Spree (11 page)

He grinned at that, glanced at her chest, glanced away.

Then she understood.

He sat at the drawing board and began to work. “I am moving,” he said. “Soon. That’s been my plan, that’s been my intention. Nolan can’t make me stay.”

She put a hand on his arm. “You’re attracted to me,” she said, rather breathlessly, like she’d just figured out the meaning of life.

He glanced at her, quickly, rolling his eyes. “No kidding.”

“I . . . I thought you hated me.”

“You could make a man out of Boy George.”

She pulled a barstool over and sat and smiled at him. “I get it, now. You’re afraid of me.”

He sighed. “I’m uncomfortable around you.”

“I make you feel uneasy. And a little guilty.”

“Quit it.”

She was grinning. She liked this. “Because you look at me and certain thoughts go through your mind. We’re about the same age, aren’t we?”

“Give or take a century.”

“And I’m Nolan’s woman.”

“That’s a little arch, isn’t it? Is that how you think of yourself?”

“Sure,” she said. “I love the guy. And you do, too.”

Jon looked at her and made a disgusted face.

“I understand why you’ve been avoiding me,” she said. She slid off the stool, leaving the now-empty can of beer on the bar. “Out of respect.”

“Respect?”

“I’m Nolan’s property.”

“Oh, please . . .”

“And the one thing in this world neither one of you would steal . . . is something from each other.”

He looked away from the drawing board; looked at her hard, with a slow, barely-there smile.

“No wonder he likes you,” Jon said. “You’re smart.”

“I got nice tits, too.”

“Yes, and I’d thank you to quit driving me crazy with them. I got work to do.”

She went over to him and held out her hand.

“Friends?” she said.

“Why not?” he said, and shook her hand.

But the handshake lingered, and they both felt the danger. And in a look they told each other that they would still keep their distance.

Now, pulling the blue 300 ZX into the drive, the smudged three-quarter moon painting the landscape ivory, Sherry was confused. Talking to Jon had done no good; she didn’t dislike him, now—but she’d traded her negative feelings for feeling attracted to him. Now she had another man in the house to distract and attract her, complicating the situation even more. She had work to do; she had to concentrate. She had a man to marry. A man she was currently pissed off at, by the way. Yes, she was good and pissed at Nolan—for standing up for Jon yesterday, and quietly putting her in her place.

And despite what Jon said, she had the nagging feeling he’d be underfoot for weeks yet. When was her life going to get back to goddamn normal?

She gathered her Limited sacks and stepped out of the car and somebody grabbed her, a hand slipped over her mouth, an arm looped around her stomach, yanked her into the bushes. Something wet smeared her face and she smelled chloroform.

Somebody was dragging her, through the bushes, over the rough, viny, snowy ground, down the incline; she heard a motor running, a car.

She heard a voice, an older man’s voice, very smooth, very soothing, very folksy, saying, “Nice work, son.”

And a younger voice, an immature voice, said, “Thanks, Pa.”

She saw the moon above, that broken-plate moon, go smudgier and gone.

8

NOLAN, GETTING HUNGRY
, walked downstairs and found Jon at the drawing board; the drapes were drawn, but the sliding glass doors let in nothing but night.

“Did Sherry say anything to you about when she’d be getting back?”

Jon reached over and turned the sound down on his portable radio; he’d been listening to an oldies station—“Mack the Knife” continued brassily, but softly.

“She doesn’t say that much to me, Nolan.”

“Hmm.”

“Is she late? What time is it, anyway?”

“After seven. She went shopping. Stores close at five-thirty.”

“Could she have stopped for a bite to eat?”

“Maybe. We were supposed to eat together. But she is ticked at me.”

Jon shrugged, said, “Sorry,” and returned to his work.

Nolan was going up the steps when Jon said, “That’s funny.”

Nolan, one foot on the third step, other foot on the fourth step, said, “What is?”

“I was upstairs stealing a beer out of the kitchen about an hour ago. I thought sure I heard her pull in.”

Nolan thought about that. Then he shrugged, too, and went upstairs.

A little after eight he looked out the front entrance, which was actually a door along the side, as the garage took up the front end of the house; he had to stick his neck out to see the driveway. Which he did, and saw her red Jap sports car.

He also saw the white shopping sacks, scattered on the driveway, like rumpled oversize snowflakes.

