Holding On To You (20 page)

He puts the money back in the bag and casts it to the other side of the bed, as though someone has just told him that it's worthless, that instead of having a value, it's no more than fancy looking paper that does nothing but make your life even less valuable than it already is. On the chair in front of him, Maddy's torn black dress seems to be mocking him from afar, and after a while he has to stop looking at it.

He has no idea when she went, and consequently has no idea how much time he has left to escape. The police could already be on their way for all he knows. It's something he doesn't want to think about. He would prefer to remember the Maddy from the night before, rather than the Maddy that woke up before him this morning.

The bed has been bolted down to the floor, presumably to stop it from being stolen, as has the metal bed head to the wall, to which one of River's arms has now been attached. It would take a truck to pull the structure loose, and even then, you'd have to chip away at it with a sledge hammer, probably for a number of hours, to finally get the thing free. In fact the bed is so well integrated into the fabric of the building, it looks like they were constructed together as one special 'motel issue' unit. There is no way River can pull himself away from it, nor move the bed towards the door, which leaves him with two options. Either he breaks the handcuff, or he screams for help, and screaming just isn't his style.

River opens the drawers of the bedside cabinet hoping he's had the presence of mind to stow away his pistol, but finds nothing there but a bible. Out of sheer frustration, he launches it against the far wall, where it hits the solid brick with a satisfying thud, before dropping to the ground with its pages splayed like a dead bird. He tries to twist the metal against itself and when that proves futile, he tries to twist the metal against the iron curls of the bed frame, which does nothing but make his wrist hurt even more. He leans backwards, holding the metal chain in both hands, and climbs up the wall as high as he can, so he's completely off the bed at full stretch, hoping to put pressure on the link, but has to quit after a while because all he seems to be succeeding in doing is cutting the metal deeper into his wrists.

He searches for something he can use to pick the lock, spending half an hour trying to get a screw out of the side of the bed, before attacking the mattress to try and get at the springs, and eventually spotting a hair pin, hidden between the wall and the bedside cabinet. Considering this his best hope of escape, he spends a while getting himself into the perfect position, like a dog turning around ten times while it readies itself for sleep, only to find his optimism immediately soured, when the hair pin breaks inside the lock on his first attempt.

After that, he gives up. The only other thing left in reach is the TV remote control, and he can't help but laugh when he sees it, knowing Maddy would have left it there for him as a final 'fuck you'. Perhaps he shouldn't have let his guard down with her, and perhaps he shouldn't have trusted her at all, although ten thousand nights in prison, he reasons, if that's what it has to be, will be a small price to pay for the night he has already had with her.

River clicks the TV on, makes himself as comfortable as he can, and waits for the police to show up.

Sally carefully places a slice of lemon meringue pie into a bag, and hands it over to her wide eyed customer.

'Popular this morning I see', the woman says, nodding at the single slice that remains in the tray. 'I'm lucky I came when I did.'

'Oh yes', Sally says, 'It always goes quickly that one', and then laughs and wipes her hands on her tea towel, remembering the sticky incident that took place earlier that morning.

'You know, I hope he pays up', the woman says, handing over the money for her early morning, sugary pick me up, but this time nodding in a completely different direction. 'He's got money after all.'

Sally looks at the TV behind her, unsure at first what the woman is referring to.

'He still hasn't made a statement either, at least not an official one', she continues. 'Poor girl. I mean, she may be a bit of a witch, but that doesn't mean we have to burn her to see if she is, if you know what I mean.'

Sally has gone silent. Maddy stares back at her from the corner of the TV screen, while a studio audience discuss the ransom note that they received in an email that morning. 'That's Madeleine Parker', Sally says after a while. 'She doesn't teach Bobby, she's Madeleine Parker.'

'That's who it is indeed', the woman says, still waiting for Sally to process the transaction. But Sally is off in a completely different world, transfixed by Maddy's image, and the realisation that's just dawned on her. 'But if she's being held hostage?' Sally says, to no-one in particular.

'That's right', the woman says, misunderstanding slightly what Sally has said. 'You must have seen it already, it's been on the news channels non-stop. They reckon he might have brought her this way too, can you imagine that? Right here on our doorstep.'

'Right here on our doorstep', Sally says, repeating what the woman has said like a mimicking parrot, all the while staring motionlessly up at the image of Maddy. 'She's changed her hair.'

'She ought to change it', the woman says. 'I wouldn't be seen dead like that. Although perhaps she will be.'

Sally continues to stare, dumbfounded, trying to understand how the woman of the moment was in her shop this morning buying enough cakes for a football team.

'Right', the woman says. 'I better be on my way. I've got a hundred and one things to do this morning, and not one of them is going to wait for me.'

'Ok', Sally says, still not taking her eyes off the screen.

'As soon as I get my change, I'll be on my way', the woman says, nodding towards the money still clasped in Sally's hands, even though nobody else can see the gesture.

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Sally rings up the transaction, puts the note in the correct till bed, takes out the correct change, pulls off the receipt and puts them both into the woman's outstretched hand.

'I guess you haven't had a chance to catch up yet', the woman says and chuckles. 'I'll leave you to it.'

She's back out on the street, lemon meringue pie carefully tucked into the hip pocket of her thick coat, when Sally stretches out her arm, lifts the telephone handset from the holder and dials a number she's memorised by heart.

'Cannon', the voice on the other end of the line says.

'Hank, it's Sally', Sally says gravely.

'Oh dear', officer Cannon says, taking his boots off the table, 'what's happened now?'

'Are you watching the news?' Sally says. 'The hostage and ransom case?'

