Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (4 page)

Second, he decided. He'd take it down to twenty-first and then south on Broadway.

The door to the physical therapy room swung open. He expected to see the teen in his wheel chair. Instead, a therapist approached by herself and made a path directly for him.

"Mr. Mack?" the young woman asked. She was petite and unassuming in appearance.

Mack didn't know her. He glanced around and noticed that he was the only male in the waiting area. He let his guard down.

Tucking her clipboard under her left arm, the woman smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Helen," she said. "Manny got a leg cramp during his session. They're giving him stim and heat to help with the discomfort—shouldn't be more than another few minutes."

Mack checked his watch again. "A few minutes, you say? Where's Renee?"

Helen nodded. She had red hair and freckles. "Renee asked me to come out and tell you. She said you keep to a tight schedule."

"You're new here."

"First day," she admitted. "I was transferred from one of the hospital's affiliates. All they're letting me do today is watch."

"Alright, I'll wait right here."

"I'll bring him out in two shakes," Helen said before turning and heading off.

"Leg cramp, " Mack muttered. He shook his head and threw his newspaper in the trash. Manny was unable to talk—he lacked the equipment and the know-how. He had personality though, subtle gestures: the twinkle in his eye, a grin, a tilt of the head, little things that told you just how he was feeling. Mack could picture him being rolled out the door, wearing his loose flannel shirt, looking off into space—a quick glance in Mack's direction, acknowledging his presence and the bond that existed between them. Mack flopped into the closest chair, exposing his cauliflower ear to the world. A few minutes, he thought. They can take it.

Mack had forgotten the exact time that Helen had informed him of the delay, but felt that too much time had elapsed when he checked his watch again.

"Excuse me," he said to the receptionist. "Can you check on when Manuel Nazzare will be done?"

"Sure." The receptionist picked up the phone and dialed. "Renee...Manuel Nazzare almost done?" She listened to the reply for
a moment
before commenting again. "Someone's waiting on him...I see." The receptionist hung up. "Renee will be right out."

Renee? "What about Helen?"

"Who?"

"Helen, the redhead that came out to tell me Manny was running late."

"Oh, she must be new. Renee's coming right out."

Mack began to squirm. He hustled over to the door just as it opened.

"Mack?" Renee asked. She appeared to be confused.

"Where's Manny?" he asked impatiently.

Renee was unnaturally thin. Her arms were wrapped around her slight waist. She shook her head. "I asked Helen to bring him out—"

Mack was moving before she completed her sentence. "Is there another way out?"

"Yeah," Renee hurried past Mack, leading him past the gymnasium to the opposite side of the facility. Two emergency doors stood before them. "An alarm goes off if you—"

Mack inspected the side of the metal doorframe. A half-inch hole had been drilled. Snipped wires were visible through the opening. He burst through the door onto 32
^nd
street. He was looking for a van, a vehicle with enough height to accommodate Manny and his wheelchair, a vehicle that he could be rolled onto in a flash.
A Cintas
uniform truck was parked at the curb. He stepped past it out into the street and scanned the length of the block. An ambulette sat at the far corner, waiting to roll east toward the river, not normally a cause for suspicion in the vicinity of a hospital. Mack turned and scanned Second Avenue. The wind was biting cold and yet a sweat broke out across his temples. Shit! A sea of cars flowed along the broad avenue—hopeless. Turning back, the ambulette had now cleared the intersection and was moving on. Mack began to run.

A feeling of hopelessness overcame him as he ran. Manny, Jesus Christ. Manny. God, help him. Davis Mack had been hired because he knew how to handle himself and a vehicle, but he was no long distance runner. The extra weight didn't help either. His knees began to ache immediately. He was losing his race with the ambulette, losing his race with hope. An entire block separated them now. If the ambulette turned, he'd lose it—lose it and Manny. He wondered what was going on in Manny's mind, wondered if he was keeping it together. Had they hurt him, drugged him? Did they know he couldn't talk? Of course they did, they knew everything about him.

