Blackmail (18 page)

T
he tarp ripped away.

Jon squinted his eyes against the sudden light, even though dusk drew near. The tailgate dropped with a heavy thud. Kinnard leveled a gun at him. Not just any gun, but a forty-five Desert Eagle. Mighty powerful handgun. Powerful and deadly. All logic and reason fled, replaced with raw fear.

“Slide down here. Don't try nothin' funny or I'll shoot you.” Tobacco spittle hung in the corner of the man's mouth.

Complying, Jon forced his sore and stiff muscles into moving as he'd been instructed. When he reached the tailgate, Kinnard grabbed him by the collar and jerked him into a sitting position.

Jon swallowed against the gag in his mouth.
Dear God, I'm not ready to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this. And not before I get to see Sadie at least one more time.

“Get on yer feet.” The barrel of the handgun wavered as Kinnard leaned to the side and spat.

Inching to the edge of the tailgate, Jon flexed his feet. He had no idea how long he'd been out, or riding for that matter, but his feet tingled. He jumped to the ground. His legs wouldn't support his weight and he fell onto his side.

Kinnard laughed and nudged him with the toe of his steel-toed boot. “Some big man you are. Can't even stand up. Ya wimp.”

Jon brought his knees up to his chest and rolled until he was on his knees. Kinnard jerked him up by the scruff of his neck.
Jon swayed for a moment when Kinnard released him, then steadied. It felt like pins and needles shot through his feet, but he refused to fall again. Not before this man.

Lord, give me strength.

He glanced around, trying to get a sense of where they were. The bayou, that much was certain. Drops of water dripped from the Spanish moss draped over the cypress tress. The air smelled like rain and fish, both clean and polluted at the same time. A little wood-planked shack nestled against trees, as if tucked into a forest. He hadn't a clue where he was; he never ventured far out of town and surely not out into the bayou.

Kinnard waved the gun in front of his face again. “I'm gonna remove the rag from your mouth. You scream or start talkin' without me askin' you a question, it goes back in or I shoot ya. Got it?”

He nodded. As if he'd scream. Who'd hear him out here?

With the roughest motion possible, Kinnard ripped the rag from his mouth and tucked it into his pocket. Jon wet his lips, trying to get rid of the grease taste. By the looks of the rag, Kinnard used it to clean tools or something. That alone was enough to make him want to gag, but he was too scared Kinnard would shove it back in his mouth if he retched.

“Now ya wanna tell me why you was snoopin' 'round my place?”

Jon's mouth was still dry. He swallowed hard.

“I asked ya a question.” Kinnard leaned and spat again. “I want an answer.”

Oh, God, what do I say? Give me the words.

“Well, I came by to ask you a few more questions, then remembered I had an appointment.”

He never saw the back of Kinnard's hand coming. It connected with the side of his head, the sheer force pushing him to the ground again. The sharp taste of metal filled his mouth. Jon rested his head in the damp ground and spat. Blood painted the grass red.

“Boy, don't ya lie to me.” Kinnard grabbed Jon by the collar
again and yanked him upright in one fluid motion. “Ya ran when you saw me.”

Jon wobbled as he fought to keep his balance. “You started chasing me.”

“Because ya ran.” Kinnard pointed the gun right at Jon's head. “Now tell me why ya were nosin' 'round my place. And don't lie this time.”

The front door of the little shack swung open and slammed against the wall. “What's taking you so long—” Lance Wynn froze on the top stair. “What's he doing here? He knows who I am, man.”

Lance Wynn?

“Didn't have a choice. Found him nosin' 'round my yard. He ran.”

“So you brought him
here?
” Lance descended the steps and ambled across the soggy ground. “This ruins everything. No way can we pay him off to keep his mouth shut like we can with Caleb.”

Jon blinked, trying to think. The kid was involved with all this? Why? Why would he set out to sabotage his father's business? Especially when he was trying to get back in his father's good graces?

To get back in his father's good graces.

“Don't ya worry 'bout that. I can handle this.” Kinnard spat again.

Now Jon understood. Lance started all this to get his father in a bad position. Then, he'd sweep in and
help
in the situation and the sabotages would stop. He'd be the saving grace to his father and get back in his father's will.