'Don't tell me', Cannon says, 'the robber came into your shop this morning, held a gun to your head and escaped with a handful of jelly donuts.' Cannon laughs, and mouths Sally to his younger colleague, while pointing to the telephone with a pencil. Thurston smiles, feeling obliged to humour his superior.

'Not the robber', Sally says. 'Maddy.'

'Maddy. The hostage?' Cannon says. 'How can a hostage come into your shop?'

'You tell me officer. All I know, is that she came in here this morning, bought ten pastries and drove away in a Lexus.'

'Is this a joke Sal?' officer Cannon says. 'You know I can charge you for wasting police time?'

'You'd charge your own sister?' Sally says.

'If I had to I would, yes', Cannon says.

'What else are you doing?' Sally says.

'Very important police work', officer Cannon says, leafing through a stack of unimportant files and pushing them to a different part of his desk. 'We're snowed under here. Absolutely snowed under.' He looks up at the white board, on which a shopping list has been written underneath a section marked 'pending to solve'.

'If I give you the licence plate number of the car she was driving, will you check it?' Sally says.

'You know I can get into trouble for abusing the system', Cannon says.

'I'm telling you Hank, the woman that came into my store this morning was Madeleine Parker, I'm one hundred percent sure of it.'

'Like the time you thought you saw Michael Jackson in Walmart?'

Thurston can't help but giggle, remembering the incident well.

'That was different Hank', Sally says.

'What did she look like?' Hank says, tapping his pencil on the desk.

'Just run the check will you? If I'm right, think about how famous you'll be. The cop that caught the killer and freed the hostage.'

'He didn't kill anyone', Cannon says.

'Not that we know of', Sally says.

'Look, just one question Sal that might not have occurred to you. What the hell was she doing on her own?'

'I have no idea', Sally says, 'but she certainly didn't act as if anything was wrong. Perhaps he made her come inside my shop, and told her he'd kill her if she didn't, or if she gave the game away somehow. Look, motive is your department. I make cakes, you solve crimes. That's what you are supposed to be good at.'

'If a crime has been committed. It sounds like you saw someone who looked like Madeleine Parker come into your shop and you've got all excited about it.'

'Just run the search Hank, do it for me', she says. 'I know you've got nothing else on up there. If you had, you wouldn't still be talking to me.'

'Go on then', Hank says, finally giving in to his big sister. 'What's the number?'

'BRC 893', Sally says, and officer Cannon writes it down. 'Now read it back to me.'

'Sheesh Sal, I can write a number down.'

'Read it back to me.' she says.

'BRC 893', Hank says.

'Thank you Hank, Sally says. 'Now call me when you've found out it's been reported stolen.'

Officer Cannon puts the phone down. He taps his pencil on the desk, looks at the slip of paper he's written the licence plate number on, tries to decide whether he should throw it into the bin or not, and finally passes it over to Thurston.

'I don't reckon it'll come out with anything', officer Cannon says, 'but run the search anyway and let me know what you find. No rush either. Last time Sal had me run a wild goose chase, it ended up being nothing but a god damn ball-ache.'

Garland sips his third coffee of the morning, still several hours from being fully, satisfactorily awake. He has spent the last hour on the phone to several different news agency, since the story broke about the ransom note, saying pretty much the same to each one of them. No comment. He has organised a press conference for later that morning, during which time himself and Frank Giamatti will explain to the waiting reporters that they are doing everything they can to find Maddy and bring the robber to justice, whose identity they are only hours away from securing. Of paramount importance will be the message that Maddy will be brought home safely, that they are treating the ransom note as extremely serious, and in close combination with Madeleine's father, who wishes for the sake of the rest of his family to remain anonymous, they will meet the robber's demands. Really, they are no further along than they were yesterday, and they definitely haven't got a million dollars to offer for Maddy's ransom, not that Frank believes they'll need it anyway. Madeleine's father has refused to cooperate, and has made himself unavailable for further comment, disappearing as quickly as he appeared, making Garland wonder momentarily about the possibility of his own involvement, imagining a conspiracy to extort cash that goes several layers deep, perhaps because he's run out of pension money.

They've made similar progress with the two remaining stolen cars, both of which have yet to be found, leaving Garland pessimistic that they ever will be, or that if they eventually are, that they won't be of any use at all. They continue to work their way through the long list of Buck Tavern's associates, but the work is slow going, and hugely time consuming with two officers - the extent of the man power Frank has been limited to giving him by his superiors, in light of the more important ransom demand. Knocking on doors is old fashioned police work, and the kind of thing that Garland knows hardly ever solves a crime, but at the moment they've got very little else.

They don't know who the robber is, nor what he looks like (apart from the descriptions they gleaned from the hostages happy to give them, and the grainy mobile phone footage the obese African-American woman was more than happy to surrender), where he is, where he's going, or what he wants. All they do know is that Madeleine Parker, perhaps the most unpopular girl in the whole of America, is with him, and someone, perhaps the robber himself, but not likely to be, is hoping to take advantage of the situation, and exploit her father out of a million dollars. What's working in their favour is that Maddy's image has been all over the TV for a decent enough time now, that it's likely she'll be recognised, if he's stupid enough to take her out. Having the ransom note go to the press, even if it puts pressure on his team, certainly helps keep the story alive, at exactly the point an audience might begin to lose interest.

Garland taps his fingers methodically on the envelope that has been on his desk for an hour. Inside are the results of the fingerprint test his lab ran yesterday on the steering wheel, dashboard and door handles of the Oldsmobile, rushed through as a priority by an old friend. He's resisted looking at them until now, because he fears what bad news might be contained inside. What's left in his coffee cup are dregs, and with that, Garland knows he's got to get this over with. He opens the envelope and pulls out the printed lab report from inside.