The Sour Cherry Surprise (22 page)

Thunder rumbled overhead. Off in the distance there was a flicker of lightning. The all-out summer downpour that ace storm tracker Jim Cantore had promised would soon arrive in Dorset. For now the night air remained warm, drizzly and dead calm. Mitch was drenched with sweat, mosquitoes feasting on him.

Molly had won out. He’d agreed to go along with her rescue plan. Hadn’t called Yolie. Hadn’t so much as thought about it. Des needed him. That was all that mattered. It meant everything in the world according to Mitch, which was to say the world according to MGM, RKO and the brothers Warner. When a woman from out of your romantic past needed you, you answered the call. So
what if she’d broken your heart? If she was in danger you showed up. You didn’t wonder if it was the right thing to do. You didn’t hesitate. Did Cagney? Did Errol Flynn? Coop? The Duke? Hell no, pilgrim. Neither did Mitch Berger. Which explained why he was now dog-trotting his way through these woods with this strange, fearless little girl, armed only with a little flashlight that he couldn’t use, a pair of wire cutters and Saul Mandelbaum’s old Baby Terrier—the pocket-sized iron pry bar that his grandfather opened crates with back when he drove a produce truck to and from the Hunt’s Point Market.

Here was how Molly had laid out her plan before they left:

“Our root cellar has four air vents, see?” she explained as she made a quick sketch on a notepad at the table. The vents resembled small windows in the farmhouse’s foundation. Mitch’s place had similar such vents. “They’re covered on the outside with quarter-inch wire mesh to keep the little critters out. Under the wire there’s this inch-thick plywood vent cover that gets screwed into place from inside the cellar. We put the covers in over the winter to keep our pipes from freezing. Once spring comes my dad takes them off or the kitchen gets all mildewy. Except he was so messed up this year he forgot. So the vent covers are still on, okay?” Molly paused to finish her glass of milk, licking her upper lip clean. Bella offered her more. She politely declined. “I bet Clay and Hector have never noticed them,” she continued. “It’s dark down there. And it’s not their house. So why would they even care, right?”

“Right,” Mitch said, standing over her with his eyes on the notepad.

“Anybody who’s standing outside can see three of the vents.” Molly ticked them off one by one with her pencil. “This one in front. And this one that faces the driveway. And this one over here by the chimney. So forget them. The troopers will spot you right away and blow the whistle.” She grinned up at him. “But the
fourth
one faces the barn in back.
And
it’s underneath the deck my dad put in when he installed those French doors. It comes out sixteen feet from the back of the house and it’s raised twenty-eight inches off of the ground. That should give you okay head clearance. And the vent is twenty-two and a quarter inches wide by fourteen and three-eighths high.”

“Um, okay, just exactly how do you know that?”

“Because I measured them for my dad when he was cutting new plywood covers. The old ones leaked. They’re not all the same size, even though they look that way from a distance.” Molly studied Mitch with a critical eye. “The old you might have had trouble squeezing through it. But now that you’re Mr. Six-Pack Abs you shouldn’t have any problem.”

“And Des has gotten so skinny you could fit four of her through there,” said Bella, parked there beside him with chubby hands on round hips.

“Molly, let me see if I’ve got this straight….” Mitch said slowly. “I hike my way there through the woods in the dark past the FBI. I elude the SWAT teams that currently have the entire house surrounded. Slither my way under the back deck to the vent. Cut the wire mesh. Pry open the vent cover …”

“Which should be a snap,” she interjected. “The frame’s way punky with dry rot. My dad was planning to replace it.”

“Then drop down into the root cellar and snatch up Des—if she’s actually down there, and if she is she’s still alive. The two of us escape the way I came in. Then the SWAT can go in and take Clay and Hector however they choose. Does that about cover it?”

Molly nodded. “Pretty much. Except for one teeny-tiny detail—I’m coming with you.”

“Not a chance. It’s one thing for me to risk my own life. I’m a grown-up. Or at least that’s what my driver’s license says. You’re just a little girl.”

“Mitch—?”

“It’s too dangerous for you. I won’t allow it. No way.”