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Why were you poking around his house?”

“That's jest what I asked.” Kinnard nudged Jon with the gun. “And we want the truth this time.”

Maybe the truth wouldn't be so bad. “Well, I came because I wanted to talk to you again, follow up on our previous conversation.”

Lance glanced at his partner. “You talked with him before?”

Kinnard spit. “We talked about the oil company.”

“What'd you tell him?” Lance groaned.

“That's not important.” Kinnard refocused on Jon. “What's important is what ya were doin' at my place.”

“I wanted to talk with you some more. But before I got to the steps, I heard a dog barking out back. It sounded like it was coming from your yard, so I thought it was your dog. And then I heard voices, so I figured you were out back and wouldn't hear me if I knocked.”

Kinnard nodded. “Yeah, so?”

Jon swallowed. “Well, I figured I'd just go around back and talk with you, but then my cell rang. My girlfriend called and I needed to go to her place, so I turned around and headed back to my car.”

Lance glared at Kinnard again. “And because of
that,
you tied him up and brought him here? How stupid. He didn't know anything and now he does.”

Kinnard waved the gun. “Then why'd ya run?”

Jon shrugged. “When you came out the front door, I realized I'd been wrong and it was probably your neighbor I heard in the back. I wanted to explain and talk to you, but you lunged off the steps and came at me. What else was I supposed to do?” He nodded at the Desert Eagle. “And looks like I was smart to run from you, don't you think?”

Please, God, let them not ask me any more questions.

“You moron.” Lance punched Kinnard's shoulder. “You've made a mess of everything. First Daniels, now this.”

Kinnard pivoted to face Lance. “I said I'll take care of it.”

“Just like you did with Daniels? What about Caleb in there? He's not turning like I thought he would.” Lance jabbed his thumb toward the shack. “Are you gonna take care of him, as well?”

Jon shifted and bent his knees a little. He swayed, but regained his balance. And realized that the rope around his wrists had loosened somewhat. Must've been the continuous falls.

“I said I'd take care of it.” Kinnard spat, still holding the gun. “I've already made adjustments to the original plan.”

“Like what?” Lance wore an incredulous sneer.

“Well, it was plain to me that yer daddy wasn't gonna welcome ya back. Not after you talked about his wife like that on TV.”

Lance's eyes clouded. “What'd you do?”

“Don't you worry 'bout it, boy. I'm takin' care of ya.” Kinnard chuckled, the rough, forced sound sending chills down Jon's back. “Makin' sure ya get what ya wanted.”

“Yeah, right.” Lance glanced at Jon. “Well, Mr. Garrison, I'm real sorry you got messed up in all this.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You know enough that you're now a liability.” Lance shook his head and shot his partner a withering look. “Thanks to this
cooyon
here, you know way too much.”

Goose bumps pimpled Jon's arms despite the warm breeze.
Dear God, don't let them kill me. Please.

 

If she didn't hear something soon, she'd climb the walls.

While Sadie appreciated Pastor and Felicia being with her and praying with her, the idleness drove her crazy. And the FBI agent in the living room seemed to have made himself totally at home. He'd come in and took a soft drink from the icebox without asking and now sat reclined in her chair in front of the television. Nice to know her tax dollars were going to such good use.

A couple of ladies from the church had come by and dropped off casseroles and bread. Felicia and Pastor had finally given up trying to get her to eat, and sat at the kitchen table eating silently.

Sadie sat on the patio, staring at the early night's sky. The rain had cooled the air some, making being outdoors bearable. Yet she couldn't help but remember the last time she'd sat on the patio—when Jon was with her. She hurt all the more at the memory.

Dear God, please keep Jon and Caleb safe and return them to me.

She hated repeating the same prayer over and over, but that's the only thing that would rise in her mind.

The ringing of the phone had Sadie jumping out of her chair and rushing into the kitchen. She snatched the cordless, not caring if the agent in the living room was ready or not. “Hello.”

“Sadie, it's Georgia. I hate to bother you, but it's an emergency.”

Probably another facility down. “I can't deal with anything at work right now. I'm sorry, but I just can't.”