They had calculated his routine down to the moment, but that was all you needed in Manhattan—a thousand places to hide and nothing but a punched out old brawler to keep them from getting at him. Don't turn, don't turn. Up ahead, the traffic signal turned green. Mack caught a break—the ambulette continued straight toward the East River.

The ambulette was empty when he came upon it, the wide back doors hanging open. Mack doubled over and sucked in a few breaths before going on. Where the hell? He scanned the area—nothing. The river was in front of him, commercial buildings to the sides. Where? Where? He heard the sound of an outboard rumbling to life and broke toward the water.

The small launch was making its way upriver by the time Mack got there. He watched in desperation as the boat rolled and pitched over the water's icy chop, slowly advancing north. He could see the back of Manny's shoulder inside the cabin; he recognized the pattern of the blue flannel shirt. Squinting, he could just make out the boat's name, stenciled in gold and outlined in black: Gold Coast.

A moment passed while he stood, watching helplessly as the boat moved away, hugging the shore on the New York side of the East River. His heart began knocking arhythmically within his chest, a chest that felt empty. The boat grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared.

It was without conscious thought that Mack turned and ran back to the ambulette. He climbed inside and shut the door. Reaching under the dashboard, he seized the ignition wires and tore the ends free. He hadn't ripped off a ride in decades, but the technology hadn't changed much. He sparked the ignition and had the ambulette underway in seconds. He enabled the lights and sirens to run the light at 34
^th
Street. The ambulette bounded up the approach ramp to the FDR Drive. Mack stomped on the accelerator.

The launch came into sight, fighting the cross-river currents on its way to the Queens shore. Mack hit the sirens again and planted his foot firmly on the gas pedal. He'd have to abandon the highway to access the 59
^th
Street Bridge and intercept the boat on the Queens side where Mack had determined it was heading. Even with lights and sirens, the proposition was risky. It was almost rush hour—traffic would be a nightmare. He had no options.

He knew the streets well and hit the bridge's approach quickly but the traffic was crawling as expected. He turned up the siren's volume and waited for the lane to clear. Come on, come on. Damn it! Slowly, the cars in front of him squeezed left, clearing a path for him to slip through.

He'd lost sight of the launch while going over the bridge. Once over, he pulled to the roadside and scanned the water. A tug waded upriver, blocking his line of sight. He waited a moment, hoping the tug would clear Manny's launch and make it visible. The tug was slow, pacing, what Mack assumed was the launch's rate of speed. An agonizing few minutes passed before Mack climbed back into the ambulette and took off. Three blocks later, his point of view had changed sufficiently to catch the tail end of the launch as the big tug slowly edged past it.

Mack knew little about Queens, but remembered a marina where a small boat like the launch could berth. He turned the siren off and maneuvered through the narrow streets toward where he thought the marina would be. Just a block away, he recognized the corner deli. He turned and saw the marina in front of him. The launch was one hundred yards out in the river headed for the same spot.

Mack left the ambulette out on the street and walked into the marina's parking lot. Just ahead, the launch cut its throttles and slowed to a stop. The facility was deserted. Small shrink-wrapped pleasure boats were dry docked, stacked three high in an outdoor support frame. The wind blasting Mack's face was brutal, but he felt nothing. It was as if time had stopped and the world around him was a million miles away.

He took a position behind one of the dry-docked boats and did something he had never done before. If he's been hurt... Mack had never used his gun for any purpose other than instruction or practice. If they hurt Manny... He pulled the 9mm from his shoulder harness and whipped off the safety. The next step was tougher. He put his hand over the slide and thought long and hard before chambering the first round. He recalled a friend's good advice, "Use it or lose it—either be prepared to kill or leave it home. There's no half way. He brought the slide back and heard the metallic clang of the first round seating itself.

The sun was low over the river, changing the river's surface to an undulating mirror. Mack shielded his eyes and waited for the boat to tie up.

The man who emerged from the launch was inexperienced. Mack could hear him cursing above the wind's howl as he caught his finger in the heavy rope while looping it over the mooring.

Mack could see the back of Manny's flannel shirt in the cabin, but the sun's glare off the chrome boat trim made it difficult for him to see any true detail.

