Bad Penny (4 page)

3
Sam

FRANK WAVED, TRYING to get Tony’s attention, worrying about some kid riding out into the street or running after a ball because there wouldn’t be any stopping. But Tony didn’t see Frank and turned at the street half a block down.

Farther back, the Nissan squealed round the corner.

Frank looked around for a projectile. There was nothing but fences and lawns and curb. Never a good-sized stone when you needed one. Nothing but the annoying mutt from the yap patrol that sounded like it was working on an aneurysm. Too bad it didn’t have more heft. He would have happily used it to smash Ed’s windshield. Then he spotted a row of white bricks across the street. They were standing up at a diagonal, acting as a border between a lawn and flower bed full of puffy orange marigolds. He raced over to the yard, yanked two bricks out, and charged down the street at Ed and Jesus in their Nissan.

He was about half a house away when they reached the corner Tony had taken. Frank hurled the first brick as hard as he could, followed with the second. The bricks arched high. Ed and Jesus squealed around the corner. The first brick sailed completely over the car. The second struck the Nissan in the panel over the rear tire, made a huge clunk, and fell to the ground.

Jesus put on the gas, and the Nissan bolted forward, racing after Tony.

So much for bringing bricks to a car fight.

Frank ran out into the middle of the road and watched the Nissan speed down the street. Tony was heading south, probably trying to lose them in the residential streets on the east of the cemetery and then get out to the belt route. But he wasn’t going to outrun them, not in that Nova. And where would he go once he got out of the neighborhood?

Tony! What had he been thinking!

Probably exactly what any man with a speck of humanity and courage would when finding a woman locked in a trunk. Especially when she was locked in by two fine pieces of work like Ed Meese and his friend Jesus.

Frank could call the cops, but how long would it take to get his report, call it out, and then get someone to respond? And that’s if they even could respond.

Frank grabbed his cell, slid it open, and thumbed down for Tony’s number. He hit the green button to dial then started to run, not south after Tony or the Nissan, but north. He held the phone to his ear and began to run down the middle of the road, his tan work boots slapping the asphalt.

Tony needed to go west. He needed to get on Thompson, run along the north side of the cemetery, or go around the south end, then get himself to the sheriff’s office on C Street. It was just a few blocks away. He needed to pull right in, horn blaring. Let Ed and the zombie pull in behind him. No sense waiting for the cops when he could go right to them.

Tony’s phone rang. Rang again.
Come on, Tony, pick up!

Frank reached the top of hill on G Street and ran down the other side. The steep hilly streets were like something out of a baby San Francisco. Lines of bouncy tar squiggled across the asphalt like thin black snakes where the road crew had been filling cracks.

G Street was so narrow the drivers had to parallel park their cars with half the car up on the curb to make room for one lane down the middle. The street was in an old residential neighborhood filled with small bungalows and ramblers from a time when a house cost $7,000 dollars. The front yards had small front lawns, some behind chain link. Willows and elms, stunted by the harsh Wyoming climate, grew out over the narrow street. The leaves rustled in the hot wind. Frank ran down past the houses and the cars, the incline letting him stretch his stride and pour on the speed. Tony’s phone kept ringing.

A vehicle turned onto the narrow road behind him. He glanced back. It was an old green Suburban with a mismatched door panel. He moved over and waved the driver for help.

The woman behind the wheel gave him an alarmed look, punched the gas, and sped on by.

Frank must have been scowling in the hot sun, must have looked like a mad dog. Problem was he didn’t think he could do bunny rabbit at the moment. There was a tower of anger rising up in him. Who did Ed think he was? Frank had a life going here. That girl had a life, although who knew if she was clean or some nasty piece of drug work? More importantly, Tony had a life, bless his freaking white hat head.

Tony’s phone went to voicemail.

Frank cursed, cut the call, and dialed again.

He ran past a yard where a Daschund and some other bigger mutt charged the chain link to bark at him. He ran past an old woman digging in a bed of flowers that was looked over by a fat and happy gnome. He ran past a place where the lawn looked like each blade had been tended with a pair of scissors and watered every day and another place that looked like they’d used gasoline on it. He kept running, big old strides thumping the asphalt, his work boots feeling large and loose on his feet.

