Veiled Threat (19 page)

thirty-four

When everyone had welcomed
Katie into the church family, the woman took her from McFarland and walked out. Katie fussed as soon as she left the pastor’s arms. The woman shushed and rocked her. There was too much noise for Giulia to hear their footsteps, but she heard Katie’s cries fade upstairs to—she calculated—a second-floor room on the left.

McFarland said a blessing over the bread and grape juice before tearing the bread into thirty-two chunks. He kept a chunk and a cup for himself, and two men approached the table to take the serving trays.

Giulia had a wicked desire to debate McFarland about the use of real wine in biblical times, with relevant passages from several places in the Old Testament.
Get your head straight, dummy. Katie’s important, not your snarky desire to smack down this kidnapper.

Everyone ate their morsels and drank their juice in silence. In this only was Giulia reminded of an actual church service. At the same time, she admitted her bias. Even though she’d been to many Masses and other church services in nontraditional venues, the Cradle Catholic in her still thought of “church” as a stone building with high windows, a Tabernacle, and an altar.

She handed her empty cup to the woman next to her, who passed them down the row to the man with the serving tray. The keyboard player began “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

The hard part started after the song. Several men surrounded McFarland to congratulate him on his successful expulsion of Satan from Katie. Giulia knew what was expected of her, so she hung on the outskirts of a group of women, smiling at anyone who looked her way.

Maryjane came over to the group, in hostess mode. “Ladies, this is Regina. She’s new at the resort and needs a spiritual home.”

“Welcome, Regina.”

“You’ll be spoiled for any other church now.”

“Are you in a Godly relationship? My nephew is traveling today, but he’ll be here for Christmas.”

“It’s refreshing to see a young woman who lets the face God gave her shine through.”

Giulia thought,
Cat,
at that last one, since every woman in the circle was wearing makeup. She had no illusions about her own looks—she considered herself attractive but not beautiful—but subtle digs weren’t the Christian thing to do. And that was another comment she knew better than to make.

Instead, she gave polite, neutral responses to everyone, glancing at Maryjane and then lowering her eyes after the older woman’s “Godly relationship” comment. That’s what the Regina who made up the Wrong Man story would have done.

The woman who made the makeup comment put out a hand to touch Giulia’s hair.

“This will sound strange, but you look familiar to me. Do you work in downtown Cottonwood?”

Giulia tamped down panic.
She can’t recognize me like this. Can’t.
“I work the early shift at a coffee shop.”

“No, I don’t think that was it. Is the coffee shop near the theater district?”

Dear Lord, cloud her memory.
“No, I’m sorry.”

“Hmm. I must be thinking of someone else. Someone with very curly hair.” She fingered a piece of Giulia’s new, straight hair. “I blame all memory loss on my kids. They drive me to distraction.”

No one laughed. Maryjane’s smile froze into something decidedly less than companionable. The woman with the eligible nephew stepped into the breach.

“We’re all praying that Maryjane and Pastor’s next adoption petition is approved, aren’t we, Yolanda?”

Yolanda, blushing, nodded with vigor. Maryjane returned the nod and went over to a group of older women sitting near the fireplace.

Yolanda groaned. “I should duct-tape my mouth before I go out in public.”

Giulia didn’t have to pretend to be puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

The woman with the nephew said, “Maryjane and Pastor have been trying for years to have a baby.” She leaned closer to Giulia. “They even snuck over the border to Canada to try some risky procedures, even though Pastor’s father says anything like that is telling God you don’t trust his will. Nothing worked, and they’ve been turned down twice for adoptions.”

Yolanda said, “There’s a prejudice against true believers, you know. We’re not politically correct.”

Giulia dug her fingernails into both palms.
Don’t say a word, Falcone. Not one word.

“So we try not to brag about our kids too much around Pastor and Maryjane,” Yolanda said. “It doesn’t build up the believers to foster jealousy.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Giulia said.

“God takes care of his own,” Yolanda said. “God will make sure there’s a baby in Pastor’s home soon. Look at the good work he’s doing.”

Someone unplugged the Christmas tree. Someone else started turning off the lamps. Two people took the trays and the laundry tub to the kitchen. The kids trooped behind their parents to get coats and boots. Giulia started singing “Let It Snow” in her head—the first song that popped into her mind—to force out the phrase “Stepford wives and kids.” Coming out with random secular Christmas lyrics would earn her less censure, if distraction brought her thoughts out of her mouth.

