Robert Liston - The Tower of Evil

“Yes, she phoned earlier. How do you do, I’m Heidi-”

“Where’s Jamie?”

“Karen’s friend, Marco-” Her hands moved as though in flight. “Something or other.”

“Musante, Marco Musante.” She was surprised she could remember his name.

“Yes, that’s it, he came for Jamie-”

“Good God! How could you? What kind of woman are you? Are you running a-”

“You’ll not talk to me that way!”

“I just did.”

“Mr. Musante said Jamie’s real mother had come for him.”

“You fool! His mother left him with Karen for safekeeping.” She clenched her fists, wanting to strike the woman, then she forced down her outrage. She had to think. “What time did he come for Jamie?”

“Not long ago.”

“God damn it woman! Have you no brains? How long ago?”

“Well I never!”

“If you don’t help me, I’ll turn you in for child endangerment. How long ago?”

“Maybe 15 minutes.”

“Was he walking or driving?”

“Driving, a truck, I think, yes, a red pickup, kind of old and beat up.”

“That’s more like it.” She heard Tommy crying. “It’s all your fault. You made me get angry and now Tommy’s upset.” She knelt and hugged him. “Don’t cry, darling, we’ll find Jamie.” To Heidi she said, “Do you know where Marco lives?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She stood up with Tommy in her arms. “Do you know, darling?”

“Vista.”

“Of course, Isla Vista. He said that the other night.” She carried Tommy to her car, strapped him in and took off.

Isla Vista was out beyond UCSB, and Marco had a 15-minute head start. She’d have to take the Freeway. What was the quickest way to reach it from East Sola Street? Her mind raced. Arrellaga Street. No, too many stop signs. Mission Street? Yes, if she took Santa Barbara Street and made some lights.

She made a U-turn on Sola and headed west, turning right on Santa Barbara Street, raced north, mentally cursing pokey drivers, then left on Mission. At State Street she bolted the light on amber, then slammed on her brakes for Chapala, and sat an eternity, drumming her manicured nails on the steering wheel.

She looked down at Tommy. Still crying. “Don’t worry, darling, DeeDee’s a good driver. You’ll be safe.” If only she were sure of that.

The light mercifully changed and she burned rubber, made two more lights and saw the Freeway entrance ahead. At last. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to get this far.

This car was supposed to go fast. Now was the time to find out. She accelerated out of the ramp, zoomed into the center lane, cut over to the inside lane. 65, 70, 75, 80. Her hair whipped against her face. She braked, cut behind a motor home, dashed over two lanes, then picked up speed. 85 now. DeeDee Byerly, killed in a high-speed crash on the 101. Yes, oh yes.

She heard laughter, glanced at Tommy. “This is fun, isn’t it?” She had no right, none at all, to endanger the life of this child.

She cut off a trucker. He blasted her with his air horn. DeeDee waved, shouted, “Sorry.” She raced past the exits for Lake Cachuma, El Sueno, Turnpike, Patterson. No sign of a red truck. She had to catch him, just had to. Ahead was the sign for Isla Vista. She slowed for the ramp and screeched to a stop for the light at Los Carneros Rd. No traffic. She ran the light, then did 75 in a 40-mile zone.

At last, just as she approached Isla Vista, she saw a red pickup, stopped for a light. It was several cars ahead, but looked old with faded paint. When it turned left on El Collegio, she saw a man behind the wheel, but no little boy. Oh Lord, it had to be the right truck. By the time she got through the light, the truck was two blocks ahead, turning right. She tried to hurry, but she was stuck in traffic. Oh God, please! There was nothing to do but wait and fume. The cars ahead of her seemed to dally forever at the light. She blared her horn.

At last. When she turned the corner the red pickup was nowhere in sight. Her hopes fell, replaced by desperation.

Isla Vista had once been a beautiful spit of land off the coast, all but surrounded by water. Now it was a bedroom community for the university, a warren of narrow streets, converted houses and apartments, no pride of ownership, irrevocably marred by litter and graffiti. Worse, every inch of curb space was full of vehicles. She turned right, cruised that street, turned right again, then left. Oh God, where was it? She couldn’t lose it now. There. At last. No, it looked new. Another. It was more of a rust color. How many red pickups can there be in a small area?

Finally she entered a cul-de-sac. At the turnaround two red pickups sat next to each other. ‘Oh God, either could be him.”

“Marco.” Tommy pointed at the first vehicle.

“Is that Marco’s truck?”

He nodded and squealed. Apparently he had ridden in the red truck and loved it.

“Do you know where Marco lives?”

He pointed to a nondescript apartment house. She hugged him. “Thank you, my precious, thank you.”

She stopped in the doorway to read mailboxes. Marco Musante lived in 2C. But Tommy had already gone ahead, up the stairs. And a little child shall lead them. Thank you, God.

She rang the doorbell, got no answer, then again, a third time. Maybe it didn’t work. She rapped, then harder, finally pounded with her fist. “He has to be here. I can’t have done this for-” She used both fists.

The door opened. Marco Musante wore a filthy undershirt and jeans. He held a cell phone in his hand. “Mrs. Byerly, what brings you here?”

She looked inside. “Where’s Jamie? What have you done with him?”

Marco just stood there. She pushed past him, saw an unkempt room, pieces of battered furniture, a huge exercise gadget. She peered in a bedroom, then crossed to the kitchen. There sat Jamie with a glass of milk and a package of Oreos.

“Thank God!” She swept him into her arms and carried him back to the doorway. “Come, Tommy, we have to go.”

“Where you takin’ the kid?”

“Somewhere safe-away from you.”

“I ain’t harmin’ the kid. I was just phonin’ his mother to pick him up.”

Fear gripped her. “Who have you told about Jamie?”

“I was just waitin’ for the guy to come on the line when you barged in.”

“You’ve told no one?”

“Look, lady-I mean Mrs. Byerly, there’s a twenty-five grand reward for return of the kid. Karen and I can use that kind of money.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“The guys at the garage was talkin’ about it.”

Garage? “Oh, that’s right, you’re a mechanic. Who’s offering the reward?”

“I dunno. You’re supposed to phone this number if you see the kid.” He pointed. “I’m sure he’s the one, blond, blue eyes.”

“What number?” It meant nothing to her, but it could be checked. She clutched Jamie tighter. “Listen to me, Marco, this little boy was left with Karen precisely because he’s in danger.” His mouth opened, but she wasn’t about to let him speak. “Don’t ask who from, I don’t know. The point is your actions have put him at great risk.”

“But the mother-”

“I guarantee you the people you were to phone don’t represent Jamie’s mother.”

“What about the twenty-five grand?”

“You were getting along fine without it. You don’t need it. Goodbye, Marco.” She started past him through the door, but he stretched out an arm to stop her, It was huge and hairy, tattooed with a snarling wolf. She looked at him levelly. “Do you really think this is worth prison?”

To her relief the arm slowly lowered, and she passed through the door with both boys, then turned back. “One more thing, Marco. If you make any phone calls or tell anyone-anyone at all-about the whereabouts of Jamie, then you can kiss off your romance with Karen. She’ll never have a thing to do with you.”