Busted Play: The Series (Players, Books 1-6) Page 12

  Suddenly, all thoughts vanish when footsteps sound outside my door and a key turns in a lock. Expecting another thug in a mask, I’m shocked at the fifty-something-year-old woman who enters. In pearls and a powder pink dress suit, she bends over and unties my gag.

  Covering her nose, she says with a southern accent, “Ah do apologize for the minor inconvenience, but y’all need to stay put for the time bein’.”

  Like I have a choice?

  “Where am I?”

  “Why, y’all are a guest in my home.” Her pupils aren’t quite right, and I get this sense she could easily pass for a serial killer.

  A deep sigh escapes her as she wanders over to a window and pushes up on the sash. A warm breeze, thick with honeysuckle rushes into the room.

  When I try to twist on the bed so I can see her, my shoulders pull at their sockets “How long have I been here?”

  “Not so long. About eight hours.” She sits ramrod straight in a ladderback chair and picks non-existent lint from her skirt.

  Outside, a cardinal whoop-whoops in a nearby tree and sparrows chitter. It got real weird but I’ve been gone less than a day. Help can’t be that far away.

  She giggles, destroyer of hope. “Of co-ah-arse, y’all were in the car for about two days.”

  Oh my God. I remember. I’d slept in the back seat of a limo, then a van. Occasionally, I was fed a greasy burger before more drugs were forced into my system.

  Gorge rises in the back of my throat but I set my jaw tight and clench my fist. This is so wrong. “What the hell do you want with me?”

  “Y’all? Why nothin’ darlin’.” She reaches into her jacket pocket, picks out a flip phone, and daintily texts. “Someone will be up shortly.”

  “Wait.” I rattle the handcuffs against the iron headboard. “Please. Let me go.”

  Her totally vacant face stares at the wallpaper. “You really do stink, dreadfully. I’ll send up my assistant to take care of things.”

  “But why? Why me?” I’ve got a bad feeling this is way worse than a kidnapping.

  “Well it should be obvious, hun. You’re ruinin’ Mary Jane’s weddin’.”

  With that, she swivels on a pink pump, struts out, and slams the door. When an old-fashioned key clicks, a chill runs up and down my spine. Then, pulling down hard on the cuffs, I pray the ooze from the broken blisters will help my hand to slip through.

  Otherwise, as CJ is so fond of saying,

  I’m toast.

  Chapter 11

  Finally, the speaker at the front door buzzes and I press the button so the cops can get in. I’m damn grateful they’re finally taking Mel’s disappearance seriously and yet pissed it took eighteen hours to come to that brilliant conclusion.

  After introductions are made all around, I single out one detective in a black suit who seems to be in charge. “Did you trace the email?”

  “It was sent from a burner phone, just outside DC.” He points and five guys wearing FBI jackets drop a shitload of metal cases onto the kitchen table.

  “Washington?” My chest tightens with fists clenched at my side. “Dammit. You need to find her, not, not… do all this.”

  There’s a fucking army coming in and out of Mel’s apartment doing all the stuff you see on TV but this is real. They start dusting for prints, taking a whole lot of pictures, and asking me some real personal questions.

  Andy hands me a coffee. I grimace at the whiskey he put in it, but he’s right. I need to chill and help out as best I can but I feel fucking useless as her table fills with monitoring equipment, computers, and techies barking out orders.

  Suddenly it dawns on me, if I’m going to afford her ransom, I can’t miss my next game. We need to find her fast. Shit. All I can think of is how she hung up on me and how she probably thinks I was unfaithful.

  Baby I’m coming. Don’t give up.

  By the time Jaz arrives, the apartment resembles Barnum and Bailey’s last performance. When I see that Mary Jane’s with him, I clench my teeth so hard I wonder if I cracked a filling.

  Fucking excellent.

  “I’m so sorry, Chance.” With an Oscar-winning performance, she tries to throw herself at me, tears in her eyes.

  I step back and let her stumble onto her knees, so done with her theatrics.