“No, it's Deacon.”

“What?”

“Candy-Jo called the board of directors, who have been calling everyone. Deacon was rushed to the emergency room a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, no. What happened?” Sadie eased onto the bar stool.

“She said they'd just finished eating supper when all of a sudden, Deacon got sick. Bad sick. He kept having spasms that wouldn't stop. She got him into the car and rushed him to the hospital.”

Why did everything bad have to happen at once? “How long ago?”

“From what's been relayed down to me, about two hours ago.”

Sadie glanced at the clock. Deacon to the hospital two hours ago. Jon missing for at least three hours. Caleb missing for about six. What was she supposed to do?

Father, help me. What do I do?

“Candy-Jo's beside herself. Called her sisters over from N' Awlins to come.”

“Has anyone thought to call Lance?”

“After his and Deacon's latest blowup, I'm guessing not.”

“It's his father, he should be notified.”

“Want me to do that?”

Sadie thought for a moment, recalling that Caleb had been out with Lance. She should probably tell him that Caleb was missing. Maybe he would have an idea. “No, I'll do it.”

“You need me to get you the number?”

“No, I should have it in my PDA.”

Georgia sighed over the phone. “Have you heard anything about your brother yet?”

“Nothing.” And each minute that flew off the clock felt like an eternity.

“I'm praying for you, girl.”

“Merci.”

“I'm going to head to the hospital. I'll call you when I know something.”

“Thanks, Georgia.”

“Call my cell if you hear anything about your brother. Bye.”

Sadie hung up the phone and bent over the counter.

What was going on around here? What was she missing?

“G
et inside.” Kinnard shoved Jon, making him fall yet again.

But this time, Jon was ready for it and wiggled his wrists. If the moron kept pushing him down, he'd be able to get his hands free.

“Stupid, he can't when you duct taped his ankles together. How's he supposed to walk?” Lance glared at Kinnard. “Cut the tape.”

“I don't exactly have a pair of scissors here, boy.” Kinnard spat, nearly missing Jon's head.

Lance sighed as he pulled out a pocketknife and bent. The sawing motion at his ankles allowed Jon to maneuver little inches at a time, all the while twisting his wrists. Just a little bit more…

Straightening, Lance pocketed the knife and nodded at his partner. “Help him stand up.”

Kinnard grabbed Jon's upper arm and snapped him to standing. Jon wobbled a moment, the blood rushing to his feet making it painful to stand.

“Come on,” Lance said.

Not one to remain silent, Kinnard waved the gun at Jon. “And don't try no funny stuff, either.”

Right. With a redneck having a gun trained on him? Not hardly.

Jon's steps were slow, each one painstaking as hot stabs shot up his calves. He grit his teeth and did his best to follow Lance. If only he could get Lance alone, surely he'd be able to talk some sense into him.

They reached the stairs, Lance still leading the way. Jon
tested the rope against his wrists. Definitely more slack, but not enough to squeeze free. If he'd been knocked down one more time…And then it hit him. He didn't have to be knocked down at all.

He stepped up onto the first stair, then let himself go slack. Jon toppled off the stair to the right, landing hard against a rock and rolling. He grunted.

“Klutzy man.” Kinnard sneered and chuckled.

“You don't know anything.” Lance peered down at Jon. “You okay, Mr. Garrison?”

“Yeah. Just give me a minute.” A really long one, too, because the rock he'd fallen on was now under him, right about where the rope around his hands was.

He shifted slightly, rubbing the rope against the rock. The binding loosened. If he could just stall for a few more moments…Jon semirolled. “Let me catch my breath for a second, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Garrison.”

Kinnard spat again. “Stop callin' him that.”

Jon worked the rope against the rock.

“That's how I know him. Get over it.”

“Actin' all respectful now, huh?”

The rope loosened.

“Shut up.”

Kinnard waved the gun like a kid with a flag at a Fourth of July parade. “Don't talk to me like that, boy. Ya forget who yer talkin' to?”

The rock sliced against Jon's wrist, but he swallowed against the sting. The rope loosened even more.

“Just help him up.” Lance sighed and crossed his arms.

Without warning, Kinnard tugged Jon to standing. “Now git up them stairs. And no funny stuff.”