Up ahead, a dozen kids were squealing at a birthday party out in front of a blue house. They had balloons and a clown with yellow hair.
Clowns?
What kind of parents invited clowns to their kid’s party? Clowns had to be one of the scariest things on the planet. Ed probably had clowns at his parties when he was a kid. In fact, Frank was willing to wager that if you did the research, you’d find clowns featuring prominently in every serial killer’s history.

Frank ran past the kids and their horror show and turned onto New Hampshire.

Tony’s phone was still ringing. “Pick up!” he growled. “Pick the phone up!”

Tony picked up.

“Tony!” Frank said.

“Frank—”

“Shut up and listen. Get to C Street. Lead them to the sheriff’s office.”

“Sheriff’s? Down past the bowling alley?”

The police station was by the bowling alley. The sheriff’s office was about half a mile closer. “No, the other end of C.”

The phone went quiet. Frank stopped running and stood in the middle of the road. “Are you there?”

“I’m here—”

Now was not the time to give five minutes of directions. “Just get to the cops. Forget the sheriff. Go to the station by the bowling alley. You hear me?”

No response.

“Tony!”

Frank looked down at the phone. The call was gone. He pressed dial again; it rang and went directly to voicemail. He broke the call, dialed again. This time he hit the speaker button then lit out with all the speed he could muster. He came to the end of New Hampshire, turned on Massachusetts. The phone rang and rang. He cut across a vacant lot and field at the back of the Boy and Girl Scout office, and emerged on C Street.

To his left, next to the Scout office, stood the sheriff’s office. Frank ran past and turned right toward the police station.

He dialed Tony again, then prayed the Lord to let him make it, let him make it, let him make it, even though Frank didn’t know how easily the prayers of an ex-con rose up into the ears of deity. The call went to voicemail. Frank dialed again, the speaker playing the tone, and he continued to hoof it down the middle of C Street, his boots eating up the pavement. It was still residential here, same 1950s and 1960s bungalows, some with green siding, some with rust red, most with white. The sun was hot, shining off of the chrome and windshields of the parked cars with bright little spots of arc light. The phone rang and rang and rang and went to voicemail again. He killed the call. Maybe Tony was trying to get through on his end.

Frank ran a few more blocks and entered the commercial district. He ran past the bowling alley, through the intersection on 2
^nd
, and arrived at the police station. He turned into the narrow parking lot at the back, but Tony and the Nova weren’t there. He skirted around front.

Nothing.

On the pole at the station, the flags of the United States and the great state of Wyoming snapped in the wind. Stars and stripes over a buffalo.

The parking in front of the station spanned the whole block. Frank ran through the parked cars to the D Street side, ran around the back corner there. But there was no Tony. No Nova. No Nissan. No nothing.

Had he gone to the sheriff’s after all? Frank prepared to run back when the phone rang. Tony’s name came up on the screen.

Frank pushed the answer button. “Where are you? You okay?”

“I can’t come to the station, Frank.”

A chill shot right to Frank’s core. “If Ed has you, say the word ‘five’ into the phone.”

“No, Ed’s out of the picture right now. It’s the girl.”

“What do you mean? She got a gun to your head?”

“More like box cutters. To the throat.”

“Box cutters?”

“I used them to cut the zip ties on her wrists and ankles.”

“Hang up,” a woman said behind Tony. She had a Spanish accent.

“We’ll be okay, Frank. She just wants to get out of town. She says not to call the cops. She says they’re dirty.”

“Tell her you’ll let her out.”

“She doesn’t want to get out here.”

Who knew what this woman was strung out on? Who knew what she might do? “This isn’t happening.”

“I think it’s happening, Frank.”

Frank took the calmest tone he could. He needed to keep Tony focused. “Tell me where you are. Tell me your direction.”

“We’re on the belt route. I’m going to try to get to I—”

There was a double tone then nothing. Frank looked down at the phone. He knew Tony wouldn’t answer if he called back.

I-80. Tony was going to I-80, but was he going to get on at the north, east, or west end of town. And which direction would he go then?

Frank took a calming breath. He needed to get his mind straight. Needed to put it into gear. Needed to start listing his options.

