Bad Penny (14 page)

12
Locks

THE ROOM WENT black. As Frank’s eyes adjusted, a wan light appeared on the other side of the room. It was cast on the floor by the tiny furnace pilot flame. Upstairs, Jesus and Shotgun talked about the hospital and urgent care. A few minutes later the back screen door banged shut. Then a vehicle started outside and pulled out. A chair scraped back, someone walked to the sink, turned it on, turned it off, then walked to another part of the house. Someone turned on a TV and tuned into a Spanish station. Someone else laughed.

Frank spoke into the darkness, “Are they having you work in the fields or in the houses?”

“Señor,” the oldest girl said. “We are homeschooled.”

They weren’t. Not by a long shot. They were being transported. Out to the fields in California or the orchards in Washington. Or maybe to some fine buyers who needed someone to wash dishes in the back of their restaurant.

Six kids. What was the going rate for a little slave these days? $800 to $1,200 bucks? They could sell them to individuals, but they’d more likely sell them to a subcontractor that would bid out harvesting services. He’d show up with his crews, including some children like these, and they’d pick the apples and strawberries that the rest of America ate. The contractor might pay them a pittance, tell them they were working off their fee, but it would never work out that way.

There was a long-shot that Jesus was actually transporting these kids to uncles and aunts who had paid for a coyote to bring them over. Maybe even a parent or grandparent who’d preceded them into the land of plenty. But coyote services usually stopped close to the border. And willing kids didn’t need to be locked up in the back of a van with a bicycle chain.

“Someone has these kids trained,” Frank said. And he hated Ed and Jesus even more.

“Dude, what are we going to do?” Tony asked.

“That all depends,” Frank said. This whole time the woman Tony had freed had not spoken a word.

Frank said, “Señorita, you mind telling me why Ed had you in his trunk?”

Silence.

“Do you know where we are?”

No response.

“Habla Inglés?”

“She speaks English,” Tony said.

“Well, buddy, here’s what I think. We’re in a stash house. Those girls over there are being sold up the river. Literally. The one you freed, best bet is they picked her up in Utah. But what’s in Utah? Maybe there’s a small business owner they’re trying to extort. Someone undocumented who doesn’t have his paperwork in order. She’s his daughter. What would they ask? Fifty thousand, a hundred? Is that what this is, Señorita?”

Nothing.

“She wouldn’t tell me nothing,” Tony said. “Then Ed drugged us. He kept calling her his pot of gold.”

Frank said to the woman, “We’re in this together. I personally hate Ed; so the more we work together, the better our chances of getting out of here.”

“Right,” she said.

She obviously didn’t believe him. Didn’t trust him at all.

“At least tell me your name. I’m Frank Shaw. Frank Moses Shaw, actually. The Moses came from my Dad’s grandfather, a wild west preacher who is said to have shot a number of criminals in his time.”

No response.

She was not a happy camper. But then, if Frank had been beaten and stuffed in a trunk, he might not be Mr. Customer Service either. “I’m not the one that put you in the trunk.”

“Does that matter?”

All she knew was that Frank knew Ed; in her mind they could be buddies. It was the old guilt by association. “I’m not involved with Ed. I only know Ed because the great State of California assigned us to be cell mates for a while. That’s my crime; what’s yours?”

“Talking,” she said.

Frank waited, but she didn’t say more. “We’re going to get out,” he said. “The question is whether I take you and those kids with me.”

“You’re just going to break your bands?”

“More or less.”

Tony said, “He was a Green Beret. Those morons upstairs don’t have an idea.”

“There are five of them.”

“They’ll need ten more to make it fair.”

Frank smiled ruefully. If only. One unarmed guy against four or five with guns only worked out in the movies. But he appreciated a little hero worship now and again; besides, the oldest girl needed to believe, or she just might rat him out instead. And Tony needed to believe as well.

Frank said, “In a couple of hours they’ll all be asleep.”

“Should be a piece of cake then,” she said.

This woman had some definite trust issues. Furthermore, she should be scared. Worried. Something. Kidnapped daughters of businessmen don’t act like this. Something else was going on here.