He turned his head back into the house and called, “Jon!”

And rushed out into the cold night.

Streetlights and moonlight conspired to make the outside of Nolan’s house as bright as noon. He could see everything—except Sherry. She wasn’t in the car; the rider’s side was locked—the driver’s side wasn’t. He opened the door and reached under the dash and sprung the latch that popped the hood. He felt the engine. It wasn’t warm. This car had been sitting awhile.

He heard Jon’s footsteps crackling on the icy cement behind him; then Jon was next to him, coatless, hands dug in his jeans pockets, breath smoking, saying, “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

The drive had been shoveled and salted, but a light snow had fallen that afternoon and he could make out where something—or somebody—had been dragged through the dust of snow. He quickly followed the trail to the edge of the drive, to where the bushes started.

“Fuck,” he said.

Jon had been kneeling, looking at the discarded sacks, one of which contained a Ralph Lauren blouse, another a man’s pale blue Van Heusen dress shirt, another a box of Maud Frizon shoes. Now he joined Nolan.

“What?”

“I think she was dragged through here.” He pointed to the brush; a sort of path had been made, if you looked close: bushes were bent back, branches broken, snowy earth disturbed.

Nolan followed the path, pushing roughly, impatiently, through the foliage, twigs and branches snapping like little gunshots. Jon followed, sometimes taking a branch in the face, as it boomeranged back from Nolan’s forward push.

At the bottom of the incline was the curve of the road that went up into Nolan’s exclusive little housing development; of course that road went in the other direction as well, and the other direction was where Sherry had been taken.

And she
had
been taken.

“Oil,” Nolan said, pointing to a black puddle glistening on the icy pavement. “A car was parked here awhile. She should have noticed it when she drove by. They were waiting for her.”

“Waiting? Who? What are you
talking
about?”

Nolan bent and poked around in the snow at the edge of the curb. He found what seemed to be a frozen wad of white tissue or cloth; he picked it up, sniffed it.

“Jesus,” he said.

Jon said, “Will you please quit saying ‘fuck’ and ‘Jesus’ and tell me what the hell is going on?”

He held the thing under Jon’s nose. “Sniff,” he ordered.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jon said. “Chloroform.”

“They snatched her,” Nolan said.

“Who snatched her?”

“If I knew that,” Nolan said, “I’d know who to kill.”

Cars were streaming by on the nearby cross street, Thirty-fourth, a main thoroughfare. The world was going on as usual.

“Why would anybody kidnap Sherry?” Jon asked, his face contorted with confusion.

“Ransom,” Nolan said. “Somebody thinks I’m rich.”

“What will you do?”

“Pay them off.”

“In what sense do you mean?”

“Every sense you can think of. Let’s go back up to the house. It’s cold out.”

They didn’t walk back up the wooded slope; they walked up the slickly icy street and cut to the right, up Nolan’s drive.

“Are we going to call the police?” Jon said.

Nolan just looked at him.

Jon squinted at him. “Why, do you think this might be something from the past?”

“Maybe.”

“What do we do now?”

“Wait. They’ll call.”

The phone on the kitchen wall rang at 9:37.

“Nolan,” Nolan said.

“Lose something?”

The voice was male, rather soothing; an older man. With a faint, very faint southern accent. Nolan felt sick to his stomach; it was an alarm bell of sorts.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“No,” he said.

A warm chuckle. “You will soon enough. Is there some . . . neutral place we can meet? To discuss terms?”

Nolan thought for a moment. Then he said, “Downtown Rock Island, the Terminal Tap. Next to the bus station.”

“That sounds nice and public. Bring your little friend.”

“My little friend.”

“That curly-headed kid. He’s part of the deal.”

“I can’t speak for him.”

“You better. Twenty minutes?”

The line went dead.

Jon was sitting nearby, perched on the edge of the kitchen table. “Nolan . . .”

“Sherry is in very deep shit.”

“What’s going on?”

“That was Coleman Comfort.”

Jon’s brow knit a sweater and his mouth dropped to the floor but he said nothing.

“Sam Comfort’s brother,” Nolan explained.

“I didn’t even know Sam Comfort
had
a brother!”

“Now you do. Cole makes Sam look like Sister Mary Teresa.”

“Oh, Jesus . . .” Jon’s head was lowered and he was running a hand through his hair.