Maryjane fell into step with her. “What do you think of Valley?”

Giulia sat on her conscience and smiled. “After everything that’s happened, it’s like coming into a warm home after being trapped outside in the snow.”

“That is very sweet. Will you be able to join us on Christmas morning?”

“May I? I’ll be finding another place to stay between now and then, because I can’t stay with … him. It would be so comforting to be among friends on Christmas.”

“Of course you may.” She turned her head and called into the auditorium room, “Phineas? May I invite Regina to Christmas services?”

McFarland came into the hall. “Of course.”

Maryjane tucked her arm through Giulia’s. “Can you follow us to our house? I have printouts of the schedule of services there.”

Giulia’s new talent for easy lies took over. “I really have to get home. It’s after eleven, and I have a part-time day job in addition to working second shift at the Wildflower.”

McFarland actually patted her shoulder. “Then get home before you’re too sleepy to drive. These unlit roads cause too many accidents.” He looked around the hall. “Is everyone out?”

“Just banking the fire, Pastor. Be right there.” The keyboard player ran into the hall, followed by the makeup-comment woman. “We’re the last ones.”

McFarland followed them out and locked the front door. “You four go ahead. Maryjane, let me know when you’re at the gate.”

The keyboard player lit the path with one of those huge camping spotlights. The other woman took Maryjane’s arm and walked ahead with her, their voices too low for Giulia to hear. Giulia wanted to ask what McFarland was doing, but chose the smarter option and walked to the gate in silence. When they all were on the outside of the privacy fence, Maryjane called, “Okay!” She inserted the padlock in its hook and let it dangle.

Giulia heard a chain rattle, then a series of deep barks. McFarland’s voice said something Giulia couldn’t catch. His feet crunched through the snow a moment later and squeezed through the open gate. He said, “Go!” in a sharp, commanding voice. Maryjane slammed the gate and hit the padlock closed. A second later something large galloped along the inside of the fence, barking.

“He protects us,” Maryjane said.

“I see.”
Should I say anything else? Play dumb? Keep with the wide-eyed act?

The keyboard player took the choices out of her hand. “I’m on the early shift this week. I’ll see you all Saturday night.”

“Certainly.” McFarland led the way to the parking area. “Regina, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Giulia shook hands with him and ran to her rented Escort. All the heat had evaporated while she was in the house church. Of course.

Freezing or not, she followed their cars for several blocks. The two cars continued straight onto Cliff Mine Road; she turned left onto a street that led in a more roundabout way to Interstate 376. She pulled into the parking lot of a closed mom-and-pop convenience store and turned off the lights but left the engine running.

She had to do it and it had to be tonight. The church wouldn’t have another service till Saturday—Christmas Eve. The keyboard player said so. Maryjane had said tonight was a special service. Sure, special to celebrate that they were keeping Katie’s ransom and keeping Katie. Bastards.
Sorry, Lord.

If she went back tonight, she’d only have to fight that babysitter for Katie. What if the babysitter was armed? It was possible. Whatever rationalization the McFarlands were using to justify the kidnappings, the fact that they were keeping the children behind a padlocked security fence said it all. She’d bet that the McFarlands, if pressed, could corkscrew a Bible verse to justify their crimes.

She should call Frank and Captain Teddy Bear for help.

No. She could hear them now. Katie wasn’t the only infant with botched extra-finger removal surgery. That wasn’t enough evidence for a warrant. It’d be safer to wait and gather more. Even Katie’s recognition of Giulia wouldn’t be enough. Babies aren’t reliable, they’d say.

Frank probably would believe her. Captain Jimmy might not, but they’d both remind her that she was so determined to get Katie back and shove it in their faces that she wasn’t thinking like a detective. She was thinking like a friend helping a friend.

Tough turkey, Frank
. Besides—the new thought surprised her—what if they planned to give Katie as a Christmas present to some couple approved by their insular little church? There was no guarantee that couple lived around here. The kidnappings in Erie and Akron could prove that. They might be planning to drive Katie somewhere first thing in the morning.

Now. No hesitation. She wasn’t Wonder Woman, but she wasn’t a helpless, obedient drone, either. She was Giulia Falcone, P. I. in training, and she would do this.