  Finn, sitting at the kitchen table, stands and greets them both. He introduces an FBI agent and several other clowns. “Sit Ms. McAllister, and you too, It’s Jasmine, right?”

  My friend nods, hands wringing, looking more disheveled than I’ve seen since college.

  The man in a crumpled black suit motions them into the living room to sit. “Don’t be nervous, I’m asking everyone the same basic questions.”

  I want to hear what they’re saying but a delivery guy arrives from the local pizza place and I need to pay.

  While I’m up, I call my coach and explain the circumstances. Apparently, the team has insurance to help me get her back. Then as I thank him, the asshat tells me I have to report to the game tomorrow in order to have access to funds. And of course, should I miss a game, I’ll forfeit. However, out of the goodness of his heart, he gives me a pass on today’s practice.

  Thanks so fucking much.

  Sliding my wallet into my jeans, I explain it all to Andy who nods and writes some stuff down into his computer. Then he points toward the interview that’s moved to the kitchen table.

  Mary Jane hands Finn her cell phone, her accent getting thicker with every word out of her mouth. “I have no id-e-ah why you might want it.”

  Face grim, he thumbs through it and hands the phone to the FBI guy. Then, a few minutes later a whole lot of people swarm around one of the computers, talking excitedly.

  “What is it?” I squeeze in to stand behind them, ignoring their annoyed glances.

  Dammit, she’s my girlfriend. I have a right to know.

  Finn hands Andy the phone and we both look at a text from MJ’s mom, asking her to come home right away.

  Maybe I’m a little thick from lack of sleep. “I don’t get it. What do you guys see that I don’t?”

  Finn walks me into the living room and explains, “Ms. McAllister’s text from her mother was sent from the same burner phone as the ransom.”

  “MJ?” I turn, ready to throttle her by the throat until she tells me where they’ve taken Melanie.

  “I swe-ah, honey. I had no idea. My mother isn’t quite right in the head.”

  Finn makes a call, talks to the G-men at the table, then grabs his coat. “C’mon. Let’s go. We’re taking my jet.”

  “What about them?” I point to the twenty some-odd people gathered around Mel’s kitchen table.

  “They’ve agreed to give me a one hour head start.”

  It’s more likely it will take them that long to get a warrant.

  Chapter 12

  Alone in this Victorian bedroom, my situation seems so unreal. Other than in the Mideast or maybe in Mexico, I never heard of regular folks being kidnapped. I mean, with all the forensics these days, surely no one would be so bold or so stupid.

  That’s my pep-talk and I’m sticking with it. If I ever get out of this, I swear I’m going to sue these assholes for a million dollars because now I got more trauma to deal with.

  Shit, I’m never getting out of therapy.

  I should shout when I hear voices outside the house but don’t dare. The last time I screamed I was in the limo and this big fist punched me so hard, I saw stars. My cheek and jaw still ache like hell and when I push my tongue against a back tooth, it wiggles.

  About an hour ago I found a safety pin on the end table and stuck it into a hole in the handcuffs, struggling to release the lock. Despite what the movies would have you believe, it isn’t all that easy. Arms aching from reaching over my head, I don’t dare stop to rest because the shadows have shifted across the antique pine dresser, indicating it’s probably about high noon.

  That makes me picture CJ coming to the rescue saying, Make my day. After he blas
ts all the bad guys to hell, along with Mrs. Pink-suit, we’ll make love in a room above the saloon while the ragtime piano plays a Joplin tune.

  Perhaps all the drugs aren’t fully out of my system.

  When the door opens again, it’s the guy with the fist, his thug-like, emotionless face scaring the living b’jesus out of me. Saying nothing, he throws the pin onto the floor, uses a key to release the handcuffs and points to the bathroom. After I get some blessed time with the toilet, he re-shackles me and has to drag me down two flights of stairs.

  I sure as hell am not going to my death without a fight.

  Suddenly I have an idea, pull a button off my shirt and drop it on the stairs.

  Breadcrumbs, CJ, find my breadcrumbs.

  At the bottom and to my right is a large open doorway where kitchen utensils clang. To the left there’s a parlor with worn velvet furniture and surrounded by wallpaper as ugly as the upstairs.

