John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

“There’s good if a child’s life can be saved,” Gail snapped. “With all respect, Mr. Harper-”

“Call him Ken,” Alice said. “We like first names around here.”

“With all respect, Ken, I’ve come a long way, and the stakes here are very high. Would a few minutes really kill you?”

Ken seemed startled by the outburst, maybe even slightly amused. “Funny you mention killing,” he grumbled.

Gail’s warning radar pinged. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t mean anything,” Alice said. She pushed herself away from the wall of the archway and gestured toward the dark living room. “Come on in. Have a seat. The place is a bit of a mess, but we weren’t expecting visitors.” She reached under the shade of a floor lamp and turned a switch, launching a pale yellow glow.

“Bit of a mess” didn’t touch it. Apparently Ken and Alice were collectors. Every horizontal surface was covered with trinkets and knickknacks. Little people and little houses and little glass fish and little porcelain horses. Little everything. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. If you wanted a place to rest a drink, you were just plain out of luck. Then there was the floor. Stacks of glossy magazines lay positioned throughout the small room, all of them carefully and tightly bound by bright white twine. The one closest to the chair where Alice had been sitting actually had a drink glass sitting on top of it, proving in a glance that you weren’t plain out of luck after all. For all the clutter, though, there seemed to be some underlying order to it.

Gail knew without asking that the other chair, separated from Alice’s by a table dedicated to porcelain cats, was Ken’s so she didn’t bother to veer in that direction. She assumed that she was their first guest in a very long time. There was no place for her to sit.

“Guests get the chair,” Ken said, pointing with an open hand to blue La-Z-Boy. The tone was one of resignation.

“No, I couldn’t,” Gail said.

“Sure you could,” Alice said, settling back into her spot. She produced a remote from the seat cushion and put it on the table.

“But what about Ken?”

“Ken’s perfectly comfortable on the New Yorker,” Ken said, dragging the three-foot bound stack a little closer to the chairs. When he saw that Gail was still standing, he pointed with his chin. “Seriously, sit. Say what you got to say and let us get on with our lives.”

“Ken!”

He rolled his eyes at his wife’s scolding tone.

Alice said, “How can we help you, Ms…”

“Gail. First names are fine with me, too.”

Alice smiled. Perhaps that had been a test.

“Do the names Frank Schuler or Jeremy Schuler mean anything to you?”

“Are they the boys who were kidnapped? The ones in danger?”

“One of them is. Jeremy. Frank is his father. He’s in prison now for killing his wife, Marilyn, who worked for your brother.”

“Who once worked with a person who dated a girl who cleaned Kevin Bacon’s windshield,” Ken scoffed. “This has no relevance to us at all.”

He was starting to piss Gail off. Every time she got close to starting a useful conversation, he was stepping in to derail it. “Ken, if you could just-”

He shot up his hand for silence. “Don’t even think about lecturing me,” he said. “If you’ve done your research, then you know all the shit that man has put us through over the years. We’ve had mobsters threaten us, and we’ve had FBI agents threaten us about not telling them about the mobsters. Look, we know he took a lot of money, and we know that he’s probably living the high life somewhere, but that’s neither our business nor our problem. So whatever platitudes you’re about to drool out of your mouth, let me tell you loud and clear that I don’t give a shit.”

Gail stared as she stalled for time. She’d just learned new information, and she didn’t know how to play it. She decided to try full disclosure. “What money?” she said.

Ken scowled, shot a look at Alice, and then came back to Gail. “Bullshit,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said bullshit. You’re going to tell me you don’t know about the money?”

Gail shrugged. “I guess I am, because I don’t.”

Another glance to Alice, and this time, Gail followed him. “I don’t know anything about money, Alice. All I know is that Marilyn Schuler worked with your brother.”

Alice wasn’t buying. “Why does that matter? I’m sure she worked with a lot of people. She probably had good friends and brothers and sisters. Why come to us? Why is my brother more important than the others?”

“Because your brother was an attorney for crooks and murderers,” Gail said. Her inner police officer had bloomed, and she was tired of walking carefully. “Given the brazenness of the kidnapping, it wasn’t that big of a stretch to think that the mob connection might be relevant.”

“I had nothing to do with that nonsense,” Alice said, appropriately defensive. “Neither one of us did.”

“I’m not suggesting you did,” Gail assured. “But I’m hoping that you can help me find your brother.”

“You and everybody else with a cause or an empty wallet,” Ken grumped.

Gail took a deep breath. Settled herself. “Look, I’m sorry if I came on too strong, but a little boy’s life hangs in the balance here.” She dug into her pocket and found the picture she’d planted there in anticipation of a moment like this. Jeremy Schuler’s smile carried an all-American wholesomeness that would melt anyone’s heart. “I think your brother has important information that will help us identify the people who kidnapped this child.”

“It’s not our responsibility to protect the world,” Ken said.

“He’s only thirteen,” Gail said. She turned in her chair to face Alice, betting that a maternal instinct burned inside every woman. “If you have any clue where your brother might be…” There was no need to complete the sentence.

“Don’t say a word, Alice,” Ken warned. “This could very well be a trick. How many times have they tried this in how many ways? If anyone so much as thinks that we know anything about Bruce-and I’m not saying we do-we’ll never be left alone. If the feds don’t put us in jail, those mob assholes will put us in graves.”

Gail raised a hand this time. “Why would they do that?” she asked. “What am I missing here? Is this about the money you were talking about?”

“Do you really not know?” Alice asked.

“Alice, don’t,” Ken said.

“I really don’t,” Gail said. “Things are happening so quickly now that I haven’t had a chance to do the kind of research I need to. Eight hours ago, I was visiting Frank Schuler on death row in Virginia. He mentioned the connection with your brother, and a colleague was able to get me your address. I found a plane, and here I am. Please share with me what you know.”

Ken leaned in closer. “Alice, you don’t have to say anything. I still say this could be a trap.”

Gail snapped, “Of course it could be a trap. I could have been an assassin with orders to kill you all. I could have been here with a surprise inheritance. There are any number of things that I could be, Ken. But the fact of the matter is I’m a former police officer and a former FBI agent, and right now I’m doing my best to save a little boy’s life. You can believe whatever you want of that, but why don’t you try-just try-to believe the truth and help me do my job?”

“You’re not the first, you know,” Alice said, her tone soft. She waved for Gail to put the picture of Jeremy away. “Everybody assumes we know where Bruce is, or if we don’t, that we know where the money is, but it’s been long enough that they’re convinced that we’re not lying.”