She turned on the headlights and drove back to the Amityville Church of Perfect Happiness. It wasn’t till she parked next to the fence, facing out for a quick getaway, that she remembered the guard dog.

thirty-five

Giulia wanted to kick
herself. Where was her brain? Easy: deep in superhero-land. They were using a guard dog and a padlock. Blast.

She used the flashlight on her keychain to look into the glove compartment. Bungee cord. Owner’s manual. Service history log. Spare fuses for the parking lights. Nothing that remotely resembled a cutting tool. Why would there be? Rental-car places don’t want to give means and opportunity to a disgruntled driver with road rage.

The biggest weapon in her purse was a nail clipper. Even if she owned a Swiss Army knife, she wouldn’t know how to pick a lock with it.

Pick a lock.

Her hand dived into the inner pocket of her purse. Gum. Life Savers. Pen.

Paper clip.

How long was it—just two days?—since Sidney had pushed in the file-cabinet lock and Frank had shown them the paper clip method to open it? He’d mentioned that padlocks and bike locks were the same type of lock. She clutched the paper clip in her fist. She had been prepared to pick the padlock on the sous chef’s locker. She could pick this lock.

Next problem: the guard dog. She always had mace in her purse. If it worked on humans, it would work on a dog. Wrong of her to mace an animal that was just doing its job, but she’d do it anyway. She took out her miniature spray can and shook it. Full. Enough to spray the dog going in and coming back out. It had to be enough, because she couldn’t protect Katie and dodge an attack dog.

Do it now, Falcone. No hesitation.

She unhitched the flashlight from her keychain and removed the mace from her purse, leaving the purse in the glove compartment and the keys in the ignition. Fast getaways were just as important as well-planned heists. The absurdity of this plan sent a fit of giggles through her. An often-clueless, repressed, former English teacher and nun was about to MacGyver a padlock with nothing but a large-sized paper clip. She squashed the giggles before opening and closing the car door as quietly as possible. If luck was with her, when the dog barked—because it was going to bark before she could mace it—Katie’s guard would have to leave the room and come to a window in the front of the house to see what was going on. That should be time enough for Giulia to run to the porch and get inside the house.

The babysitter. Giulia was in decent shape, but she wasn’t a fighter. The woman who’d brought Katie in to be baptized was taller than Giulia by three or four inches. Enough to give her an advantage in a hand-to-hand fight. Mace worked on humans and dogs. She could mace her and tie her with the bungee cord. A quick knot, long enough to keep her out of the way while Giulia rescued Katie.

So go. Of course you’re scared. Channel that fear into action.

No cars were within sight or hearing on this out-of-the-way street. Chosen on purpose, no doubt. They didn’t have to worry about the neighbors hearing kidnapped babies crying, because the nearest neighbors were wide patches of trees.

She had to use the flashlight or risk slipping on ice and blowing this whole rescue operation. The tops of the house’s second-floor windows were visible over the fence from this angle; that meant she should assume Katie’s babysitter could look out and see Giulia. She hugged the fence.

Nothing worse than snow tipping into her boots happened between the car and the gate. The easily distracted part of her brain made a mental note to up her vitamin C and zinc intake. She shined the light on the padlock. Basic knockoff Yale model, no bells or whistles. Her teeth took over flashlight duty while she broke the paper clip the way Frank had showed her and Sidney.

Okay. The first piece goes under the wafers. No, pins, I think. Whatever. Which way is up on this thing?
She picked up the lock and aimed the beam of light at its bottom.
There. It goes underneath the pins, L-shape facing up.
She clamped her mouth around the flashlight first. When both hands were free, she inserted the straight piece above the L-shaped piece and maneuvered it in and out. The pins moved just a little, like they were supposed to. Her bare hands protested touching metal in this weather. She ignored them.

Slow. Steady.

She pushed her left index finger on the bottom half to get … torque, that was it. It slipped out but she grabbed it before it got lost in the snow.
Frank was right. I should’ve practiced this.
Her fingers manipulated that piece back into position under the still-caught top half.

Before she put her fingers on the top half, she blew on the tips to get a better grasp of the round end.
It’s too cold out for anyone but Santa and his reindeer.
Next, she was supposed to jog the top part up and down. In theory, that would make the pins move like she was putting in an actual key.

She tried it. Nothing. She slowed herself down and tried again. There. Something moved. The next step was … Right. Push and turn the bottom piece like opening one of those childproof aspirin bottles. Smooth but don’t hurry it.

