The Night Belongs to Fireman (22 page)

Rachel
. In her sparkly purple dress, she was dancing around the edge of the action, sidestepping the flailing arms of her former attacker with little hops, even trying to stomp on his hands. To his blurred gaze, she looked like a dancing firefly.

“Fred,” she was shouting. “Fred! Help! Someone help!”

Yeah, help would be nice. Where was fucking Mulligan when he needed him? But he couldn't wait for someone to stumble out of Firefly, all buzzed and happy. Gritting his teeth, he dug into his pocket. He grabbed her car keys and slid them across the sidewalk. He overshot, sending them under a Ford pickup, but she immediately crouched to snatch them up.

“Get in your car!” he shouted to her. “Call Marsden.” She'd be safe in her car; the thing was more secure than an army tank. And Marsden would know what to do. He'd call the police or Kessler.

“I don't want to leave you,” Rachel cried from over by the pickup.

The guy with the broken arm, still writhing on the concrete sidewalk, lunged for her. She gave a little shriek and jumped back.

“Go, Rachel, just go!” Fred scissored his legs behind his assailant's knees, then used the entire force of his body to roll over, then over again, until the two of them landed on top of the man with the broken arm, who let out a yell. Fred had been hurt and had caused pain in countless sparring matches, but this was different. With a ruthlessness that shocked him, he realized he'd inflict all the pain it took to stop them.

Rachel finally turned and ran back toward her car. Fred felt the men scrambling beneath him. Fuck, they were trying to go after her. He couldn't let either of them get free. He needed to buy her some time. He found someone's arm and wrenched it backward, then twisted his legs to immobilize the other guy. This was more like a game of Twister than a bout. The position was horribly awkward, the way it torqued his back, but he needed to hold it only a few seconds, until Rachel was in her car, her headlights on, maybe backing out of the parking lot . . .

Headlights flashed on. Someone shouted from the direction of Firefly's front door. The two men struggled to free themselves, sending lances of pain down Fred's spine as he clamped his arms and legs tighter to keep them in place. An engine started up; he recognized it as Rachel's. Thank God, she was out of there. With enough of a head start, she'd be safe.

Then a tremendous blow caught him on the temple and shards of silver pierced his vision. A black abyss rose up to swallow him. The last thing he heard before he tumbled into the dark was “Forget her, she's gone. Get this fucking asshole in the van.”

F
red was choking. Something was blocking all the air. And he couldn't see. He was dead. This must be death, this black, suffocating, stuck . . . His hands wouldn't move, or his legs . . . God, was he in a coffin? Was he underground? What the . . . ?

“Stay still, jerkoff.”

Obnoxious as it was, the guy's high, wheezy voice calmed him. He must not be dead. Neither heavenly angels nor Satan's minions would use words like “jerkoff,” would they?

With a rush his conscious awareness returned and he realized he wasn't six feet under in a coffin somewhere. He was sitting in a chair. His arms and legs were tied to it, and the reason he couldn't see was that he was blindfolded. Some kind of cloth was wrapped around his eyes and mouth. He tested it with his tongue. Rough cotton gauze. That's what was cutting off the oxygen supply. If he calmed his panic and took shallow breaths, he could get enough air.

For a moment he focused on stilling his panic. When his breathing felt close to normal, and his heart was no longer racing, he added more information to what he'd already gathered. He rotated his wrists to test the hold of the bindings. The give of the material told him his arms were tied with the same kind of gauze that blindfolded him. That didn't seem smart. Gauze wasn't enough to hold anyone for long.

Important point of information, he decided. This didn't seem to be a very organized or prepared kidnapper.

Kidnapper
.

He'd been kidnapped. He wanted to laugh, but the gag didn't make that possible. Why the hell would anyone kidnap him? Maybe they thought he was Rachel's brother, or even her boyfriend. Someone the Kessler family would rush to ransom. This was all some crazy misunderstanding, and if he could just get this cloth off his face he could straighten it out. He pushed at it with his tongue and waggled his chin back and forth.

Cold metal touched his cheek. He froze. He had no doubt it was a knife.

“It shouldn't need to be mentioned, but only one person is in control of this situation,” said the same high, almost boyish voice. Fred had the feeling he was disguising it. “And it isn't you, genius. I'll take your gag off when I want it to come off.”

Fred might be temporarily blinded and mute, but he wasn't deaf. And he was pretty good at reading people. His immediate assessment of the man, based on his voice and the way he was tied up—amateur. This kidnapper was in over his head, things hadn't gone as planned, and he was jittery and anxious.

Fred could use that. Maybe he could calm the guy down, make him think they were on the same side. He wasn't sure how yet, but the first step was to be able to talk.

