Peter Leonard - Trust Me

The guard beat him to it, she looked up and said. "Citv. Where you were born?"

"Montreal," Bobby said, not thinking. It just came out.

"What were you doing in the United States?"

"Working," Bobby said. "I have a green card." He almost said at Tad Collins Buick-Lexus, forgetting for a second he was in a stolen car.

"Can I see some identification?"

Bobby handed her his driver's license and green card.

"Sir, are you the owner of this vehicle?"

"It belongs to the ministry where I work," Bobby said.

She came out of her booth and stuck a white card on the windshield and told Bobby to drive over and park the car, they wanted to ask him a few more questions. Bobby said, "Sure, no problem, officer, happy day." Happy day. Where'd that come from? Just popped into his head, but sounded like something a God Squader'd say.

Bobby put the car in gear and considered his options. He could floor it right now and probably not make the street in this dog of a car before they shot his tires out and maybe shot him. Or he could pull over and answer their questions while they searched the car. What would they find? He had thrown the. 32 out the window in the tunnel on the way over. He was a Jehovah and had the Watch Tower Bible to prove it.

What he didn't expect was a customs inspector pulling a bag of weed out from under the front seat. And now Bobby was in a detention cell, thinking you couldn't trust anyone.

When Karen got back to her mother's the street was blocked off. She had to park on Windsor. She could see Garden City High in the distance. It was dark now and there were four blue and gold Garden City police cars and an EMS van in front of her mom's, lights flashing. Karen wandered over to where crime scene tape had been strung across the front lawn. Neighbors were coming out of their houses, starting to gather as if it were a block party.

She had stopped on the way and pulled the tape off her wrists. She found the seam and dug it open with her front teeth.

Karen asked a Garden City cop, what was going on? His nametag said, "Officer Swinney." He was standing next to a patrol car. The driver's door was open and she could hear the static chatter on the police radio. The lights on the roof flashed across his face. He looked young, too young to have a Glock 9 on his hip. He wore his hat low over his eyes, maybe trying to look older, or look tougher. He had his hands on his hips, flexing muscular arms under a short-sleeve shirt.

Karen said, "Can you tell me what happened?"

"There was a shooting," Officer Swinney said, "a homicide."

"Was Mrs. Delaney hurt," Karen said. "She's the woman who lives here?"

"Are you a relative?"

"No, a neighbor," Karen said. "Mrs. Delaney's a friend of mine."

"She's okay," the cop said. "A little scared, but fine. A forty-three-year-old white male was shot and killed." He tilted the brim of his hat up.

"Do you know his name?" Karen said.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information."

He sounded like a cop now. Karen thanked him and walked down the street lined with pickup trucks and SUVs to her car. She hoped her mother was okay and wondered how she was going to explain all this to her. Karen went past the Cardells' house and pictured Mr. Cardell, a retired lathe operator, sitting on the front porch after work in his undershirt, drinking beer. Now she was passing the Griffis, Paula and Larry, who lived on the corner, their lawn perfect, like a golf course fairway. Karen was approaching the Audi; she could see her old high school in the distance and thought about how she used to twirl a baton all the way from her house to the parking lot, three blocks away without stopping. She took out her key, pushed the remote and heard the beep, and saw the tail- lights flash. Then she saw someone appear coming around the side of a Ford Explorer parked behind her. She stopped and looked, she was almost to her car now, but it was too dark to see his face. Karen pulled the door handle up and someone grabbed her from behind. She tried to get her right hand in the bag that was hanging from her shoulder, but her arms were pinned to her sides.

There were two of them, and now she was lifted off the ground and carried to a dark SUV. The bearded one opened the back end and pulled up the lift gate, and laid her flat on the cargo floor. He tied her feet together and her hands behind her with pieces of thin plastic rope. She caught glimpses of their faces and recognized them as the Arabs from Lou's house the night before and Schreiner's a few hours earlier.

Beard said, "You are Karen Delaney?" He had a thick Middle East accent, sounding like relatives of Samir's who had come over from Beirut.

Karen said, "Who're you?" The tall one with the bad complexion picked up her bag, unzipped it and reached in, and took out the Mag and put it in his pants pocket. He took out her wallet too, opened it and studied her driver's license.

"Is Karen Delaney," he said.

She said, "Did he tell you about the money?" Beard glanced at her, but moved away and closed the lift gate. They were speaking Arabic when they got in the front seat. She heard the engine turn over and the Cadillac Escalade rolled away from the curb and picked up speed, cruising down Windsor. She couldn't believe it, kidnapped in her old neighborhood with half the Garden City police department fifty yards away.

Karen was on her side and her shoulder was digging into the plastic cargo liner. She turned on her back and that was worse, the weight of her body pressing on her hands. She tried to undo the knot with her thumb and index finger but couldn't budge it. The Escalade made a couple of turns and they were on Middlebelt now. She saw lights from storefronts and heard the sounds of traffic. She worked at the knot, which was small and tight, trying to loosen it.

She had a pretty good idea where they were going and figured she had about twenty-five minutes to do something before they handed her over to Ricky and Samir. She turned on her left shoulder, still working at the knot trying to loosen it. It was hot in the Escalade, her skin wet where it stuck to the plastic liner. She heard a window go down, the whir of the electric motor, and felt the rush of hot air swirl around her. They were talking, speaking Arabic again. Karen said, "I have the money. Isn't that what this is about? I stole a million six hundred thousand from him and he wants it back. Unless you guys want to make some kind of a deal." She didn't even know if they understood what she was saying.

The SUV slowed down and made a turn into what looked like a strip mall; she could see a big asphalt lot and cars parked and stores in the distance. The Escalade came to a stop. She heard the front doors open and close. She saw the lift gate swing up, and they were standing there looking at her. Beard grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head over to the edge of the cargo bay.

"This money," Beard said, "where is it?"

He pinched her shoulder, found a nerve and sent a bolt of pain through her neck and chest. She tried to move away, but the other one held her, hands on her breasts, groping her, and when she thought she was going to pass out from the pain, Beard let go and bent down, getting in her face. His breath reeked of garlic, the smell choking her, making her gag.

"Where is the money?" he said.

Karen said, "At a friend's house."

She saw his fist come up and felt it drive into her chest, blowing the wind out of her, a new pain taking over. She was conscious of them smiling, seeing her in pain and getting pleasure from it. Karen wheezed as her lungs lost air and now tried to get it back.

Beard said, "The money?"

He was in her face again.

"I'll show you," Karen said. "I'll take you there."