Dead of Winter Page 25
Those words hit her like an extension cord nunchaku to the heart.
“But if he is sending them and if he’s really been kidnapped,” Luther goes on, “his captor probably doesn’t know he has a phone. If we send a text and the notifications aren’t silenced, the alert will give it away.”
She swallows hard. “Okay. You’re right. So what do we do?”
“I’m going to relay this to law enforcement to see if they can track the signal.”
“But won’t that take a while? Don’t you have to go through a lot of red tape?”
“Unfortunately, it can be a complicated process, but—”
“Isabella!” a voice trills from downstairs.
Pandora.
“What is it?” she calls back through clenched teeth.
“You have a visitor!”
“That’s Drew,” she tells Luther, hurrying out into the hall. “He’s coming to help us.”
But when she looks down the stairs, she sees a snowy, stone-faced Lieutenant John Grange looking up at her.
* * *
Locked into Elvis’s truck, Misty glances down at the small duffel bag by her feet. It’s unzipped, the contents spilling out as if someone hastily put something in or took something out. She sees a swath of white fabric studded with sequins and crystal ornamentation.
This can’t be the missing gold Spirit showed her. It isn’t hidden, and it looks brassy even from this vantage.
An image drops into her brain, and she sees him on a stage, wearing a studded white jumpsuit.
She turns to Elvis, wheezing behind the wheel.
“So you’re an Elvis impersonator.”
He gasps—perhaps more in surprise than from his asthma—and fumbles with his inhaler, still aiming the gun at her.
He sucks the albuterol into his lungs, holds it there, exhales, and asks, “How’d you know that?”
From where he is, he can’t see the open duffel on the floor. Maybe he’s forgotten it’s there.
Misty tilts her head and taps her temple. Let him think she’s used her psychic abilities. No harm in maintaining some semblance of upper hand.
He starts the engine. The windshield wipers sway into action, and music blasts from the radio. Elvis Presley—the real Elvis—is singing “Jailhouse Rock.”
The sound is deafening. He adjusts the volume.
Now as if from a great distance, she hears ringing slots, coins hitting a metal tray.
“You work in a casino.”
Bingo. He says nothing, but she sees the answer on his fleshy face.
“It’s in Canada,” she goes on.
Right again. His eyebrows rise above the rims of his golden aviator glasses.
That part was a lucky guess based on Ginger.
“Your turn,” she says. “Tell me about my son.”
“Not yet. Tell me what else you know.”
“About you?”
“About anything.”
The truck begins to move toward the parking lot entrance, the road, and maybe a chance to escape. She can’t count on anyone to come to her rescue, though. She’s on her own, same as always. Better make the most of what she’s got.
“You’re smart,” she tells Elvis. “You’ve had a hard life.”
He shrugs. “Who hasn’t?”
Yes, and who hasn’t overcalculated their own intelligence? You tell someone they’re smart, and they’re going to agree, regardless of actual IQ.
“What else you got?”
“I know Ginger has a nasty temper,” she tells him. “I know you don’t trust her, and you shouldn’t. She’s not a good wife.”
“Wife?”
Remembering Ginger’s gaudy wedding ring, she’d thought it safe to assume she’s somebody’s wife. Apparently, not Elvis’s.
“What do I care about what kind of wife she is? Anyway, I think you read that word wrong. You should have said widow. What else do you know about her?”
“She likes the finer things in life. She likes to spend money, you know? If it’s other people’s money, so much the better.”
“It’s all other people’s money.”
“She doesn’t have much guilt over that, though. No guilty conscience for Ginger. She doesn’t care who she hurts. Not like you,” she adds. “You’re a good person.”
Smart move, appealing to his ego to head off suspicion that she’s making it all up. No way he’d accuse her of that now that she’s noted his noble efforts.
“I don’t hurt anyone if I can help it,” he agrees.
“That’s why you and she will never see eye to eye. She doesn’t respect you. You need to cut all ties. Get away from her. From all of this.”
He’s impressed. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“I know. That’s why I’m saying it. This is the right decision. Time to get away, make a fresh start. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now it’s your turn to tell me what I need to know. Tell me about my son. You saw him today. When? Where?”
He looks ahead at the snow-blown road. “Hey, I’m not the one who took him away, okay?”
That phrasing . . .
“Someone took him away?”
“Not me!”
“I know!” she shouts. “Did you see someone take my son?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I did.”
It’s as if the asthma has seeped into Misty’s body and sucked the air from her lungs.
“Who?” she manages to ask.
“I don’t know. Some lady pulled him into her car and drove away.”
Chapter Eighteen
Pandora, being Pandora, has trailed Grange to the stairs, peppering him with questions.
“Lieutenant, has something happened? Are we in danger here at Valley View? Are you looking into the missing lad? Are you here to make an arrest?”
On the top step, he turns to level a look at her, down on the landing. “No.”
“To which question?”
“All of them. Would you mind waiting downstairs, please, Ms. Feeney, while I speak with Ms. Jordan and her son?”
“If you’re here about the lad, I may have pertinent information for you.”