No kidding. Jon took the steps slowly. Did he dare fall again? He glanced over his shoulder. Kinnard held the gun trained on his head. Nope, no more falling. That was okay—
Jon rotated his wrist. He might be able to squeeze a hand free, if he worked at it. But not until Kinnard moved from behind him, of course.

A step later and he stood beside Lance on the little landing in front of the door.

Lance pushed the screen door open and motioned for Jon to precede him into the room.

Room
was too much of a word for the space. Maybe eight feet by ten, the area had a threadbare couch with springs sticking out facing a coffee table that had probably been around since the early sixties. It faced two hardback chairs. A single lightbulb hung uncased from the ceiling.

Caleb Frost sat bound in one of the chairs.

As Lance nudged Jon toward the other chair, Jon gave Caleb a look that pleaded for him not to say anything. If they found out Jon was personally involved with Sadie and Caleb, all hope for talking Lance into letting Caleb go would just fly out the window. Well, if he called the big square hole in the back wall of the room a window.

Lance lifted Jon's hands slightly to maneuver his arms over the back of the wooden chair.

Please don't let him realize the rope is loose.

When he was done, without inspecting the rope, Lance removed the rag from Caleb's mouth. “Well, looks like our parole officer has come to make a home inspection, Caleb. Isn't that nice of him?”

Caleb coughed and gasped for air. When he lifted his gaze, he wore the attitude he'd displayed the first time Jon had met him, staring at Lance with the coldest eyes Jon had ever seen on the boy. “Yeah, dude. Right. Like he's so my favorite person. Why'd you bring him out here? To torment me?”

Lance chuckled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Always telling you to do better, to try harder…all the stupid stuff.”

“You forgot him harping on every little thing, following up on you to make sure you're doing what he thinks you should be.”

“Yeah.”

Kinnard slammed the screen door shut. “Nice that ya boys get to play catch-up, but we got some things to decide.”

Caleb turned his cold stare on Kinnard. “Yeah, dude, what's that?”

“Wasn't talkin' to ya.” Kinnard spat on the dirty wooden floor and jerked his head in Lance's direction. “Me and the kid here got some stuff to talk 'bout.”

Caleb's Adam's apple bobbed several times over and sweat glistened on his upper lip. “Well, don't let me keep you.”

Kinnard glared. “Come on, kid.” He flipped on an outdoor floodlight and stomped from the shack.

Lance shrugged and followed.

Their voices carried as they clomped down the steps and moved away into the darkness until Jon couldn't hear them. “Are you okay?” He worked against the rope as he whispered to Caleb.

“I'm fine. How'd you get caught up in this?”

“Shh. Keep your voice to a whisper.” Jon strained his ears. Only the lingering notes of Kinnard's voice drifted back. “I figured out Kinnard was involved.”

“I don't even know the dude, but from what Lance told me, he's a major mess-up.” Caleb paused and coughed. “Lance said that his initial plan didn't involve anybody getting hurt, but Kinnard made mistakes.”

Jon had figured Kinnard too dense to plan anything elaborate, that Lance had to be the brains of the unlikely duo. “I overheard Kinnard talking to Lance on the phone. He admitted he'd shot Harold Daniels. Although he said it was an accident, he was still the one who killed that man.”

“Wonder whose bright idea it was to use that to blackmail my sister? Can you believe Lance actually thought I could be bought to play along with this scheme of theirs? Like I'd do that to Sadie! Who would think I'd go along with this blackmail idea?”

“Had to be Lance. I don't think Kinnard would've thought that quickly.” The rope was still too tight to squeeze a hand out.

Caleb coughed again. “Then that means Lance had to be there. And they had to have a camera with them.”

Jon replayed the phone conversation he'd overheard. “Not necessarily. Kinnard said he'd killed Daniels by accident when he was trying to shoot a facility and damage it. But that isn't where Daniels's body was found.”

“So, you think Kinnard called Lance and had him help move the body, take the picture and send the letter to Sadie?” Caleb shook his head. “I don't think Lance has the stomach for that.”