“Mitch, will you shut up and listen? You won’t get within a hundred yards of the place without me. You’ll never even make it through those woods. Besides, it’s my father they killed and my mother they messed up. So stop being such an overprotective butthead, will you?”

“Fine,” Mitch sighed. Because she was right about the woods part. “But once we reach the barn I’m on my own. I have to insist upon that. You will stay out of harm’s way, understood?”

“Sure,” Molly agreed. “Whatever you say.”

Bella didn’t try to talk them out of it. Just kissed each of them on the cheek, handed Mitch her flashlight and said, “I’m here if you need me,
tattela.”

Which made it official: Bella Tillis, the pride of Brooklyn, U.S.A., widow of Morris, grandmother of eight and godmother to a million causes, was as big a fool for love as he was.

Congress. They absolutely needed her in Congress.

And now he and Molly were emerging from the deep forest darkness. Mitch could make out lights between the trees. The high beams of the state police vehicles that were parked out in the lane. The drizzle was becoming a light, steady rain. The rumble of thunder growing louder.

Molly halted there at the edge of the woods. They were down near the end of the lane—past Amber and Keith’s place, and a safe distance away from the action. Staying low, the two of them scampered across the pavement and plunged into a different sort of rough terrain. This one a thorny, brambly thicket of wild berry bushes, barberry, privet and God knew what else. There was no path to follow here. Only dense, overgrown brush that fought back hard as they inched their way through it on their hands and knees, the thorns attacking their faces and bare arms. But for
Mitch there was no giving in to a few scratches. Not when Des needed him. Not when this fearless little girl wasn’t hesitating to do what needed doing. So he pressed on.

Until finally they’d circled their way around behind the barn in back of Molly’s house. It was very dark here. The barn stood between them and all of those lights out in the street. But they were close enough to the action that Mitch could hear the voices of the troopers now.

Molly took the six-inch Maglite from him and flicked it on, keeping its beam low as she searched and searched and … there it was, the old chicken wire fence she’d warned him about. All that remained of a vegetable garden from generations gone by. But still sturdy enough to block their way. Mitch pulled the wire cutters from his back pocket and snipped through it, then bent the edges back so they could pass on through.

The wind was starting to pick up, tossing the trees around. And the thunder was so powerful it shook the ground. Lightning crackled directly overhead, bright as daylight. Those helicopters were no longer circling around up there. They’d touched down ahead of the deluge. And now here it came. First Mitch heard it pound on the roof of the barn. Then he felt it pelting him, drenching him. His clothes stuck to him. But he didn’t mind. He welcomed the cool, wet relief.

Quickly, they made their way along behind the barn, rain pouring down their necks. When they reached the side that was nearest to the back deck Molly poked her head out for a look—then retreated at once. Mitch had a look for himself. What he saw was two state troopers with shotguns staked out before him in the driveway, their backs to him, eyes glued on the house. Damn.

It meant they had to go with Plan B. His pint-sized partner was already working her way across to the other side of the barn—the
one that faced the backyard. Here, there would be nothing between them and the back deck other than the big old maple where Molly had her tree house. No actual cover. Just forty feet or so of open lawn. A much, much riskier play. Especially with all of this lightning flashing away. The lights were turned off inside the house so that Clay and Hector could move around in there unseen. Not to mention get a better view of what was happening outside. If either man were watching the yard he’d instantly see Mitch making a dash for it. So would those two troopers on the other side of the barn. Although Mitch was less concerned about them. Their eyes were trained on those shattered glass kitchen doors, not on the grass.

It was Mitch’s only chance. He and Molly both knew it as they huddled there together behind the trunk of the big tree, soaked, scratched and bleeding.

He put his mouth to her ear and whispered. “I want you to wait right here, okay?”

She whispered back, “No way. You need me to hold the light.”

“Molly, that was
not
our deal.”

“I tore up our old deal. This is our new one—so live with it.”

“You’ll make one hell of an agent someday, but right now you’re staying put. It’s too dangerous.”