  Mr. Fist pushes me out the front door and I stumble onto my knees, eye-to-eye with a miniature black man in a bright red jacket holding a lantern high.

  Really? Who the hell still owns those things?

  Crazy, politically-incorrect southern bitches, that’s who.

  When Mr. Fist pulls up on my hair, I can’t help but stand. Then he shoves me forward, past white wrought-iron furniture sitting on a perfectly manicured lawn the size of a football field.

  This can’t be good. On the other side of these five foot bushes is an old cemetery.

  My knees buckle as I search for a hole freshly dug, just for me. When I stumble on a gravestone, for a second, I read my name. But no, it’s actually a Meredith Lowe who died of influenza over a hundred years ago. I say a short prayer, hoping she’s got God’s ear because now Mr. Fist has me headed toward a marble mausoleum with a fierce looking angel on top.

  “Please. Let me go. I swear I won’t tell anyone.” Turning, I face the guy with a nose that has been broken a number of times, probably higher than his IQ.

  Ignoring my screams, he opens the door, grabs the chain of my handcuffs, and drags me in while I kick and scratch. When the door slams shut with this thud, it’s pitch black and so quiet that my heart sounds like a bass drum.

  I fucking hate small dark enclosures. It’s probably got dead bodies, rats, bones…

  Oh shit.

  I freak, yelling my lungs out and pounding on the door until my fists are bruised and bleeding. Then, after a while I drop to the floor sobbing because I saw this kidnapper’s face, too.

  There’s no way they’re going to let me live.

  Chapter 13

  My driver Jack stops the limo in front of Mel’s apartment building. Finn hops in the front with him. That leaves me sitting next to Andy, facing Mary Jane who’s crying softly.

  No one’s buying MJ knows squat, especially me, not after all the shit I’ve seen her pull in the last few days.

  “Where’s Melanie?” I ask for about the hundredth time this evening.

  “I already told you. I don’t know.” Real tears drip down her face, and for a moment I wonder if she’s telling the truth.

  “You really didn’t know your own mother kidnapped my girlfriend?”

  Her head bobs up and down. “You don’t get it. She’s… not quite all there. Check my text messages.”

  Finn still has her phone and after reading for a few minutes, hands it to me with his eyebrows raised. There’s links to bridal shops, bakeries, and a picture of a wedding invitation for next weekend.

  My God. The gold lettering announces the nuptials of Chance James Quinn to Mary Jane McAllister with my mother’s pastor presiding!

  I have to wonder why my mom hasn’t been all up in my face about it. Maybe she hasn’t heard or is waiting for me to say something. I’d call and ask but it’s almost three in the morning.

  Then, while Mary Jane sleeps in the jet, me and Andy tell Finn everything we remember about growing up next to the McAllister’s.

  Chapter 14

  After my crying jag ends, I’m so tired that I lay on my back on the cold marble floor. So this is how my life ends? I never get to have children or get married. I’d always imagined a small ceremony in North Carolina. I’d already picked out a simple white cotton dress decorated with lace and ribbons.

  CJ agreed and said he wanted the preacher from his hometown to say a few words in their backyard, while everyone partied and got drunk. He described overflowing plates of barbequed ribs, potato salad, baked beans, and sweet cornbread.

  I must’ve dozed off, because when I move again I’m chilled, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it’s getting hard to breathe.

  Then the door opens, a flashlight blinds me, and Mr. Fist’s voice sounds from above. “Get up.”

  Why bother? I’m as good as dead, anyhow.

  In the movies, the people paying the ransom always demand to hear proof that the victim is living but I don’t want CJ to pay because the minute he does, I’m dead.

  Mr. Fist doesn’t seem to notice my reluctance. He puts the phone to my ear and I try to think of something really clever that will lead CJ straight to me.

  I got nothing.

  “Hey baby. You there?”

  Oh my God, it is CJ. I get one last chance to make it good with him before I die. “I’m so sorry, hotshot. I love—”

  Mr. Fist removes the phone and I grab at him with both of my handcuffed fists. “God dammit. Let me finish.”