He turns to Bella as though Pandora has conveniently evaporated. “Which information is she talking about?”
“She had a vision about—”
“Thank you, Ms. Feeney, but not right now.”
“Lieutenant, this is urgent. I keep hearing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ in my head.”
“I appreciate your sharing that, and I’ll get back to you when I’m finished up here, or”—he lowers his voice—“sometime. Or never. I don’t have time for this.”
Bella looks at Luther, standing in the doorway of the Rose Room.
“I do,” he says. “You can tell me about it, Pandora. Hold that thought for a few minutes, and I’ll come down and talk to you.”
“Is that you, Luther? I didn’t realize you were back. How delightful. Were you able to shovel my path?”
“Not just yet,” he calls, then quietly tells Grange, “I’ll go keep her occupied, Lieutenant, while you take care of business.”
That isn’t quite the case, Bella knows. Luther isn’t so quick to write off Pandora and her visions.
“Thanks, pal. Remind me to take a bullet for you some day.”
Luther flashes a mirthless grin. “First I need to show you something. Mind stepping in here before you talk to Max?”
Bella excuses herself as Luther leads Grange into the Rose Room to show him Jiffy’s text messages.
She finds Max awake now, kneeling in front of the window just as Chance had earlier, staring out at the lake.
“What are you doing, Max?”
“Just thinking about a golden treasure.”
“What about it? Did you find one?”
“No, Jiffy did. It was right here in our yard, and—” Max clasps a hand over his mouth. “Never mind.”
“Sweetie, I need to know about the treasure.”
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“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
“Did Jiffy ask you to keep it?”
He shrugs.
“Right now,” she says, “it’s not a good idea to keep any secrets for Jiffy.”
“But it’s about a Christmas present.”
“I still need to know.”
“Nope. You can’t trick me, buster!”
“This is different, Max. It’s serious.”
“You can’t trick me, buster!” he repeats and presses his lips together.
Okay. For now, anyway. Bella grabs his bathrobe, hanging from a hook behind the door.
“Here, put this on.”
“Why?”
“Because the house is drafty,” she tells him, feeling the chill despite Pandora’s tweak on the thermostat downstairs.
Max shakes his head. “I’m too hot.”
Maybe he does have a fever. He should be tucked into bed resting without another care in the world. But if he can share anything that might help locate his friend . . .
She convinces him to wear his robe and hands him his slippers.
As he pulls them on, she thinks of Pandora downstairs, trying to jam her oversized foot into Bella’s own slipper. What, she wonders, will Luther make of her revelations?
Four golden rings . . .
“O Little Town of Bethlehem” . . .
A man in trouble . . .
“Hey, a guy,” Max announces, and for a moment, Bella thinks he’s gone Lily Dale on her at last. Then she realizes he’s looking behind her and turns to see Grange standing in the doorway.
“Are you Max?” The question isn’t quite as point-blank as his usual style, perhaps softened by the sight of a small, runny-nosed boy in robe and slippers. “I’m Lieutenant Grange.”
Grange holds out his hand just as Max sneezes three times into his own and quickly retracts the handshake.
“Gesundheit, gesundheit, gesundheit.”
“Good job, Mom.” Max wipes his nose on his sleeve and looks at the holster at Grange’s hip. “You’re that good guy with the real gun. You met me and Jiffy when the bad guy locked us in the cellar, remember?”
Grange nods. “I always remember brave little boys.”
“We were little then, but now we’re both almost seven. Jiffy will be seven first, then me. How old are you?”
“I’m, uh . . . older.”
“How old, by the way?”
“Old. Listen, about Jiffy . . .” He pauses to look at Bella. “Can Max and I talk for a few minutes?”
“Sure. But I’m staying.”
Resigned, he turns back to Max. “Do you have any idea where Jiffy might have run off to?”
“Well, he didn’t run off. He was kidnapped.”
“What makes you say that?”
“My brain makes me say it.”
Grange glances over at Bella.
She keeps her expression neutral. You get what you deserve when you insert yourself into a six-year-old’s bedroom and start firing questions.
“So you think Jiffy was kidnapped?” He pulls out a pad and pen.
“No.”
Grange looks up. “No?”
“I know he was.”
“How?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“A long time ago. Plus also yesterday.”
“I don’t understand.”
Max explains about Jiffy’s vision that he was going to be kidnapped during a snowstorm. Grange writes it down.
“So it sounds like Jiffy was planning this for a while, right, Max?”
“I guess so.”
Bella’s heart sinks. Two homicides, a raging storm, and he’s going to believe it’s some kind of prank?
“So Jiffy told you about his plans. Who else did he—?”
“They weren’t his plans!” she cuts in. “Right, Max?”
“Right, they were the kidnapper’s plans.”
Grange writes on his pad.
Max sniffles, reaches for a tissue, and finds the box empty. “Can I go get some more tissues and have Lucky Charms and watch Ninja Zombie Battle?”
“Soon.”
“I can watch Ninja Zombie Battle soon?”
