Thirty —
The Hard Heart of Listening

Listen. It was the first word Blanche thought of when she woke up with a start.

Where am I?

Then she remembered. She was at Cappy’s.

She checked the numbers on the digital clock and rolled over. It wasn’t even five o’clock in the morning. She was groggy, snuggling back down into the huge feather bed. She had plenty of time before she had to get up, do errands, check the permits for the cabin—check with Liza and Duncan over some notes she’d taken after reading through those emails for the tenth time and fretting over Langstrom and his bunch of hairballs.

It wasn’t too early for Cappy. It was his time to get up and get going. That was probably what she heard, the faint sounds of opening and closing and metal on metal at the back door. She punched the pillow and curled up under the covers. He was leaving to go fishing. She didn’t know why he insisted on rising so early, but he said it was “God’s hour and his, too.” Not a soul was around at the slip where he moored his boat. He glided out into the Gulf early before the sun came up and then watched it slowly bring on another day. He preferred sunrise to sunset, which he viewed as the end of things; Cappy liked the beginnings.

She heard it again, a faint scraping sound. This was not Cappy. A chill ran through her. She wrestled with her thoughts at the edge of slumber, too anxious to move. She thought, it must be fronds against a back window, or an overzealous animal—feral cats roved the island and loved to nest in Cappy’s clump of palm trees.

The scratching was not from a cat or a palm. Blanche stiffened. She sat up in bed and froze there in the dark. This can’t be.

She crept out of bed and peered down the empty hall, the pictures on the wall reflecting shadows. It was quiet now, but she could hear her teeth grinding and she was shaking. She scooted behind the open bedroom door.

Tree branches and animals didn’t make the same sound as metal on metal; tools did, knives did. She peeked around the door. Still nothing. She closed it softly and stood very still.

Listen.

Haasi’s direction seemed clear now, and essential, given the fear that crept over her. She listened with both ears and her whole body. If listening was key, then listen she would do.

And talk.

She thought of her cellphone. Where the hell was it? She crawled quietly across the bedroom floor, feeling for her bag at the foot of the bed. Papers, books, pens, more notebooks, but no phone. She pawed through the mess, dumping it all into the deep pile of the rug. No luck. Oh, great! With a sinking feeling, she felt around on the floor. Her fingers roved the nightstand, knocked a glass of water over. She pulled her shorts off the chair, put them on, searching the pockets, but the phone was not there.

It was still quiet but for the beating in her chest. She breathed deeply, tried to calm down. Maybe it was just the hypersensitivity of the days. All of it building up and crashing down on her creating a flood of emotions. She was hearing things.

Well, whatever the sound, she wanted to find that cellphone and get out of that bedroom. If only to stand out on the back deck and breathe the early morning island air. She could just walk out the door, or not. There is nothing wrong here.

The scraping started up again. Now she knew. She had to get out of there, but there was no exit. The small windows were high, with screens. The hall to the front door ran past the back door, and whoever was there, would see her, even though it was dark. So dark, and maybe that would help. But how to get out? The house stood in a stand of trees, secluded, silent. The neighbors were back in Michigan. Blanche was alone, and for once in her life, she didn’t like it.

She didn’t dare move down the hall. Now she recognized the sound. The back door was aluminum, and it fit into an aluminum frame. Someone was prying open the door, and whoever it was worked quietly but not quietly enough. Still, the sound carried, and it made her sweat. All she could think about was that someone was trying to get in the back door, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She had to find that phone. There was a land line, but the receiver was missing. Maybe she’d carried it into the kitchen… or the bathroom? She couldn’t remember. And then there it was on the floor next to the closet. She’d knocked it off at some point, and now she almost tripped over it. How had she missed it?

She grabbed the phone. It was dead. She stuck it on the cradle and prayed. She couldn’t see a thing, but she tried anyway, punched in 911 from memory. Nothing. She had to hide. She quickly ran back in the corner behind the bedroom door. No lock! And absolutely no luck! That’s when she saw the beam of light under the door, heard the boot hit the floor.

“Don’t move.” A strange, chilling male voice. Low and rusty. He banged the door open. She couldn’t see him clearly, but he saw her behind the door, and he was quick. He shined the flashlight in her face. She still held the phone in her hand and thought fleetingly of hitting him over the head with it, but it was out of her hand and flung across the room before she knew it.

The latex gloves chafed her arm; he yanked her out of the corner in one swift move. “Nothing will happen if you shut up. If you don’t, I’ll break every tooth in your head.”