The pins adjusted to her pressure.
Come on.
She finagled the paper clips another millimeter.
Come on, come on.
More pins adjusted.
She expected a click. Nothing.
One
…
more
…
tweak
…

Click. Pop.
The shank released from the body.

“Yes.” She whispered around the flashlight in her teeth. The pieces of paper clip went into her coat pocket and the mace came out. She unhooked the lock from the gate and flipped open the panel that held the gate to the wall. The mace went into her right hand, the flashlight into her left.

Now.

She rattled the gate. An immediate growl rewarded her. Her index finger slid into position on the spray button. She raised the flashlight in an overhand grab to the level of a large dog’s head. Another gate rattle. Another growl, nearer this time.

She took a quick breath, said a prayer to Saint George, and shouldered open the gate.

Rapid, loud, deep barks came toward her along with heavy legs galloping. Her head snapped to the left. German shepherd. She adjusted the flashlight, saw the glint from the dog’s eyes, and sprayed. The dog yelped and checked its run, skidding on the snow. Giulia found its eyes and sprayed again. The dog hit the ground whimpering, rolling in the snow and rubbing its face with its paws.

Giulia ran up the shoveled path and onto the porch. The old, peeling door was fitted with a shiny new deadbolt. She bit off another curse. Behind her, the dog still whimpered and thrashed, but she had no idea how long the spray’s effect would last.

She leaped to the first window and shined the light on the catch. Just as she hoped: old house, old single-pane window, old-fastened catch. Before she thought about it too long, she took a page from TV detective shows and smashed the pane nearest the catch with her elbow. Glass tinkled to the wooden floor inside. She reached in with her bare hand and opened the catch without cutting herself. Her luck was in: no glass cut her as she pulled out her hand, either. She pushed up the bottom half of the window and climbed inside. Her feet hit the floor with tiny thumps and she turned right away to close the window.

Only then did she notice her heart was beating on triple fast-forward. Her breath came in rapid pants and the flashlight jerked like a strobe.

She flicked it off and sat on the window ledge till her body returned to near-normal. When the blood stopped pounding in her ears, she listened for footsteps. Nothing. The only sound was the fainter whining of the guard dog coming through the hole in the window.

She pushed off the ledge. The mini-flashlight jerked only a little this time when she turned it on.

The stairs would be on her left once she got out of this room. She aimed the flashlight in front of her feet again. A good thing, too, because she was about to trip over a tangle of chair and table legs. She veered left and stopped at the door.

Dear patron saint of silence, whoever you are, please muffle this door.

The latch picked up to let the pocket door slide on its track. She moved it an inch. Silence. Six inches. Still silence. Twelve inches and she wormed through the opening, angling her breasts through one at a time and clenching her butt cheeks so they wouldn’t bang the frame.

She left it open as a secondary escape route, but went straight to the front door and pushed back the deadbolt. The new hardware was well-oiled. As she suspected, the original keyhole had no key—the church relied on the deadbolt in here and the padlock out there. And the poor dog.

Stairs now. They were wide and swept clean. She wondered if Katie’s babysitter was forced to clean the house they were both locked into.

She turned off her flashlight.
Yes.
Light shone low upstairs, near the floor. Another quick on and off. Fifteen steps to the second floor. She trailed one hand on the banister and stepped up. No creaks. Another. Good. A third.
Cree—
She stopped. When the second-floor doors stayed closed, she raised her right foot and set it on the next step. Silence. She raised her left foot.
Creak
. Much quieter the second time.

Another creak on step nine, but that was all until she stood on the second floor. Halfway down on the left, warm yellow light fanned out from underneath a closed door. She walked to the door with soft steps. This floor didn’t creak. Her right hand felt in her coat pocket for the mace, her left hand in that pocket for the bungee cord. The plan was simple. Throw open the door, pinpoint the babysitter, aim and shoot. Like the guard dog, she’d be incapacitated long enough for Giulia to bungee her legs. Her hands would be occupied with scrubbing the mace deeper into her eyes, as she thought she was wiping them clean.

Big risk: walking past the door so she could turn the doorknob with her left hand. If she jumped to the other side, the noise would give her away. If she walked past, the babysitter might see her boots break the light. She weighed her agility against the potential noise and opted for two quick, light steps to the other side of the door.

Mace ready. Assume she heard the steps or saw the boots. Open the door.

She turned the handle.

BANG.