She went inside, closing the door behind her. I walked a few feet, looked quickly down the alley, walked back. I kept watching the house. There wasn’t a sound to be heard from the garage. I heard the sound of a car, looked, realized it was on another street-the street at the end of the alley. I waited, but the car kept moving, didn’t stop near the alley or Reagan Street.
What the hell was taking so long? It should have only taken a few seconds to see if there was an El Camino in the garage, get its plate number and leave. Plates could be taken off or switched, though, so maybe she was getting the vehicle identification number instead. I moved around a little, checked the other side of the building, came back to the door. It shouldn’t be taking so long.
It was with more than a little relief that I saw her open the door again and step outside. I was relieved until I saw her face. She looked angry; there was a harsh determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth.
“The car’s not there?”
She had bent to open one of the pockets on her trousers, was pulling something from it. “The El Camino? No.” She straightened up, held out a pair of latex gloves. “Here, put these on. You think you can go in there without being bothered by-you know, the confined space?”
“I’ll be okay.” I took the gloves, started putting them on. “What’s in there?”
“I’ll show you, but we have to hurry. I don’t want to keep Travis wait-ing.
She stepped inside, I followed. She closed the door behind me. She turned on her flashlight. The garage was more orderly than the backyard, but was nevertheless crowded with lawn equipment, tools and lumber. A fixed wooden ladder led to a half loft above us, where more lumber was stored. I couldn’t see much of it, and wasn’t really interested in the supplies for the renovation. My attention was focused on the dusty, dark-colored Camry sitting in the middle of the garage. The front bumper was off, and on a workbench, but it was clear the car had been in an accident.
“The right headlamp has been replaced,” she whispered. “But the old one is in that barrel-he’s using it as a trash can.” She moved the light toward a large cardboard drum with a metal rim. “I had a look underneath. There’s blood, hair and fabric. It should be enough. You want to look?”
“No,” I said, feeling sick.
“Okay. We’ll lock up and call the local cops. I’ll refer them to McCain. He should-” She suddenly stopped talking. We had both heard it. The sound of the Volvo starting up.
And then, almost immediately, the sound of breaking glass.
34
Rachel’s eyes widened. She turned and reached the door before me, peeked out, motioned me to stay back. “Listen!” she said. “Hide in here. I’ll come back for you. If not, take that crowbar off the wall and pry the hinges off the door from the inside. Or smash your way out with a sledgehammer-whatever it takes.”
“Rachel-!”
But she was shoving me back from the door, and to my horror, I heard her locking it.
“No!” I whispered, but I could hear her moving away from the door.
Do what she asked you to do, I told myself. Concentrate on that. I narrowed the beam of the flashlight, tried to work my way back from the door to find a hiding place. I heard a car door slam. I managed to get to the double doors facing the street; I turned the flashlight off and looked through the crack between the doors.
It didn’t afford much of a view, but enough to see Travis being held at gunpoint by Gerald Spanning. As I watched, Spanning took hold of Travis’s injured hand and jerked it hard behind Travis’s back. Travis made a sharp cry of pain, stumbled slightly. The gun was pressed ruthlessly beneath his jaw. It was then I noticed that his face was bleeding.
It was all I could do not to launch myself against the doors in rage.
Spanning forced him across the street, toward me. Behind them I could see the Volvo, the driver’s side window smashed out. Spanning stopped at the foot of the drive and said, “Come on out, all of you. I won’t hesitate to shoot this bastard.”
Rachel didn’t answer. I had a frantic impulse to shout back at Spanning, to do something, anything. Given the distance and the darkness and the fact that she had nothing more than a handgun, I knew Rachel was waiting for a better opportunity to act-but would she wait too long?
Spanning jerked at Travis’s hand; Travis’s face contorted and he made a soft sound, but he did not cry out. Spanning, not satisfied with this, changed his grip slightly and made another motion, and this time Travis gave out a sharp bark of pain.
I couldn’t see or hear Rachel.
A second voice called out from the direction of the alley. “Drop it, lady, slow and easy. I’m a good shot.”
Deeny.
Spanning laughed. “She’s a damned good shot.”
“Put your hands on your head and walk away from the building, slowly,” Deeny said.
I saw Rachel come into view.
“Careful, Deeny!” Spanning said. “There’s another one of ‘em around here somewhere.”
“Irene?” Rachel said with scorn. “You think she’d come along with us after that whipping you gave her?”
Spanning didn’t look convinced.
“Yeah, that’s what she told
“Yeah? I’m sorry, kid,” Rachel said, moving a little closer to them. “Some people are just born snobs. You should have heard what she had to say when she got back from that trip. And when I told her she had probably just visited the guy who kicked her ass, she was shitting herself.”
“I know,” Travis said. “I thought she’d never shut up.”
“Yeah?” Gerald said. “Well, I’ll tell you whose gonna shut up right now-and that’s the two of you. And you,” he said to Rachel, “stay back.”
He moved Travis a little farther away from her.
“Deeny,” he called out, “come on over here.”
So, I thought, it worked; they were convinced Rachel and Travis came alone. But unarmed and locked in the garage, I might as well have been at home.
My narrow view did not allow me to see Deeny, but apparently she covered Rachel as Gerald roughly bound Travis’s wrists behind his back. Next he gagged his mouth, saying, as he tightened the strip of cloth, “This is just until we get a few things settled, then you and me are going to have us a nice, long talk.” He took the injured hand and squeezed it hard, pressing his thumb into Travis’s palm; Travis made a horrible sound behind the gag, fell to his knees. Gerald kicked him over, onto his face in the dirt.
I saw Rachel make the slightest shift of position, the only sign she gave of being affected by what was being done to Travis. I don’t think either Gerald or Deeny saw it. Gerald was now taking Rachel’s gun and tucking it into his belt. He handed a piece of rope and a gag to Deeny and told her to tie Rachel’s hands. I began to wonder if she would submit to being tied up. She was perfectly capable, even unarmed, of taking at least one of them out of action, if not both. But could she do it before one of them killed Travis?
Apparently, she decided to wait for a better opportunity, because when Deeny-having given her shotgun into Gerald’s care-began tying Rachel’s hands, Rachel stood silently and put up with it.
They were now standing so that I could see only Rachel’s back, and Deeny as she worked on removing Rachel’s equipment belt and then binding her wrists together. The two women were fairly close to me, only a few feet away. I moved back slightly from the door, and still it seemed that if Deeny turned suddenly, she might catch me staring out. But all of Deeny’s concentration was spent on tying a thin rope around Rachel’s wrists, a task that seemed somewhat daunting to her.
Rachel was taller than Deeny, and when Deeny tried to reach up to gag her, I heard Spanning say, “No, that