He nodded, trying to look nonthreatening. Maybe his appearance would help in that regard, since he wasn't a Superman type like Vader.

“You understand that I'm in charge here? You'll do what I tell you to do? I have a knife. And other weapons.”

Fred nodded again. A knife was definitely something to fear, especially in the hands of someone who was anxious and trying to prove he was in charge.

Face it, Fred. At the moment he
is
in charge
.

“As long as we're on the same page. Me boss, you slave. Think this knife can slice through the gag without nicking you?” He gave a high-pitched laugh. “Because I'm not exactly a knot expert and I did a number on this thing.”

Fred braced himself as the chill of metal slid across his cheek. The man sawed at the cloth, and he felt a flick of quicksilver pain. A trickle of blood rolled down his jaw.

“Oops.” The kidnapper snickered. “Didn't mean to do
that
. I hope Tree doesn't mind a little blood on his carpet.”

Tree?
What kind of a name was Tree? Fred had a feeling he'd be better off resolving this situation now, before Tree or other backup arrived. As soon as the cloth fell away from his mouth, he coughed and spat up some cotton fibers. “Water,” he croaked. “Please.”

“Why should you get water? Do you think the poor wild animals get water? Not during a drought they don't.”

Huh?
Okay, that was different. Was this guy some sort of wild animal lover? What did that have to do with Fred?
Information
. He needed more information. Fred had a sudden memory of Rob Kessler in his black sedan, announcing that he was an information addict.
Keep the guy talking
. “Really, they don't?”

“Of course they don't. How could they? That's the meaning of the word ‘drought.'”

“Right.” Fred tried to clear his throat, but it was so dry. It felt as if he'd been at the dentist getting wads of cotton stuffed in his mouth. “That's a good point.”

“Like you care. I know what you are. You're a fireman.”

Fred nodded cautiously. He wasn't sure what firefighting had to do with thirsty animals, but the dude was on some kind of crazy mental tangent.

“Do you even care about the animals injured during all those brushfires?” Fred felt the man's restless energy as he paced back and forth. He moved freely in the space, giving Fred the sense that there wasn't much furniture.

“Of course I do.”

“But you don't go out there for the animals, do you? It's all about the
people
. And their houses and their ranches and their
property
.”

“Is that why I'm here? Because I'm a firefighter?” Was it possible that he'd actually been the target of this weirdo kidnapper?

“Dream on. You're not that important. You're just a bonus. That coward Rachel Kessler's the one who's going to pay.”

He knew her real name
. Fred tightened his fists in their bonds, but he fought back his fear. He didn't need emotion interfering with his thinking right now.

“Who are you?” He asked. “How do you know Rachel?”

“I know Rachel. I know she hides behind her mother's last name and her father's money. I have no respect for Rachel.”

For the first time, Fred felt a real chill run through him. The man's voice vibrated with contempt and even hatred, and from the way he said Rachel's name, clearly he knew her on a personal level. “But how do you know her?” He repeated. “What's your name?”

That question earned him a stinging slap across the face. “Who said you could ask questions?”

“Sorry,” Fred muttered, trying to make it sound sincere even though he was seething. Anyone who slapped a bound man had no right to call anyone else a coward. Not that he intended to point that out. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here. Maybe I can help. It sounds like you really care about animals. I do too.”

He wanted to add that Rachel did too, but figured he'd better steer clear of her name for now, since it seemed to set the man off.

“You're already helping, like it or not. This wasn't the plan, but maybe it'll work out better this way.”

“What are you trying to accomplish?” Fred tried to keep his tone of voice curious rather than skeptical, but it was hard. He honestly didn't see how kidnapping Fred Breen would help this guy's cause in any way.

“What we are going to accomplish is simple. And there's no way we can fail. Rachel Kessler might be a coward, but I know her weak points. She's afraid of being trapped, so that was my first choice. That didn't work out, but I think we have a higher power at work here. She likes you. I've seen you two together. I've seen her laughing with you, I've seen how she looks at you when you're not even paying attention. What's it like to have a rich girl like her wrapped around your finger?”

Fred's mind raced, trying to figure out where this man could have seen him and Rachel together. “You've got it all wrong, dude. I'm working for her, that's all.”

They'd only gone out that one wild night, and to Cindy's wedding; other than that they'd only been to the Refuge and . . . no. The
Refuge
?

“Wait . . . you work for her too, don't you?”

Shocked silence followed. Fred braced himself for some kind of retribution, but instead he heard a long expulsion of breath. “It's okay,” the guy muttered to himself. “It's just a lucky guess. He hasn't seen my face. He's still blindfolded.”

The guy was rattled. Fred decided to take advantage. “Look, dude, I'm not out to cause trouble. Like I said, I'm just working for Rachel, so maybe we can help each other out here. Rachel's probably already gone to the cops, or maybe Mr. Kessler has.”

