Hostage (11 page)

“Ah, here's the sandwich,” she said with satisfaction. “You don't
mind if I help myself to half of it, do you?”

“Help yourself to all of it,” I invited. “I've always thought it was crazy to make a big deal out of a last meal before a prisoner is executed. What good is it? Whose stomach would be settled enough so you could swallow and not have it all come back up?”

Surprisingly, Mrs. Banducci chuckled. “We're not dead yet, child. Put that good young brain of yours to work and think of something. What else you got in this backpack thingy?”

“Books, papers, and the rest of my lunch,” I told her. In the short time she'd been our next-door neighbor, I'd thought she was kind of a pain with her nosiness. And of course if she hadn't been overly inquisitive this morning, she'd never have been captured after letting the air out of one of their tires and peeking in the windows of our house. But I was glad I wasn't locked in the back of this truck by myself.

“You sure that's all? It felt heavier than that when I lifted it, unless you've got an awful lot of books. Why don't you feel around it and see if you can't
find something else that might be useful. I'll bet you've never completely emptied it out since you got it, have you? Hmmm. I thought you said this was a ham sandwich.”

“It is. With mustard. I made it myself.”

“It smells exactly like peanut butter.” She paused to take a bite. “Ah! Ambrosia for a growling stomach! Peanut butter and jelly.”

“It can't be,” I said, scowling to myself in the darkness. “I made it . . . oh, no!”

“Nothing wrong with peanut butter and jelly,” Mrs. Banducci assured me. “Are you wrong about the apple and the cookies, too?”

I knew what had happened. Mom had told Grandma she shouldn't have picked identical backpacks for Jodie and me, because we'd mix them up. Grandma had responded, rather tartly, that they hadn't had any pink ones for Jodie, so she'd had to get two red ones unless we wanted dirt-colored ones like the boys'.

Mom still makes Wally's lunches, but the rest of us do our own. We usually make them the night before and get them out of the refrigerator in the morning. And this morning—a million years ago!—Jodie had left the house
before I did and picked up the wrong backpack. In fact, I thought she'd sneaked out early because she was up to something again and didn't want to get caught or questioned. I hoped she hadn't been hiding the fact that she was wearing my newest blouse. And then I remembered that it didn't matter much, considering the circumstances. If she'd left anything in the backpack that would get us out of this, I'd forgive her for swiping anything.

“It must be my sister's bag,” I said. “I can't imagine what there would be in it that would be of any use in getting out of this truck. Not even Jodie is likely to carry a can opener or a cannon to blow a hole in the side.”

I could smell the peanut butter, and it was making me nauseous.

“Well, it won't be much comfort when they find our bodies,” Mrs. Banducci said cheerfully, “to find that there was something in that bag that would have kept us alive long enough for someone to rescue us. You sure you don't want half this sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” I said. But I took hold of the
backpack she pushed toward me and reached inside to check it out.

There was an apple. And a packet that was undoubtedly cookies. And a plastic bag with something squishy in it. A small tube of something I couldn't identify. Had she borrowed some of Mom's makeup? And then my fingers touched something that sent my spirits soaring.

At my cry of triumph, Mrs. Banducci stopped chewing. “What?” she demanded. “What did you find?”

“A phone! Dad's cell phone! I thought the thieves had taken it, along with our other phones, but Jodie had put it in her backpack! The little sneak!”

I remembered how Jodie had wanted to go somewhere after school and asked to take the phone. “Mom wouldn't let her use it. None of us is supposed to take it off Dad's desk, but she knew neither Mom nor Dad would be using it today, so she just swiped it. She probably figured she'd put it back before they came home and they'd never miss it. She'll be in real trouble when they find out.” I paused, remembering how glad I was that we'd found it. “Or maybe not, since it may save our lives this time. I hope!”

“A telephone?” Mrs. Banducci was smiling.
I could tell, even in the dark, that she was smiling. It was in her voice. “Well, get us out of here, girl!”