Blanche had no trouble shutting up, paralyzed as she was with fear.

Nothing will happen? Plenty is happening.

And then, almost immediately, she was angry. “What the hell do you want?”

“You.”

“Why?”

He was dragging her down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. Her feet danced an inch or so off the ground. This was not difficult for him since Blanche weighed all of 110 pounds, and he had a wiry strength that was formidable.

A white van was parked at the edge of the driveway in the pines and scrub, hidden from view. The side door was open. A dent there, she noticed. And then Blanche was thrust onto the floor of the van. He tied her feet and hands swiftly with thick rope and then closed the side door with a heart-wrenching slam. The last thing she saw before she was pitched into darkness was a flag and skull near the back window.

She was afraid to raise her head. She needed her bearings. She could feel the loopy carpet against her cheek. She smelled oil, like the van had been standing in a machine shop. Old, crusty carpeting scratched her skin. Her senses were raw, her mind racing with fear.

Listen.

She couldn’t hear a thing, except the rumble of the engine under her. He’d left the van running. Where was he taking her?

He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He put the van in gear, lurched backward, looking over his shoulder. Blanche managed to turn, prop herself upright. She leaned back in the shadows against a bucket and tools and rope.

They drove under a street light on Gulf Drive, and she got a look at his face. It was the same man she’d seen in the marina parking lot after Bob was murdered: young, smoking, lounging around, feigning no particular interest in his whereabouts. She was sure it was him.

Now, what the hell am I going to do with this bit of information?

Her fear grew and she used it. She was not about to let go. Maybe a good poke in the eyeball, or a well-placed kick. She’d have to find the right moment.

Truth was, she was helpless and just plain out-of-her-mind afraid.

“Where are you taking me? What do you want?” She surprised herself with the anger in her voice, surprised she could even find her voice.

“Shut the hell up.”

So she did. She had to think. And, listen. She could practically hear Haasi in her head. As if that might get her out of this. She tried to sit up, scooting back on her rear end and using her bound hands to balance herself. The van rocketed along, swaying back and forth. Buckets and a shovel knocked into her.

The van was headed to the mainland. She could feel the familiar rhythm of the tires rolling over the surface of the bridge. She needed to keep her wits about her and figure a way out of this mess, and all the while, she wondered, Why? Why was he kidnapping her? She certainly didn’t have any access to money, so ransom seemed ridiculous. She could only think this escapade had something to do with Bob, and that bunch in Chicago and the land development. What else could it mean? If I ever get out of this, I’ll have one hell of a story to tell. And then again, that may be part of the problem. Too many stories.

Blanche closed her eyes. She forced herself to absorb it all, and remember. She needed details for the authorities to add to the latest sequence of events. Santa Maria had become a cesspool of murder, greed, drugs, and now kidnapping. Blanche couldn’t tell which made her more furious.

The man wore the same blinding-white t-shirt as before; his hair was a distinctive cut and style, faded neatly into a square on his neck. He’d worn it long last time she saw him. His head was plastered with hair gel that smelled vaguely of musk with a cheap woodsy touch. Why anyone would want to smell like that was beyond Blanche, but she was not going to question him about his choice of hair gel. She just had to remember that he put it on his head. And, more importantly, she had to figure out what was in that head. That would be difficult: His eyes were a dead brown.

“No tunes?” What is the matter with me?

“I’m not going to say it again.”

About thirty minutes later, the van stopped. Blanche strained to see out the window. They were parked at the foot of a crumbling old bridge that was now used as a dock for fishing. But there was no one fishing there. The place was deserted. The guy had parked in a remote area next to a stand of thick mangroves.

He got out and came around the side of the van. He slid the door open and untied the rope around her ankles. He lifted her out of the van and held her by the back of her shirt. She stood, her knees wobbling so much she could barely walk over the broken shell. It didn’t help that she’d lost a sandal in the fracas.

Her feet bounced gingerly over the surface of the lot. Now she was shoeless. She didn’t have to go far because it looked like the action was coming to her. Two men and a woman walked toward her across the parking area, out of the darkness, silhouetted against the palm trees and dawn sky.

She looked around at the thick growth edging the lot. The sound of waves lapped gently, an unlikely backdrop of calm against her wildly beating heart. There were plenty of places to hide, and then Blanche got a sick feeling. There were also plenty of places to bury people, dead or alive.