“They won't do that. We already left messages for both Mr. Kessler and Rachel. One of them should be calling any minute now. They're probably trying to figure a way out of this, but there is no other way. Not if they give a flying fuck about you.”

Fred jumped on that. “That, my friend, is a big fucking ‘if' you have there. I'm just an employee. I knew the risks of taking on the job. If you think Kessler's going to pay some sort of ransom for me, you might want to come up with a backup plan. I'd like to think I matter to them, but I sure wouldn't count on it. Like you said, I'm a plain old fireman. Just a working guy. No one will be coughing up any millions to get me back.” Since he believed this to be completely true, his voice rang with sincerity.

“This isn't about money, fool. That, right there, is what's wrong with the world today. Doesn't anyone care about what matters anymore?”

The man—Fred had no doubt now that he was on the young side—was circling around the room. It must be a smallish space, because it didn't take him long to return to where he'd started. The sudden blare of a woman's voice made him jump. The television.

Some reality show was playing. Why did he want to watch TV at a time like this? Fred wondered if he had some sort of mental disorder. In fact, he was pretty much convinced of it. Hopefully he wouldn't go into any kind of psychotic meltdown. Fred twisted his wrists back and forth, as he'd been doing for a while, as surreptitiously as he could manage. He couldn't see his kidnapper, but his kidnapper could see him, and that was an unsettling imbalance.

The guy strode toward the TV and began quickly skimming from one channel to another. Fred took advantage and began working his wrist bindings even harder. If he could loosen them enough, he could probably slide them off.

“Fuck it,” the guy fumed from near the television set. “She hasn't done it yet. How long could it take?”

“Hasn't done what? Maybe if you explain what you're after, I can help.”

“It shouldn't be that hard. She's Rachel Kessler. Protector of freaking animals. This should be a no-brainer.”

“What do animals have to do with it? If you work at the Refuge, you know how much Rachel cares about them. She's dedicated her life to helping animals. It sounds like you both agree about that.”

“The difference between us is, I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is. I'm willing to go all out. Risk everything. What does she do but stay closed up in her penthouse apartment and her little . . . Popemobile? Rachel Allen Kessler is chickenshit. She pretends to love animals but she doesn't put it all on the line. We're going to make her. Maybe she'll even thank us for it. She'll kiss my fucking goat-crap-covered Timberlands.” He cackled.

Goat crap? Of course. This guy was one of the techs who cleaned out the corrals and the various outbuildings. He took a stab in the dark, remembering the kid with the ponytail.

“Dale?”

A blow across the cheek made his ears ring. “That's not my name, fireman. But you can call me Kale.”

Fred wasn't sure he'd heard right. “Kyle?”

“No.
Kale
.”

“Like the vegetable, kale?”

“It's a leafy green, jerkoff. It's packed with iron. Tough and strong. Like me.”

Oh yes, he'd definitely tumbled into a weird sort of rabbit hole.

“So what, your parents named you after kale?”

“My parents are carnivores, so of course not. I named myself.” He turned back to the TV, manically switching channels. “Come on, Rachel, get a move on.”

Fred still had no idea what he was expecting from Rachel, but the fact that Kale worked at the Refuge seemed to provide an opening. “You know, Kale, if you do something to hurt Rachel, the Refuge might have to shut down. That could mean a lot of people out of work, and a lot of animals with no place to go.”

“You don't know what you're talking about. The Refuge won't close. It's going to be famous.”

“T
hat's an across-the-board
no.” Her father scowled at Rachel from her flat-screen TV. He was in his private jet, on his way back from D.C. after dinner with a few senators, and had just gotten Fred's kidnapper's message. “The money's one thing. It's peanuts to me. The fact that he asked for so little proves what a dope the guy is. I already arranged the ransom. But for the rest of it, he can go fuck himself. We'll offer him more money, that'll have to be enough.”

“I don't think it will be. I don't think he cares about the money.” Seeing that her father wasn't listening, she turned to Marsden. “Back me up here. You heard the message.”

“I heard it,” he said grimly.

“Just listen to it again. This man is on a mission.” She clicked play on her phone and Fred's kidnapper's voice rang through her living room for the tenth time.

“The time for hiding is over, Rachel Kessler. If you want your friend back, you'll go public with your support for animal rights and your sponsorship of the Refuge. We expect to see your face on TV before the end of tonight, or we'll treat your friend the way the labs treat the mice they use to test mascara.” He gave a wheezy laugh. Something about it sounded familiar. “Our group is BEAST, the Brotherhood for Ending Animal Substandard Treatment, and you're going to put us on the map. We shouldn't have to force you to do the right thing, but we will if we have to. This is a matter of life or death.”