"Stay right there," Mack said, emerging from behind the boat. His voice was authoritative and his natural baritone boomed over the howling wind. His 9mm was held level, pointing at the man's chest.

Dark, angry eyes turned toward Mack. The man was small, but his posture was aggressive. His back was arched, like an animal's, ready to strike.

"Hands behind your head," Mack ordered. "Move it."

No movement, the man gave no indication that he understood or would comply with Mack's order.

"You think I won't shoot you, stupid bastard? Get your hands—"

In that moment, Mack's adversary turned and lunged back into the cabin. Mack had made a critical mistake. "Use the gun, don't talk about it." Words he remembered a second too late.

Within the cabin, the assailant was scrambling to his feet. He pulled a gun from his pocket and placed it alongside Manny's head. "I'll waste him, motherfucker. Take your fucking gun and get the fuck out of here."

Mack's lungs withered like a popped balloon. Seeing a gun by Manny's head...it was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling. This was a man that had been beaten to within an inch of his life and never given up hope, but it was hard for him to marshal his courage with Manny's life hanging in the balance. "Don't be stupid," he said. "Let the boy go and I'll let you walk—swear to God." The sun was sinking and slowly giving up its power. The glare that had been blazing into Mack's eyes was diminishing.

"I'll kill the boy before I let him go. You know what you gotta do, motherfucker—get on your damn horse and ride the hell out a here."

Mack felt his arms grow heavy. In a moment, he'd start shaking. Jesus, man, help me.

Manny was motionless within the cabin. His head was straight and erect. It took a moment for it to register. Manny was always looking off into space, his head cast to the side like a tree's branch. Why not now? The sun was dying quickly. Mack could now focus clearly. He could see the side of Manny's face. It was porcelain white. And then it hit him, it wasn't Manny, it wasn't even human. This was a decoy, a diversion. They'd thrown him a lure and he'd caught it firmly between his teeth. Where is he? Mack wondered. Oh dear God.

He took a few solid steps toward the boat. "You got nothing, man. You got nothing." An inferno was erupting within him. "Step out of the boat."

"Fuck, man, you don't hear shit? I'll shoot him."

"Go the fuck ahead."

Mistake number two. Mack was walking straight toward a desperate, armed criminal when the gun swiveled in his direction and fired at him through the windscreen. The bullet missed him, but shards of shattering glass exploded in his direction, some lodging in his face and chest. Mack paused for a moment to take account of his physical damage and then continued forward. He was a man who had been knocked to the canvas, out cold and had come back for more. "Bring an elephant gun next time," he yelled. "You're a dead man."

Mack was no longer thinking rationally. He leveled his 9mm and pumped two rounds into his assailant's face, the face of the one man who might have held the secret to Manny's whereabouts. Mistake number three.

You may be thinking that the mall isn't exactly the type of locale a gal like Stephanie Chalice frequents and of course you'd be right, but my brother Ricky had been asking me to take him shopping for what seemed like forever and it was almost Christmas, so there I was.

Childhood trauma had left Ricky, shall we say, struggling on the weaker side of the learning curve. He's the sweetest, most unassuming man you'd ever want to meet—a hefty, fully grown giant with the gentle nature of a child.

I smiled when I saw Gus and Ricky bopping around the corner like a bunch of knuckleheads. They were getting along like brothers too. That was one of the things I admired most about Gus—he had a place in his heart for everyone.

"Hey, boys." I greeted them with a broad smile. Ricky beamed at me and shook his shopping bag for me to notice. "What did you get?" I asked excitedly.

"We went to the
Virgin Megastore
, Stephanie. I got a poster," Ricky said.

Virgin Megastore. An oxymoron if ever I'd heard one. "A poster, you say? That's nice." I turned to Gus. "Of whom?"

"Sheryl Crow," Ricky volunteered excitedly.

"Oh? I didn't know you liked her." I gave Lido a puzzled look.

"She's great," Ricky informed me, most matter of fact. "Can I get a corndog?"

I shrugged. "I don't see why not. Do you need money?"

"No, I've got money," Ricky replied. "Can I?"

"Go ahead. We'll wait for you right here."