“Josie!” I burst into her office the next morning. “I got another note.” Josie sat at her desk, looking as tattered as old shoes in a flea market. She whistled between her teeth. “You’re kidding? What’d it say?”
“It was a ransom note. It asked for five-hundred thousand dollars by Friday.”
“What are you going to do?” She stood and walked to the window in the sparsely furnished office. Sunlight burned through the bars and played up the highlights in her dark curly hair. There were greenish circles, like something swept in by a storm, smeared under her eyes.
“Oh, Josie. I know this brings up bad memories for you. Now I know what it must have been like for you to lose your kids.”
Josie was trembling. I wasn’t imagining it. “Yeah, it does. So, what are you going to do?” she asked, returning to her desk.
“I don’t know. Alex wants to call the police.”
“You’re not gonna do that are you? If the note said no police it probably means no police.” The note of warning in her voice was as spiked as a thorn.
“I don’t know. I wish I did. I still have a few days to think about it. I’m gonna try to get some work done. I know this means they’re okay. I feel so much better, just knowing that. Oh, Josie, I can’t help feeling we’re really close to finding them.”
She smiled tightly. “Me, too.”
“You want to meet in the cafeteria today for lunch?” I asked on my way out the door.
“Sorry, can’t today. I have some errands to run. Maybe another time.” She chewed her fingernail and looked away. “See ya, Grace.”
Deep in thought as I walked back to my office, I didn’t see Mr. Perkins until he spoke. “Mornin’, Doc.”
I jumped. Soapy water sloshed from his bucket onto the floor.
“Careful there that you don’t slip. How’s it going with you lately? You been gone a few weeks. Vacation?”
“No.” I stepped cautiously around the puddle. “Thanks for asking. How are you doing, Mr. Perkins?” Time seemed to pass more slowly for me than for anyone around me, with the exception of Mr. Perkins. He mopped as carefully as if he were painting a portrait.
“Not too bad. Say, ya heard anything from old Finn?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I saw him the other day. He looked well. I hear he has a job in a nursery.”
“Praise the Lord! I bet he’s happy as a clam at high tide.”
The expression gave me pause. Anything to take my mind off the ransom note. High tide was when clams were set free from the attentions of predators. It had more relevance to me than Mr. Perkins knew. “I hope so,” I said, continuing to my office.
Time marched at a donkey’s pace that morning. Progress notes were due but the words spun off at dizzying speeds every time I tried to think coherently. Just before noon, I was startled by a sharp rap at the door. It was Bud Anderson.
“How’s it going today, Grace? Any news?”
“Come in, Bud. Do you have a minute? As a matter of fact, there has been some news.”
He looked me hungrily. “A new lead?”
“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?” I studied Bud’s face while he watched mine in turn. Could I trust him with something as important as this?
Bud loomed over me casting a shadow on my face. As if he had read my mind, he said, “You can count on me. I swear.”
“There’s been a ransom note.” The room grew silent.
Bud brought his hand to his forehead and wiped away beads of perspiration. He sat down on the edge of the chair opposite my desk. “When?”
“Yesterday.” I tapped my fingers on the desk out of sheer nervousness. “Can I really trust you?”
He leaned forward expectantly. “I swear on my grandmother’s grave. What did it say?”
“It asked for five-hundred thousand dollars by Friday night.” I was alternately elated and terrified. “No police. I have to go alone.”
Bud whistled a long, long high-pitched sound. “You want me to go with you? I have a Beretta I can bring along.” He began pacing the room.
“No! It said I need to go alone. I can’t risk the kids or you or anyone else getting hurt. I probably shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, I’m glad you told me. Where’s the drop off?”
“I can’t tell you that. But thanks.”
“If you change your mind, I’m here for you,” he promised. “By the way, did you hear that Venegas was captured in Puerto Rico?”
The room shifted. “No. What happened? Where was he?”
“He was holed up with another inmate. The guy who escaped with him. Somebody named Gutierrez Garcia. They were at the asshole’s mother’s house. An old lady who’s in a lot of trouble herself now.”