I was holding the instrument in my hand and I could imagine it quite clearly. White plastic, with a blue button at the top to press to turn it on. I located the button and pushed. Immediately I heard the reassuring hum of a dial tone.

I nearly cried in relief. Dialing a one would be easy enough. It was the first button on the left, just below the power button. The nine should be the last number on the right, at the bottom. From the top, down the right side of the pad of buttons, three, six, nine. I counted them out. I knew where the numbers were supposed to be, but it made me anxious not being able to see them. I dialed and hoped for the best.

God does answer prayer. At the other end of the line, the phone rang, and a male voice said, “Emergency services.”

“The police!” I gasped. “Please, don't hang up just because I'm a kid! I'm in terrible trouble! My name is Kaci Drummond, and I've
been kidnapped! Me and my neighbor, Mrs. Banducci! We both live in Lofty Cedars Estates, and . . .”

“Kaci? Hold on, please.” There was a totally different timbre in his voice. “I'm going to turn you over to Detective Myrek, all right?”

There were a few seconds of silence, during which I thought my heart would stop if we'd been disconnected. And then a different male voice, deeper, stronger.

“Kaci? This is Detective Ross Myrek. Are you all right?”

“We haven't been injured, but we are locked up in the back of a truck—”

“A yellow bob tail? License number VCT 7258?”

Tears of gratitude filled my eyes. “Yes! You found my message on the wall!”

“Your mother found it when she went to the house to check on you. And we found the note on Mrs. Banducci's desk when her friend called. Can you tell me where you are?”

“I'm not sure. They put tape over my eyes when we were partway here. But when we left our house and got on the freeway, we turned south. I couldn't
tell how far we drove, or for how long. It seemed forever. Then we left the freeway, went east over an overpass, and then on for a few miles, and then onto a gravel road. We're on an abandoned farm, with a pretty big barn, where the thieves hid all our furniture and stuff.”

“Can you make a guess as to how far south you went on the freeway?”

“All I'm sure of is that when we turned onto Compton Street, maybe half a mile from the house, the odometer registered two hundred thousand forty-two miles, and we drove a total of thirty-seven miles altogether after that. Does that help? Can you find us?”

His voice warmed. “With that kind of detective work on your part, we ought to be able to pick you up in a matter of minutes. State Patrol Cars are rolling in that area now. And the Channel Four helicopter is in the air, monitoring traffic. We'll contact them, and they'll search for you from the air.”

“The truck's almost hidden under the trees next to the house,” I said quickly. “But the other sides of the house are in the open. Old,
rundown, peeling white paint,” I told him. “Two stories high, with a porch all across the front of it.”

“Do you know where the kidnappers are?”

“They were going to run the truck into the river, with us in it,” I told him. “But we let the air out of a tire, and they didn't think they could get it that far. So they left in an old black sedan. Maybe ten years old; a Chevy, I think. It looked like it had been used hard. We didn't get the license number on that when we saw it; it was too dirty, and that was before they kidnapped us, anyway, so I wasn't looking.”

“That's good, Kaci. Now I'm going to turn you back over to the dispatcher. I want you to stay on the line. Tell the operator when you hear the chopper, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, sounding shaky.

“I'm standing by,” the 911 operator said then. “Let me know when you hear anything, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed. The receiver was slippery in my hand, I was sweating so much.

“Just hang on, Kaci,” the operator said, and then I didn't hear anything more.

Except for Mrs. Banducci's chewing—she was now working on the apple—I couldn't hear anything at all.

I drew a deep breath. “We might not hear a helicopter,” I said uneasily. “I think this truck is insulated or something. We couldn't hear their voices or the sound of the car when they left.”

“I think you'll hear the chopper, especially when it drops low over you,” the operator told me. “Don't worry, our officers will find you.”

I thanked him, and then reached out to touch Mrs. Banducci in the darkness. “They are sending patrol cars and a helicopter. We just have to wait now.”