Frank said, “Look, I don’t know what’s between you and them, but I’m fairly certain that the Jesus upstairs isn’t the forgiving type. I suspect this Jesus wants to saw my head off with the serrated edge of a steak knife. You were asleep at the time, but I’m the one that rearranged his face. I’m not too keen on losing my head or any other body part; that’s where I’m coming from.”

“Then it sounds like you’d better get busy,” she said.

“Thanks for the helpful advice,” Frank said. Why didn’t she want to talk? Why does anyone not want to talk? Because you think it won’t get you anywhere. Or you think it might make matters worse.

“You think I’m a plant, don’t you,” Frank said.

No response.

“You’ve got something they want.”

Silence.

That was the only reason to keep her alive. But what she had wasn’t the riddle Frank needed to solve at the moment. He assessed his situation. Jesus was gone to get his nose fixed. Probably took Shotgun with him. That meant there were three men above.

Three was better than five.

The bench he was now zip-tied to appeared to have been built by the same guy who built the bench in the van. The guy had put some thought into it. He’d been a regular Leonardo. Except he hadn’t thought out all the things the Gorozas might attach to this thing. They hadn’t thought, for example, of Frank. If you’re going to engineer, you really need to build things to go above and beyond the regular expected use.

He began to work the mouth of the zip tie binding him to the bench around so he could get at it. These weren’t landscaping ties. They were bigger and built for human restraint. Perfect for scared girls. Perfect for your run-of-the-mill guy.

Frank said, “Jesus has an MS-13 tattoo. The Gorozas are into something big, aren’t they? Meth? Cocaine?”

“You would know,” the woman said.

So she did think he was in cahoots.

Frank slid the locking mechanism of the zip tie around in front of his hands. With a finger he bent the loose end of the tie around his wrists and began to shim it into the lock of the zip tie binding him to the bench. It took some jiggering, and it was tight, but he soon had the end of the one zip tie inside the lock housing of the other, creating a barrier between the teeth of the tie and the lock. He pushed it in a bit further. With the strip between the teeth and the housing, there was no lock holding the tie tight. Frank quietly slid open the tie binding him to the bench.

He stood up, used his teeth to slide the zip tie around his wrists so the lock was facing up. He grabbed the loose end with his teeth and pulled the zip tie as tight as it would go. Then he raised his hands above his head and brought them down hard against his gut, shooting his elbows out like chicken wings. The tie held. He adjusted the lock so it was in the center between his wrists, tightened it, raised his arms again. This time when he came down, the plastic lock broke, making a tiny snap.

“Dude,” Tony said.

“Shush,” Frank said. The fact was that the Stockholm syndrome was real. It didn’t happen all the time, but it happened enough. Just ask a veteran cop who has answered his or her fair share of domestic dispute calls. Ignore the wife and focus on her wife-beating husband, and you just might find a knife in your back. These girls were young. He didn’t want to think about the abuse they’d already suffered. They might be shot up with cocaine or heroin or meth. The last thing he needed was for one of them, in a poor twisted mechanism of self-defense, to warn their captors. It was called operational security.

Same went for the woman. She might be a Goroza herself. Maybe she’d fallen out of favor with the family. Maybe she was a dealer who’d stolen drugs. Maybe she was a meth head and by tomorrow morning would be ready to sell him out for her next hit. The only one he trusted here was Tony.

He bent over and used the end of the now worthless zip tie to shim the two that held his ankles. It was pitch black in the room, so he had to feel his way. When he finished, he sat back in the darkness. It was very dark down here. But it wasn’t quiet; the sound of the TV came right through the floor boards. That was a good thing. He leaned close to Tony and spoke in his ear. “Snap your fingers, and keep snapping them until I say stop.”

Tony began to snap. It was a good masking sound and added to the TV soundtrack.

Tony said, “How—”

“Shush,” Frank replied. “Ancient Chinese secret. Now listen. In about an hour I’m going to get up. Do not trust anyone. If one of the kids or our mystery woman asks about me, you say I’m right here sleeping. Clear?”

“Clear,” Tony said.

“You can stop snapping,” Frank said.

Tony stopped.

“You want to sleep?” Frank asked. “Just lean on my shoulder.”

“I’m not tired,” Tony said.

“Then tell me about your ride with Ed.”

