Rhonda sat on Brady’s swivel chair near his desk.
“This will be simple. I think your pup here’s already grasped the concept of property when we met in the park the other day. Right, sport?”
“Please don’t hurt him. Oh, please.”
“Your husband was Jack Boland, that’s what he called himself.”
Rhonda nodded.
“He owes me from an old business transaction and I’ve come to collect.”
“Business? But his landscaping business failed when he died. I’m paying off all of his debts.”
“This was old business.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Was it gambling? Because he gambled.”
“We were partners on a project. I kept up my end and now I want my money. In full. With interest!”
“How much? I don’t understand. The accountants-I mean-we don’t-”
“One and a half million dollars.”
“My God!”
“I know you have it.”
“No. We have nothing. You’ve made a mistake.”
“Don’t lie! Don’t you fucking lie!”
“Mister, I don’t know who you are, or what you think you know! But you’re wrong! Look around! Look at how we live! I’m a supermarket cashier! Jack left us in debt! My son’s sick and I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the operation he needs to save his life! You’re wrong about us!”
“Look on the computer keyboard.”
“What?”
“Look!”
Rhonda turned in the chair and picked up a snapshot she’d never seen before. Brady with Sister Anne Braxton, the murdered nun. Taken at his school.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Sister Anne. I saw you and your pup here at her funeral. Both of you.”
Rhonda’s control swirled between fear and anger.
“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Don’t move!”
The man reached into his rear pocket for handcuffs, snapping them on Brady, deftly binding him to his headboard, keeping the knife to his throat and Rhonda at bay.
“Don’t!” Brady shouted.
Instantly the man backhanded his fist across Rhonda’s face, shocking her as he reached under the bed for a large roll of duct tape, swiftly peeling and spinning it around her until she was restrained in Brady’s chair in a silver cocoon.
Then he grabbed the cup of water on the desk. Next to it were four pills. He showed her the brand marking on the pills.
“These are sleeping pills, Rhonda. Harmless.”
He shoved them in her mouth and held her nose and clamped his gloved hand over her face as she struggled.
“Swallow them now!”
“Leave my mom alone!”
She continued resisting.
“Swallow the goddam pills or I’ll keep you awake to watch him bleed!”
She swallowed them. He let her breathe and checked her mouth, his finger roughly probing under her tongue and along her gums.
“When you wake, find a way to get yourself out of this tape because I’m going to call. When I do, you will have twenty-four hours to clear your husband’s debt with me. I’m going to be watching you. If you contact the police, or anyone, you will never see your pup again. I’ve got a perfect grave ready for him. Do you believe me?”
Rhonda nodded.
He drew his face close until his eyes burned into hers.
“You’ll never know the price I’ve paid, or the things I’ve done to find you! You will get me my money! I’ll contact you with more instructions. When I have my money, your pup comes back. Be smart, Rhonda. Your asshole husband held my money. Find it and we’re done! Fuck up, and you’re going to another funeral.”
As the man looped tape around Rhonda’s mouth, she would not take her eyes from Brady.
She prayed.
Soon her muscles refused to obey her and she grew semiconscious. She wanted to call the police. She wanted to run screaming into the street but her body was turning to stone.
Her eyes started to flicker.
Her lids became heavy.
She couldn’t hold them open.
Her final image was of Brady and the glint of the knife against his throat.
Chapter Fifty-Five
S o far this morning, Bob Germain was four for four.
Rare on residential routes, he thought as he stopped his Escort wagon in front of number five and reached for his clipboard. Let’s see. He ran his finger down the page with the Super Quick amp; Friendly Delivery letterhead.
Recipient is Rhonda Boland. A letter from an insurance company.
“Help me, Rhonda,” Germain chuckled to himself after ringing the doorbell, wondering if he’d be lucky enough to have all twenty-five of his deliveries be home. Could be a record-setting day.
He rang the bell again. As time ticked by in silence, his hope faded.
“Figures.”
He reached for his pad to leave the message that he’d return later. His pen was poised when he was stopped by a noise from inside. What the heck was that? Sounded like a cry. He banged on the door.
“Hello!”
He tried the handle, surprised to find it was unlocked.
“Anybody home? You have a delivery! Hello!”
He heard another sound like a woman’s muffled groan. He entered, calling as he moved farther into the house, scanning it for a clue, hoping that he wasn’t going to come upon a love session, like his buddy did.
Getting down in Tacoma.
Germain stopped in his tracks.
First hair, then a forehead and a woman’s face, her mouth covered with tape. She was on the floor, on her back, taped to a chair, moaning, rolling her head.
Germain rushed to her side, pulled the tape from her mouth.
“Please, he’s got my son!”
Her face was bruised. He checked for more signs of injury.
“Who?” Germain glanced around. “Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere else?”
He pulled out his keys, extracted the blade of his pocketknife, and sliced at the tape, freeing her and helping her sit more comfortably.
“Ma’am, I don’t know what happened but I think I should call an ambulance.”
“No!”
“Ma’am, I think you need help.”