A kidnapped woman had box cutters at his nephew’s throat. She didn’t want to go to the cops. Maybe she was from some rival organization, a criminal in her own right. Or something else. Didn’t matter. Frank was right here at the station. He could walk in and spill the whole story. They’d call it out. They’d share it with the sheriff’s office and the Highway Patrol. He could have a dozen eyes on the street, minus those that were otherwise engaged and those too far out to be of any help. He turned to go into the station and then stopped.

He had no doubt the Rock Springs officers were good. But he’d learned long ago that delegating sometimes meant the job didn’t get done. If he sequenced it right, he could get all those officer eyes plus his own. All he needed was a vehicle.

He looked at the cars in the parking lot. No way was he going to steal a car here. And he didn’t have to. He fetched the business card that had been stapled to the cookies on his doorstep out of his pocket. Didn’t Sam, the happy neighborhood Mormon man, work around here?

Frank turned the card over and looked at the address. Sam Cartwright, accountant by day, cookie man by night. He was a few blocks down and across the tracks. Frank punched Sam’s number into his phone.

Sam picked up on the second ring. “Good afternoon, this is Sam.”

“Sam, this is Frank Shaw—”

“Frank, my man. You’re eating those cookies right now, aren’t you? You’re a puddle of joy on the floor. You’re calling to thank me.”

“Actually—”

“Dude, that recipe is contraband. Contraband! Half-a-dozen caterers in this town would kill to get that.”

“Sam, look, you told me to call if I needed anything. Bro, I got a situation. It’s crisis. Condition red.”

Sam’s voice modulated to a serious tone. “What’s going on, Frank?”

“It’s a long story. But I need a car.” Frank knew how that sounded. “You can drive. I’m not asking to take your car.”

“That old Nova finally gave up the ghost?”

“Tony’s been abducted.”

There was a pause. “What?”

“They’re still in the city. I need some help, Sam.”

“Holy crap, Frank. Did you call the cops?”

“I’m going to call them, but we need all the eyes and ears possible on this. There are only so many officers in this town. Every minute counts.”

“Right,” Sam said.

“Can you come?”

Silence. Frank thought he was going to make an excuse, and then Sam said, “Tony’s a good kid. You bet your boots I’ll come.”

“Let me meet you. You in the office or out with a client?”

“I’m at home.”

“Okay. I’ll be running your way on D Street. Come as quick as you can. Bring something fast. Something tall so we can see is even better.”

“I’m heading out the door right now.”

Frank shook his head; what kind of people were like that? People that were too naive or had some angle, that’s who. Maybe Sam did have a racket going. Maybe he thought Frank had some ex-con criminal connections that might come in handy some day. He was going to be disappointed. But it didn’t matter what Sam’s scheme was—Sam had wheels, and that’s what Frank needed at this particular moment.

Frank ended the call and punched in 9-1-1. He wrestled with what to tell them. Did he go into MS-13? Did he talk about Ed’s connections to some drug lord named Rico and his supposed western state operation. Ed had said he was Mr. Logistics for the guy, Mr. Get Her Done. Which could have all been a bunch of blather. Frank decided not to go into all that. Not now. What they needed to know was that Tony had been kidnapped. He started to run, phone ringing in his ear.

The dispatcher picked up. Frank identified himself, told her about the kidnapping, described Tony, the car, and the woman. The dispatcher took the information. Asked him for his contact info. Asked him if he could come in with a picture, or email it. Frank said he was on the street looking for the kidnappers that very moment and wasn’t near a computer. Told her Tony had been heading toward I-80. Then he hung up and began to run. Big-booted strides.

His phone rang. It was the dispatcher. He let it ring.

He ran across the intersection on D and 2
^nd
, past the bowling alley on the back side, past the lumber store and into the old residential part of town. He approached the fuel oil dealer with the yard full of oil tanks stacked up next to the fence. Sam should have been here by now. Frank swore Sam had a Mustang. Not tall, but fast. It would do just fine.

Up ahead, tires squealed. A motor raced. The tires squealed again and some soccer mom with serious road rage came around the corner up ahead in her baby blue Mazda minivan.