I stood too quickly and grabbed hold of the edge of my desk, to keep from falling. “When did this happen?”
“Day before yesterday.” He looked at me quizzically. “You okay?” I nodded in response and he continued, “I heard they took ’em down without any problem. They’re back in Guaynabo’s detention center. I sure as hell hope Venegas doesn’t get sent back here again. What’s wrong? You look like somebody just walked over your freakin’ grave, Doc.”
“Gutierrez Garcia.” I realized why the name had stuck such a chord with me when Meyers mentioned it. “That’s Josie’s last name.”
* * *
Bud
My mouth was watering at the prospect of a burger and fries for lunch. I clocked out and as I walked to the truck, even though the sun was shining, I had a strange premonition. It was a nice Indian summer day. Every shade of red I knew and some I didn’t know were on display. Tough break for what had happened to Grace. I felt for her.
Again, the feeling of something wrong crawled up my spine. My years in Afghanistan had taught me to trust my instincts and I listened to this one.
I saw her in the parking lot, with a backpack strapped to her back. She walked briskly to the bike trail and followed it behind the prison. I stayed a dozen yards behind but she never looked back. Eight-foot- tall bluestem perennials and blue lyme grass provided the camouflage I needed in case she turned around. She rounded a curve, nearing the pond. Again, I was in luck. The giant reed grass surrounding the pond was a perfect screen. Twelve feet tall, it provided the necessary cover. She turned sharply and took an overgrown trail in the woods, turning back once to look when a twig I stepped on snapped and drew her attention. My summer uniform blended in with the gray-green Indian grass at the base of the trail and she kept going. From there on, I kept my distance. She wasn’t difficult to trail. She stood out like a red flag.
The path climbed higher. There were bare spaces where volunteers had removed buckthorn. I tried to stay behind the tall oaks, in case she turned again. Dead leaves crackled under my feet but she was intent on where she was going and didn’t turn again.
There was no real reason for following her except for her furtive manner and the feeling I had. I felt like a lightning rod absorbing strange charges in the air.
She walked quickly and although I was in pretty good shape, my breathing became labored. It was as if she’d walked the winding trail all her life. She followed it, without any hesitation, to the distant end of the nature center’s wooded acreage. Bingo. There it was. A limestone cave around the bend, far from the trail. She unlocked the padlock on the metal gate. I heard the dog bark first. A small King Charles spaniel jumped on the her legs, wagging its tail.
Two children soon stepped out, shielding their eyes from the sun. From where I stood, the boy looked to be five or six years old, the girl, a teen. Their clothes were mud-stained, their faces gaunt and smudged the color of dust. The girl’s hair was a long greasy strand of twine running down her back. The woman opened her backpack and took out sandwiches and juice and a bone for the dog.
My heart rattled in my chest. I knew who these children were. I took out my phone, praying I had a signal and called 911. She opened her backpack and took out a stack of clothes and a can of dog food. I hid behind a bush watching the children and the dog wolf down the food. They sat and talked and then the woman hugged them and locked them behind the gate. They waved goodbye and she started back down the trail. As soon as they were out of earshot, I wrestled her to the ground. “Fuckin’ bitch,” I said. “I should have known it was you.”
She fought me with everything she had. Her nails were as sharp as daggers. She clawed my face. The blood and what she had done turned me into a mad dog. I wrestled the key away from her, threw her on the ground and pinned her arms under my knees. I grabbed a set of plastic restraints from my pocket with one hand. The training I had had in restraining inmates was a prize. I yanked her up by her hair, twisted her arms behind her back and snapped the cuffs on while she spit at me.
“Keep walking and don’t make a sound,” I told her. She was as strong as a wild cat, but her face was cold and empty. She kicked me in the knee and tried to squirm out of my grasp. “Fuckin’ bitch.” I shoved her and dragged her down the trail. Sirens shrieked in the distance and I knew the police would be waiting in the parking lot. I hoped Grace would be there too.