Bella sighs. “We’ll see.”
“But—”
“Max,” Grange says firmly, “did Jiffy tell you anything else about the kidnappers?”
“Like what?”
“Names.”
“How would he know their names? Kidnappers are strangers.”
“Not always.”
“Do you know any?”
“Personally? No. Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Who else did Jiffy tell about the kidnapper ‘dream’?” Grange might as well gesture air quotes around the word.
“I don’t know. Pro’lly not his mom.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks that when you dream stuff it comes true because she’s a medium. But that doesn’t always happen. Like, if you dream your dead dad comes back alive, sometimes he doesn’t.”
Oh, Max. Longing to gather him into her arms, Bella stands and rests her hands on his shoulders.
“Moms don’t want their boys to be kidnapped,” he goes on, “even if they can be famous.”
“What do you mean?” Lieutenant Grange asks a little too casually.
“Like, when the TV guys come to talk about how Jiffy got kidnapped, all the people who tell them he’s a really great kid will get to be famous, but not as famous as Jiffy. Oh, and he’s super brave, too. He said not to forget that part.”
“Guess your pal thought this through pretty well. He sounds like the kind of guy who enjoys the spotlight, huh, Max?”
“You mean flashlights? He can make shadows on the wall with his hands like a duck and a dog. I can’t make a dog, but I can show you the duck if you want. My mom has a flashlight, but she doesn’t like us to use it because it’s so heavy we might kill each other if we bump ourselves in the head.”
“Do you think Jiffy wanted everyone to think he’d been kidnapped?”
“I don’t think he’s kidnapped. I know he is.” He sniffles and turns pleading eyes to Bella. “Can we go downstairs now?”
“Max isn’t feeling well, Lieutenant. Can we please take a break?”
He holds up a finger. “In a minute. Let’s look at this from a different angle, Max.”
“Look at your finger?”
Grange doesn’t catch, or isn’t charmed by, the impish glint in Max’s eye. “At the situation. Where does Jiffy like to go after school?”
“My house.”
“But you didn’t see him today?”
“I’m sick so I can’t have playdates, and Jiffy’s kidnapped so he can’t either.”
“But did you see him?”
“No. I’m sick and that’s why I need to get a Kleenex and—”
“Got it.” Grange’s jaw muscles clench. “What does Jiffy say about his dad?”
“He says he’s in the army. And one time, they went way to the top of the Empire State Building together.”
“Anything else?”
Max puffs his cheeks, juts his lower lip, and exhales heavily. “Can I be done now?”
“I need you to help me find Jiffy, Max. Okay?”
“Well, I can’t. He said he would text me where he is if my mom let me have a phone, but she won’t. Can you tell her to?”
“Turns out Jiffy’s mom didn’t let him have a phone either, Max,” Bella says. “His dad gave it to him, probably so that they can stay in touch.”
The moment those last words leave her mouth, she regrets them. Max would give anything—not for a cell phone, but to have his dad back, even on the other side of the world.
“Does Jiffy call and text his father a lot?” Grange asks Max.
“I don’t know.”
“What about his mom? Does he call and text her?”
“She lives in his house, so pro’lly not.”
“What kind of mom
is she?”
“Busy.” Max shrugs. “And she lets him do stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like everything. Fun stuff.”
Bella, on the receiving end of Max’s pointed look, remembers the snowboard situation that was, just yesterday, her biggest concern.
“I think it’s time to take a break and eat something, Max. Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll get you a bowl of Lucky Charms, and Lieutenant Grange and I can talk to the others while you eat it.”
“Which others?”
“Luther, our guests and Pandora, and . . .”
Drew.
Drew will be here soon, she promises herself, looking toward the blinding powdery gales beyond the window.
* * *
How could someone have abducted her son right out from under Misty’s nose? It’s impossible to fathom, and yet . . .
It wasn’t right under your nose.
Your nose is right under your eyes, and they weren’t watching Jiffy.
“Who was the woman?” she asks Elvis, her voice rising shrilly above the real Elvis singing on the radio about suspicious minds.
“How should I know? What do you think, we were standing around shaking hands and exchanging phone numbers?”
Driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gun, Elvis shakes his sideburned, slicked-back, greasy, balding head at her perceived stupidity.
“Okay, then what—?”
“Oh, no, you don’t. It’s my turn. Tell me more about—”
“Oh, no it’s not!” Misty’s hands curl into fists. “I need to know when this happened, where it happened, how it happened.”
He opens his mouth to argue. She fixes him with a glare, and he shrugs, guiding the truck along a road that hasn’t seen a plow in a little too long. Even with four wheel drive, the vehicle is struggling.
“It happened this morning. Afternoon, maybe.”
“You don’t know?”
“Noon. Say noon.”
“You say noon,” she snaps, “if that’s what you mean.”
“Around then. I saw the kid.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Where outside?”
“Hanging around down where the road branches off from the gate.”
“What was he doing?”
“What do kids do? He was playing. Jumping around, shaking tree branches so the snow would come pouring down, making snow angels, throwing snowballs.”