Her hand patted my knee. “I told you it would all work out, didn't I?”

“I think you said at your age you didn't spend much time worrying about dying. I couldn't be as calm as you were. I've been praying almost steady.”

“So have I,” she said. “Only sensible thing to do, under the circumstances. But I'm a firm believer that God helps those who help themselves, so we had to try everything we could,
like letting the air out of their tires. Is it all right with you if I eat one of these cookies?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“You want the other one?”

“No, thanks. When we get out of here”—I very carefully didn't say “if” we got out—“I'll probably be starving, but right now the thought of food makes me queasy.”

“So. What were you doing home in the middle of a school day?” she wanted to know.

“I was having an allergy attack and I went home to get my nasal spray.” I'd forgotten my running nose, and I was breathing all right now. “My mom must have come home on her lunch hour and found the license number of the truck where I'd written it on the wall. And your friend called 9-1-1 when she saw your note.”

“I knew she would. Sarah's a sensible woman. She's been my friend since we were your age. So many years ago! I met her when I fell through the ice when we were skating, and she helped rescue me. She fell in, too, before her brother got there with a two-by-four from a nearby construction site, and we both wound
up with hypothermia. I got pneumonia, too. You don't forget friends like that.”

“No, I don't suppose you do. Do you hear anything yet?”

“Nope,” Mrs. Banducci said. “If you're sure you don't want this last cookie, I think I'll eat it.”

And, then, suddenly, we did hear it. Faintly at first, and then coming closer.

I spoke into the receiver excitedly. “I think I hear the helicopter!”

“Good,” the operator said. “Stay on the line.” I could hear him relaying my information to someone else.

The sound grew quickly louder, until we could tell it was right over our heads. And then something entirely unexpected happened.

The double doors at the rear of the truck were thrown open, leaving us blinking in the sudden sunlight.

Mrs. Banducci's excited exclamation of “They found us!” died in midbreath.

Because it wasn't the police. It was Cal and Buddy and Bo.

I know what the word “consternation” means. I had never felt it before, at least not like this.

They were mad. And they were scared. A dangerous combination, Dad would have said.

The helicopter was directly overhead, its noise thunderous, and its blades were stirring up dust and the leaves on a nearby tree even though the thing was still high overhead.

It only took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sunlight after the blackness inside the truck. I couldn't hear sirens over the racket of the chopper, but I saw the first of the State Patrol cars turn off the main road a short distance away, and then another one, churning up dust on the long driveway, red and blue lights flashing.

Cal and his friends were aware of those cars, too, undoubtedly about to be here in seconds. Why had our captors come back? I wondered frantically, and then realized that the police were chasing them. They must have been spotted as soon as I talked to the detective, and they'd decided their best chance was to return to us and depend on making the authorities back off if we were held up as hostages. I was horribly afraid that it might work.

In the meantime Bo was looking into the
truck at us, and he had a long-bladed knife in one hand.

The stuff I'd dumped out of Jodie's backpack was scattered all around me. Nothing for a weapon to stall them off, nothing at all. An empty sandwich bag, an apple core, and the phone, which I was still clutching.

I dropped the phone. I couldn't hear the 911 operator's voice anymore, but I knew he must be able to hear the chopper, although it was pulling away now, lifting higher into the sky. I scrabbled beside me in the junk to reach anything I could that I could throw at them.

I wish I could say I reasoned it all out, but I didn't. Dad said later I was just going on instinct in trying to protect myself. I was so scared, it was a miracle I could function at all. The police were so close—but Bo had a knife, and they'd wanted me as a hostage before to shield themselves in a situation like this. I only knew I had to try anything to hold them off until the cops could reach us, before Bo put that knife to my throat, or to Mrs. Banducci's. If they threatened to kill us if the cops didn't let them leave, would the police be able to stop them?

I had no doubts now that when Bo and Cal and Buddy were through with us, when we were no longer of any use to them, they wouldn't hesitate to kill us.