James Grippando - A King's ransom

“I agree with you.”

That took me by surprise. “Then why did Agent Hard-Ass give me the ‘come to Jesus’ speech?”

“Not every cowboy who thinks he talks for the entire FBI actually talks for the entire FBI.”

“Are you saying that the FBI is now willing to help, no conditions?”

“When your father comes home, you can bet that Agent Huitt will have a good long talk with him. But it’s my job to get him home, regardless of whether you or anyone else in your family agrees to cooperate in any future investigation against anyone.”

“Why the sudden reversal?”

“Let’s just say there was an internal disagreement. We finally straightened it out.”

“Or maybe it’s just the old good-cop/bad-cop strategy. I wouldn’t bow to threats from Agent Huitt, so you politely insinuate yourself back into the kidnapping negotiations, work closely with our family, and snoop around while you’re at it.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What choice do you have?”

We locked eyes for a moment, until the sun shining behind him finally forced me to look away. If I hadn’t had Alex in my camp, I might have jumped at the offer. But I had to remember that this was the same guy who’d stonewalled me when the FBI had “declined” the State Department’s invitation to work on my father’s kidnapping.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, then started up my Jeep and drove away.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at my house in Coconut Grove, then headed over to my mother’s for dinner. Since the kidnapping, I’d made a point of dropping by at least once a day to see her, and tonight she was in the mood to cook. Hearts of palm salad and grilled salmon with dill sauce beat the heck out of a cold bologna sandwich, so who was I to stop her?

I let myself in and found a note on the refrigerator saying that she was at the grocery store. Mom was a great cook but not a great planner. It seemed that no meal was complete without an emergency run to Gardner’s Market for some missing ingredient. I helped myself to a soda, flopped on the couch with the newspaper, and turned straight to the “Americas” section of the Miami Herald . Before the kidnapping I used to skim right past it, but now I had a keen interest in the Colombian Army’s latest clash with guerrillas or the most recent bombing by paramilitary forces.

I heard Mom’s car pull up, the dull thud of a closing car door, the click of her heels coming up the sidewalk. It sounded as if she were running. The front door flew open. She burst inside and slammed it shut. I turned to see her with her back against door, clutching her bag of groceries.

“Someone followed me home,” she said in a nervous voice.

“What?”

She quickly headed for the kitchen. I followed. Her hands were shaking as she dropped the bag of groceries on the counter.

“A man in a blue car. I swear, he tailed me all the way from Gardner’s.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. Never saw him before.”

I had a quick thought. “Could it have been Agent Nettles from the FBI?”

“No. This man was white.”

Could have been Huitt, but in her state of near panic, now wasn’t the time to tell her about the bullies in the FBI’s narcotics squad. “Is he still out there?”

“I don’t know. I ran inside.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I can’t say. Maybe a Ford. Do you think it could be a messenger for the kidnappers?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door.

“Don’t answer it!” my mother said.

For thirty seconds we didn’t move. Another knock followed, harder this time. I looked at Mom and said, “Wait here.”

“Nick, no.”

I walked to the window and pulled the drapes away from the window frame only far enough to peer out. A blue Ford was parked across the street. Just the sight of it had my blood boiling-the nerve of this creep to follow my mother home. My dad had a Smith amp; Wesson revolver in the bedroom, but I had a sense that the ax handle he’d always kept hanging behind the refrigerator might set a more proper tone.

“Call the police,” I said.

She picked up the phone. I grabbed the ax handle and started for the back door.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t just open the door and let him in. I’ll walk around to the front and confront him.”

“Please, wait for the police.”

“How dangerous can he be? He rang the doorbell.”

“So did the Boston Strangler.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Over my mother’s pleas I opened the door and stepped out, ax handle gripped firmly. I hurried across the back patio, turned at the corner of the house, headed up the side yard, and stopped at the front of the garage. From there I could see the Ford across the street. I could hear it, too. The motor was running. I took another step forward and looked across our front lawn. A short guy in a baseball cap was standing on our front porch. He was smaller than me, a good thing. I approached with as much bravado as I could muster and stopped at the base of the steps.

“What do you want?” I asked pointedly.

He nearly jumped. I’d caught him by surprise. “Are you Matthew Rey?”

“No. I’m his son. Who are you?”

He reached inside his shirt.

“Don’t move!” I shouted.

In a flash he threw something that hit me in the chest. He leaped off the porch and sprinted across the lawn. I tried to catch him, but I’d gotten a slow start and this kid was lightning. In a matter of seconds he was inside his car. The motor was already running. He slammed it into gear and squealed away.

I tried to get the license plate number but missed it. I walked back to the front porch and found what he’d thrown at me. It was an envelope stuffed with papers. I opened it and immediately realized what had just happened. The guy was a process server. Someone must have told him that we’d try to avoid accepting service of court papers, so he’d planned a sneak attack.

My shock turned to anger as I saw the caption in black and white: Quality Insurance Company v. Matthew Rey, it read.

They were suing my father. Even more infuriating, two separate subpoenas commanded my father and me to appear in Miami-Dade circuit court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for an emergency hearing. The gall. Dad was in a jungle held captive for ransom by Colombian guerrillas, and they had an emergency.

I flipped to the last page to see who the lawyer was, though this kind of legal maneuvering left little doubt as to the perpetrator. Still, it nearly sent me spinning to see the name and address of my own law firm in the signature block and, above the signature line, the familiar scrawl of my supervising partner, Duncan Fitz.

“You son of a bitch,” I said quietly. “I’ll give you an emergency.”

I folded up the papers and went back inside the house.

It was less than two hours till sunset, and they’d been marching since dawn. Joaquin and two others led the way through the jungle thicket with machetes, followed by three more guerrillas armed with AK-47s. The three Colombian prisoners were next, the young mother and father first, then the Flea Man. Close behind them were three more armed guards and the Japanese couple, the newest prisoners. Two more guerrillas followed with Matthew and the Swede. Four guerrillas brought up the rear, the best shooters in the bunch.

Their shooting skills were no secret. Yesterday afternoon they’d trotted out the prisoners to watch their target practice, not just to show off but to make their point. If any of them were thinking about an escape, they’d have to outrun a team of sharpshooters who could blow a Coke bottle off a stump at a distance of a hundred meters. The demonstration wasn’t exactly a lift to anyone’s spirits, but Matthew sensed that the Swede had been especially demoralized. Jan had been dispirited and crankier than ever since their talk at the river, when Matthew had made it clear that he wanted no part of an attempted escape. Of course Matthew had kept their discussion to himself, but strangely enough the guards seemed to have picked up on Jan’s mood and were watching him more closely. Perhaps the guerrillas were experienced enough to sense when a prisoner was plotting an escape.