  Not at all affected by my begging, he grunts, pushes me back to the floor and leaves.

  Then it’s pitch black as is my total despair. I should have said I love you, angel. Or, I like marble cake. I totally fucked up my one chance of helping him to find me.

  Shivering, I curl into a little ball. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll find me.

  But as the air grows thin, I wonder if when they do, if I’ll be among the living.

  Chapter 15

  When I was a kid, I remember having play dates with the little girl who lived in the huge house next door. While me and my family occupied a modest cape, the McAllister’s lived in this eighteenth century mansion on the corner, complete with pool and tennis courts.

  Owning it someday was my boyhood ambition. Maybe that’s where all my troubles stem from. Then, in college, MJ mentioned the place needed some repairs. Being the gentleman I was, I promised to restore it once we got married. Now, walking into the house for the first time in eight years, I can’t believe how far downhill it’s fallen.

  Water stains line the walls and faded squares fill the long entryway instead of gilded frames. That’s some serious motive for kidnapping. As I look behind me, I’m sure Finn and Andy are thinking the same thing.

  “Mom?” Mary Jane squeezes past us, taking the lead as we move into a small parlor at the front of the house.

  High above on a steep staircase, an alto voice scolds, “There is absolutely no need for shouting, child.”

  She glances down at me and beams. “Ah do apologize, gentlemen. I swear I brought her up with better manners.”

  Then she glides down the stairs, dressed in some flowy white dress that probably went out of style with her grandmother.

  At the bottom, she hugs me warmly, releases me, and then looks over at my brother. “Why Andrew. I do declare. How lovely to see y’all. And this is?”

  She frowns, suddenly noticing Finn who interjects, upping his Irish accent. “’Tis sorry I am t’ be bargin’ in on you like this, missus. I’m Sean Finnegan and I’m here to tyke a few photographs fer the upcomin’ weddin’.”

  My mouth drops open, but I snap it shut real fast. MJ starts to say something, too, but I put my hand on her arm to warn her. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll shut the fuck up, too.

  Understanding, she grabs her mother’s elbow and sits her down on a red velvet couch with dark claw feet. “Isn’t that nice, Mom? A professional photographer.”

  This whole charade is making me nuts. Just give me five minutes alone with Mrs. McAllister and I’ll shake the c
razies out of her. Then she’ll tell us where she has Mel stashed. The FBI gave Finn just one hour before they come in, guns blazing. If that happens, I have my doubts we’ll ever find my sweet Iowa baby.

  Andy gives me a quick negative shake of the head. Like always, he knows what I’m thinking. Then he smiles and wanders behind the couch, to look over Finn and Mrs. McAllister’s shoulder.

  “Would you like some chocolate chip cookies and a juice box?” Birdlike, she turns and cocks her head, smiling brightly.

  I give Andy some credit for keeping a straight face. “I surely would appreciate that ma’am, if Momma says it’s alright with her.”

  “Don’t be silly. It isn’t anywhere near dinner time. Mary Jane, what’s gotten into you. Go into the kitchen and fetch everyone a snack.”

  My ex stands up, a mite too eager to leave and Andy follows, not letting her out of his site for a second.

  While they’re in the kitchen and Finn and Mrs. McAllister chat on the couch, I text my mom.

  A moment later, the doorbell rings and I jump up. “I’ll get it.”

  After giving Mom a reassuring hug, and a mini-briefing, I walk her into the festivities. All we need is Alice, a bunny and giant caterpillar smoking a hookah to complete the tea party.

  “Hello Darlene.”

  “Charlotte?” A confused look crosses Mrs. McAllister’s face.

  “I hope you don’t mind. CJ wanted me to meet the photographer.” Mom smiles and sits down on the other side of Finn and then the women chat excitedly over the stock photos of a wedding that’s never going to happen.

  While Finn does his thing, I lower into an rickety chair hoping my size won’t send it crashing. When I place one hand on the stairs for balance, something small under my palm catches my attention