“You'd be surprised. Money can sometimes make a stomach cast-iron.” If he could just get a little more slack in the rope…

“Maybe, but I just don't see it.”

“Could be that Lance thought about it, brought Kinnard the camera, but Kinnard did all the dirty work.”

“That sounds more likely. I still don't understand why.”

“Because Lance needs to get back on his daddy's good side to get written back into the will.” A little more movement made the rope loosen. Was it enough?

“Well, that makes sense now. Lance was ticked about his father writing him out because of his new stepmom.”

“How do you even know Lance?”

“We were in juvie together.”

Jon mentally flipped through Lance's and Caleb's files. There could be an overlap between their times of incarceration of only about two months. But behind a detention center's walls, with the close proximity, people could form fast friendships. “Look, I can almost get my hand free. If I lean up a little, walk the chair so to speak, can you get me some more room? I need only an inch at the most.”

“Maybe. Let's try it. My hands are tied pretty tight.”

Jon pushed his legs, taking the weight off the chair. Wouldn't do him good to make a lot of scraping noise and draw the attention of Kinnard and Lance. He wobbled, putting both feet down
solid on the ground. He couldn't knock himself over. Jon not only had to look out for himself, he also had to protect Caleb.

Just as he started to take a step backward, Lance's raised voice floated in from the screen door, followed by Kinnard's yell.

They were coming back.

Jon set the chair down as quietly as he could, careful to get back in the same position he'd been in when they'd left. “Tone down that you don't like me. Might make Lance befriend you more. Maybe you can talk him into letting us go.”

Their voices were about as far away as Kinnard's truck now.

“Okay,” Caleb whispered back. “But one thing.”

Footsteps creaked on the wooden step. Shadows fell across the screen door.

“What's that?”

“I do like you, though. Even if you are hot after my sister.”

Oh, but the boy made observations at the oddest of times.

 

Where was Lance Wynn?

Sadie had called his cell, pretty certain that the Wynn mansion was no longer Lance's home. She'd left two messages on voice mail. Now what?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Felicia asked.

“N—” Well, maybe Felicia and her circle of family and friends would have an idea. “I'm trying to find Lance Wynn. His father's been taken to the hospital and I'm pretty sure no one has thought to notify him.”

“Lance Wynn.” Felicia tapped her chin. “He's your boss's son, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see what I can do.” She reached into her purse sitting on the counter and whipped out her phone.

“I'm going to keep trying his cell phone.” Sadie moved to the patio, flipping on the outdoor lights. Something about being outdoors in the dark made her feel closer to Jon and Caleb. Why hadn't she heard anything yet?

She sank to the chair and hit the redial button. Ring one. She rested her chin in her palm. Ring two. Sadie sighed; she'd have to leave a third message. Ring three. “Hello.”

Sadie sat up straight. “Lance?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“Sadie Thompson.”

“Uh. Oh.”

“Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but y—”

“Look, I really can't talk right now. I'm in the middle of something.”

“Lance, it's your father.”

“Wh-What about my father?”

“He's sick and in the hospital.”

Silence hung over the connection, but Sadie could make out ragged breathing. Just barely. “Lance?”

“What's wrong with him?”

“We don't know yet. Just that he got very ill—uncontrollable spasms—and Candy-Jo took him to the emergency room. That's all I know right now.”

“Are you at the hospital?”

“No. I, well, I have a family crisis of my own happening right now.”

“What's that?”

She swallowed. “My brother, Caleb, is missing.”

“Missing, you say?”

“Yes.” Tears threatened to explode. She stood and paced the patio, refusing to let her emotions crack again. “Anyway, Georgia went to the hospital to check on your father. It must be bad, because Candy-Jo called her sister to come from New Orleans.”

“The drama queen needs attention.”

“That's not nice, Lance.”

“But it's true.”

She'd made a mistake in calling him. “Well, I just thought you should know about your dad.”

“Thanks, Ms. Thompson. I appreciate that. Nobody else
would've thought to call me.” He laughed. “They didn't. No one but you has called to tell me.”

“I'm sorry, Lance. I really am.”

“Me, too. Hey, I hope you find your brother.”

“
Merci.
Say, I know you know Caleb—do you have any idea what might've happened to him?”