Which was true. Trouble was, Mitch was talking to himself. Molly was already slithering across the lawn on her belly toward the house. Mitch shook his head and went after her, belly down in the sopping wet grass. Hoping that Clay and Hector were watching the street at this particular moment and not the yard. Hoping those troopers kept watching the kitchen doors and not the yard. Hoping the lightning would let up for one second. Just hoping …

They made it. The two of them were now tucked safely underneath the deck, rain trickling down on them through the gaps between the decking. The support joists down there made for
considerably less than the twenty-eight inches of head clearance Molly had promised him. But he was fine as long as he didn’t try to do anything more than snake his way toward that air vent. Of more concern were those razor-sharp shards of broken glass from the French doors that had fallen into the mud beneath them. Also the rubble of rough-edged granite fieldstones strewn down there. But Molly, who was all exposed elbows and knees, didn’t complain. So neither did he.

The fingers of her outstretched hand found the foundation of the house before them. Sniffling, Molly flicked on the Maglite, cupping its narrow beam with her hand to prevent the troopers from seeing it.

The vent was three feet to their left. When they’d wormed their way over to it Mitch found that it was just as she’d described it—quarter-inch wire mesh on the outside, a plywood cover underneath. It
seemed
big enough to squeeze through. Hey, it had to be.

The wire mesh was staple-gunned in place. It would take him all night to pry out those staples. Instead, Mitch got the wire cutters out of his back pocket. Stretched out on his side there in the mud, he snipped around the edge of the mesh. It was not a quiet job. But there was the wind and the thunder and the rain beating down. So he set off no alarm bells as he snip, snip, snipped away. A soaking wet Molly lay there beside him calmly holding the light as Mitch peeled the mesh back and folded it out of his way. Then he had to pause for a moment to catch his breath. His chest was heaving, sweat pouring from him along with the rain. Molly dug a damp tissue from the pocket of her shorts and dabbed at his forehead just like an operating room nurse. He smiled at her gratefully. If he ever had a daughter he wanted her to be just like Molly. Hell, he was even going to name his first girl Molly. Decided it right then and there.

She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “You’ve got one screw
in each corner. They’re an inch and a half long, if I remember right.”

Nodding, Mitch exchanged his wire cutters for the Baby Terrier. Worked the thin edge of the pry bar between the vent cover and one corner of the frame and gave it a try. The frame was very soft, as promised. He lay there working the pry bar in and out, putting some muscle behind it now. It sure was a good thing he’d been logging time at the Equinox with Liza Birnbaum these past months. The old Mitch would have collapsed in an exhausted, quivering heap of man blubber by now.

The wood let out a groan of protest as it splintered away from the rusty screw. Mitch froze immediately. Molly flicked off the light. And they lay there in silence, listening. Hearing no voices, no footsteps. No response. No one had heard it.

The second screw came away easier. With an outstretched hand Mitch was now able to push the left side of the cover inward by a couple of inches, immediately releasing the moldy smell of the root cellar within. He went to work on the third screw, wedging the Baby Terrier into the punky frame, patiently prying the vent cover from it. And now the third screw came away and he was clutching the inch-thick plywood cover in both hands, working it back and forth until the final screw gave way and the cover came free. He turned it on its side and pulled it out through the vent opening, laying it on the ground next to him. Then he took the light from Molly and shined it downward at what appeared to be a four-foot drop to the cellar’s dirt floor.

Briefly, Mitch thought he heard a faint moan coming from in there somewhere. But it was raining so hard on the decking overhead that he couldn’t be sure. He put the Maglite in his mouth and plunged headfirst through the open vent. His head and shoulders made it easily. His hips and butt, well, not so much. He had to do some serious wriggling. Got himself snagged on
the splintered wood, but Molly freed him. And he just did manage to squeeze through the opening, thankful for every single ounce he’d taken off.

The only trouble now was that he found himself teetering there on the vent frame. The top half of his body hanging in midair while his legs still flailed around out in the mud with Molly—who decided on her own that what he needed more than anything else was a good, firm shove. So she gave him one.

And that was when Mitch fell in.

A
M
I
TRIPPING
?

That was Des’s first thought. She was just plain imagining it. Had to be. She’d taken a big-time blow to the head. Wasn’t totally with it. Was maybe even drifting in and out of consciousness. She had to expect this sort of thing to happen, didn’t she?