark gray brick, it had rows of high, arched windows, rusted iron lacework trim, and sharply sloping slate roofs. There were two long wings and a center segment, from which thrust a tower that looked to be five or six stories high. Looming against low-bellied clouds, the tower had an ominous, Addams family appearance, and Mazie almost expected to see bats circling around it.

Before she could catch more than a glimpse, she and Shayla were shoved up crumbling stone steps and into the building. Its foyer was large and high-ceilinged, smelling of mold, mouse droppings, and motor oil. A wide wooden counter jutted out into the room—this must once have been a reception area, Mazie guessed—but most of the space was taken up by motorcycles, parked wherever there was space. An open doorway to the right afforded a glimpse of a room that appeared to be a kind of mess hall. Folding aluminum tables and chairs were set up and a giant percolator sat on a counter along with boxes of rolls and doughnuts. A doorway behind the counter must lead to a kitchen, Mazie guessed, because she could smell the aroma of frying
bacon and percolating coffee.

“Now what do we do with ’em?” Reaper asked, prodding Shayla. It was the first time Mazie had gotten a good look at Reaper. He was as tall and cavernous-looking as Shayla had described, with long stringy hair, a droopy mustache, and a white scar that puckered the lower corner of his lip. He wore dark reflective sunglasses that hid his eyes and seemed to be the least grungy of the trio; his T-shirt beneath a leather vest was reasonably white and his jeans looked clean.

“I know what I want to do with ’em.” Brimstone chortled. He looked like Santa’s evil younger brother. He was bald and had a tobacco-stained sandy beard, round red cheeks, bright blue eyes, and a rotund stomach that really did shake like a bowlful of jelly. This must be Brimstone, Mazie figured, because he smelled like a sulfuric dioxide experiment gone bad. His voice rumbled like an underground train. “I wanna do ’em both at once.”

“Hands off Shayla until the trial,” Sonny snarled. “Papa’s orders.”

“Then I’ll do the other one,” Brimstone said. “Which one is Shayla?”

Shayla stood up straight, throwing her shoulders back. “I’m the one you want.”

“That’s her all right,” Reaper said.

“Yeah, and I know you, squealer,” Shayla spat. “You were supposed to be Ricky’s buddy. How much did you get for snitching him out?”

Reaper looked her in the eye. “It wasn’t me dimed Ricky,” he said.

“We’ll put ’em in the tower for now,” Sonny decided. His voice was the raspy baritone of a three-pack-a-day cigarette smoker. He had receding, no-color hair, close-set eyes, and a goatee that couldn’t disguise his weak chin. He wore a camo-patterned shirt whose sleeves had been ripped off to display arms nearly solidly blue with tattooed skulls and skeletons. He’d wrapped his bandanna around his head, gang-style.

Mazie and Shayla were hustled down the hall, past bookshelves crammed with motorcycle parts, a row of gun cabinets, and a junk heap of grounds equipment—hoes, shovels, rakes, and, incongruously, badminton rackets—to a freight elevator. Sonny hauled open a grillwork gate and Brimstone shoved the women inside. The elevator, with its accordion-style doors and old-fashioned gearshift operating lever, looked as old and decrepit as the building itself. Shayla crowded close to Mazie, her entire body shaking. As though sensing the precariousness of their situation, Muffin was silent, cradled against Mazie’s thudding heart.
Sonny put the lever in gear. The grating slammed shut and the elevator began laboring upward, clanking and juddering, protesting every inch of the way, sounding as though it might at any second burn out its gears and plunge to the basement. The floors were visible through the cage struts as they ascended. Second … third … fourth …

Finally the elevator shuddered to a halt, but either Sonny hadn’t properly maneuvered it or it didn’t have the oomph to make the final foot, because it halted a foot below the fifth floor and refused to be jollied an inch farther.

Red-faced, Sonny growled, “Get out.” They stepped up into a vestibule about ten feet wide. Just ahead was a pair of heavy wooden doors. Brimstone kicked open the doors and Sonny shunted the women through, into a hexagonal room that appeared to span the whole width of the tower. It was about thirty by thirty feet, Mazie guessed, with dirty windows on five of the room’s six walls. The floor was ancient linoleum, the tiles cracked and curled, littered with fallen plaster from the partially collapsed ceiling. The light fixtures hung loose, their wiring—probably stripped for copper—hanging down like metal intestines. There were no furnishings in the room; it was empty except for trash and debris.

Muffin jumped out of Mazie’s arms and immediately began exploring, snuffling through the rubble on the floor.

“We need to use the toilet,” Mazie announced, wheeling around to face Sonny. “We need food and water. If you’re going to hold us prisoner, you’re responsible for feeding us and—”

“Shut up,” he growled. “Piss in a corner, starve—what the fuck do I care?”

Brimstone wagged a roguish finger at them. “Be good now, ladies.”

The men left. Mazie heard a key turn in the door, then the sound of something heavy being chunked into place: probably a board being shot into a slot.

“What
is
this place?” Shayla asked, shivering. “It’s horrible.”

Mazie picked her way across the floor to one of the windows, rubbed the grime off with her fist, and peered out. The window was still murky because most of the dirt was on the outside of the glass, but she could see enough to tell that they were at the top of the tower. The wings of the building spread out on either side of the tower, but it was a sheer drop from here to the courtyard five stories below. The truck was visible in the driveway. It was white, the cab separate from the cargo compartment, and had
A&J TRANSPORT
lettered in small print on the sides. There must be thousands of nearly identical trucks on the roads.

There were other buildings nearby—maintenance sheds, garages, an ancient-looking water tower, and a burned-out hulk that might once have been a stable. Everything was in bad repair: roofs had holes in them, chimneys were crumbling, lawns were tangled brush, driveways were rutted, potholed, or washed out. There were overgrown gardens and orchards gone wild, and beyond that a hillside dotted with gravestones.

Something clicked in Mazie’s memory. This was … this was … The recollection was there, lurking right at the back of her mind if she could just retrieve it. Moving to the windows on the opposite side of the room, she rubbed off a circle of grime and peered out. There, only half a mile away, was a road. She remembered the road; she’d been on that road years ago.

Shayla came up next to her. “Hey—a highway. But there are no cars. We must be way out in the boonies. Where do you think we are?”

The road paralleled a long, wrought-iron fence that ran around the perimeter of the property. It appeared to be nine or ten feet tall, high enough to keep intruders out—or to keep people in. There was only one entrance to the place: a long, curving driveway barred by heavy double gates.

“I think we’re in the insane asylum,” Mazie said.

“Ben?”

“Yeah. What’s up?” He recognized Juju Danda’s voice. He hoped she hadn’t called just to chat because he was at the Milwaukee County Zoo, filming the arrival of the zoo’s first panda. It was a very big deal for Milwaukee, an occasion that had drawn the mayor, the governor, and what looked like every TV news crew on the planet, complete with testosterone-oozing camera jockeys jostling for turf. Ben had staked out a prime spot close to the panda enclosure and had already had to threaten a pushy CNN guy who’d tried to muscle in.

“Is Mazie there with you?” Juju asked.

“Mazie? No. Why?”

“I’m at her place, Ben. Her door was wide open—I mean literally open.”

“She does that a lot.” He hoped this wasn’t some new Mazie craziness because he’d just come off an overnight shift, and instead of being allowed to go home to bed, he’d been shanghaied into doing the panda story. It was nine thirty in the morning, he hadn’t slept in thirty hours, and he was ready to bite someone’s head off.