Tony related their abduction and drugging with Benadryl. He described a snippet of one phone conversation he’d heard where Ed told the people on the other line that she’d be ready. But for what Tony couldn’t guess. And she didn’t fill in any blanks.

When Tony ran out of things to say, Frank told him a couple of humorous stories from his days in the service. He wanted to keep Tony’s mind off of the situation. He also wanted some baseline of noise.

About an hour and a half later, he asked Tony to sing.

“Dude,” Tony said.

“Keep it low, nothing that will wake anyone above.”

Tony began to sing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me ha-pee when skies are gray.”

That was not quite what he’d expected. Frank said, “Is this what you and your buddies listen to? No wonder you haven’t got a woman.”

“It’s all I could think of. It’s what Mom used to sing to me when I was little.”

Kim. Holy cow, if she knew what was happening . . .

Frank said, “Sing away, Romeo. Maybe next you can favor us with a medley from
Blue’s Clues
.”

“I’m the map,” Tony said. Then he started back up again.

Frank stood ever so slowly in the pitch black. He felt forward with one foot, and when he was sure he wasn’t going to step on anything, he slowly moved away from the bench.

He moved like he was in extreme slow-motion, like he was some kind of tree sloth. Like a chameleon stalking prey, one ancient leg at a time. It took him ten minutes to get to the stairs. Tony finished “You Are My Sunshine” and began with “The Ants Go Marching One By One Hurrah.”

Frank used the edges of the steps. He used the hand rail. On the third step he creaked, but the rest of the stairs were solid. By the twelfth chorus of ants Frank was at the door. He’d seen through the crack at the bottom of the door on his way up. The light was off in the kitchen, which is where this door led. The TV was in the other room.

It was still running, but it had been some time since Frank had heard any conversation or footsteps from above.

He grabbed the doorknob. It twisted. It hadn’t been locked! This might end up being easier than he thought.

He set himself and prepared to open the door as slowly as he’d crept up here. He pushed, but the door didn’t budge. He pushed harder, but it wasn’t moving. He felt along the door and about six inches above the knob ran across a circular metal plate. The back end of a dead bolt. One without a key slot.

He paused. Dead-bolted doors weren’t impossible. A lot were installed improperly. They needed at least an inch long mortise into the door frame to allow the bolt to lock. If the bolt wasn’t fully extended and locked, you could slip a putty knife in and push the bolt back. Frank didn’t have a putty knife, and he hadn’t seen any tools down in that basement. He could try to kick or ram it in, but he was in no kind of good position to do that. His first attempt would wake the house. If it took more than one try, he’d open the door to find the men upstairs waiting with their guns.

No key hole to pick. No putty knife. No good angle of attack.

He could wait right here until morning. The moment they opened the door he could rush them. But there was a good chance they’d bottle up, and he wouldn’t get the door fully open. If it was him alone, he might risk it. But he couldn’t risk getting shot and leaving Tony downstairs to their devices. He needed something with a lot better odds.

He immediately thought of the bathroom he’d seen and got an idea.

Tony finished the seventeenth chorus of marching ants and started up with “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Frank was pretty sure Kim hadn’t sung that one to him.

He did his tree sloth crawl back down the stairs. He carefully felt his way across the darkness of the basement to the bathroom. He quietly and painstakingly felt around the counter and then in the drawers by the sink until he found what he was looking for.

The fact was that the human body was soft. Eye material was soft. And just about anything could be made into a shank strong enough to penetrate. He’d seen a great variety in Pleasant Valley—melted plastic coffee lids, a long screw, the nub of a pencil. Anything that could be fashioned into a hard, sharp point. He wrapped his fingers around a standard-sized toothbrush, then slipped it in his pocket.

In the main room, Tony was down to thirty-five beers.

Frank exited the bathroom as slowly as he’d entered and slow-walked back toward the bench. About ten feet away, his toe struck an aluminum can. Frank froze, but the can rolled and rolled. The loudest sound in the world.

It finally came to a stop. He paused, waited, and just as he was about to resume his journey, the older girl turned on a small LED flashlight, the kind you might find on a key chain, and shined it across the room. It wasn’t much light, but it was more than enough. She found Frank in a second and lit him up for everyone to see.