One False Move
Page 71
“There are chasms of leviathan proportions,” Win corrected.
“There’s another thing I don’t get. If the Bradfords have had a tap on Mabel’s phone this whole time, wouldn’t they have been able to trace Anita’s calls?”
Win mulled that one over. “Maybe,” he said, “they did.”
Silence. Myron flipped on the radio. The game was in the second half. The New York Dolphins were getting crushed. The announcers were speculating on the whereabouts of Brenda Slaughter. Myron turned the volume down.
“We’re still missing something,” Myron said.
“Yes, but we’re getting close.”
“So we still try the Bradfords.”
Win nodded. “Open the glove compartment. Arm yourself like a paranoid despot. This may get ugly.”
Myron did not argue. He dialed Arthur’s private line. Arthur answered midway through the first ring. “Have you found Brenda?” Arthur asked.
“I’m on my way to your house,” Myron said.
“Then you’ve found her?”
“I’ve be there in fifteen minutes,” Myron said. “Tell your guards.”
Myron hung up. “Curious,” he said to Win.
“What?”
And then it hit Myron. Not slowly. But all at once. A tremendous avalanche buried him in one fell swoop. With a trembling hand Myron dialed another number into the cell phone.
“Norm Zuckerman, please. Yes, I know he’s watching the game. Tell him it’s Myron Bolitar. Tell him it’s urgent. And tell him I want to talk with McLaughlin and Tiles too.”
The guard at Bradford Farms shone a flashlight into the car. “You alone, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
The gate went up. “Please proceed to the main house.”
Myron drove in slowly. Per their plan, he slowed on the next curve. Silence. Then Win’s voice came through the phone: “I’m out.”
Out of the trunk. So smooth Myron had not even heard him.
“I’m going on mute,” Win said. “Let me know where you are at all times.”
The plan was simple: Win would search the property for Brenda while Myron tried not to get himself killed.
He continued up the drive, both hands on the wheel. Part of him wanted to stall; most of him wanted to get at Arthur Bradford immediately. He knew the truth now. Some of it anyway. Enough to save Brenda.
Maybe.
The grounds were silk black, the farm animals silent. The mansion loomed above him, floating almost, only tenuously connected with the world beneath it. Myron parked and got out of the car. Before he reached the door, Mattius the Manservant was there. It was ten o’clock at night, but Mattius still displayed fall butler garb and rigid spine. He said nothing, waiting with almost inhuman patience.
When Myron reached him, Mattius said, “Mr. Bradford will see you in the library.”
Myron nodded. And that was when someone hit him in the head. There was a thud, and then a thick, blackening numbness swam through him. His skull tingled. Still reeling, Myron felt a bat smash the back of his lower thighs. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees.
“Win,” he managed.
A boot stomped him hard between the shoulder blades. Myron crashed facefirst into the ground. He felt the air whoosh out of him. There were hands on him now. Searching. Grabbing out the weapons.
“Win,” he said again.
“Nice try.” Sam stood over him. He was holding Myron’s phone. “But I hung it up, I Spy.”
Two other men lifted Myron by the armpits and quickly dragged him into the foyer and down the corridor. Myron tried to blink out the fuzzies. His entire body felt like a thumb hit with a hammer. Sam walked in front of him. He opened a door, and the two men tossed Myron in like a sack of peat moss. He started to roll down steps, but he managed to stop his descent before he hit bottom.
Sam stepped inside. The door closed behind him.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s get this done.”
Myron managed to sit up. A basement, Myron realized. He was on the steps of a basement.
Sam walked toward him. He reached out a hand. Myron took it and pulled himself to his feet. The two men walked down the steps.
“This section of the basement is windowless and cement-lined,” Sam said. Like he was giving a house tour. “So the only way in or out is through that door. Understand?”
Myron nodded.
“I got two men at the top of the steps. They’re going to spread out now. And they’re pros, not like that Mario asswipe. So no one is getting through that door. Understand?”
Another nod.
Sam took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “Lastly, we saw your buddy jump out of the trunk. I got two marine sharpshooters hidden out there. Persian Gulf War vets. Your friend comes anywhere near the house, he’s toast. The windows are all alarmed. The motion detectors are set. I’m in radio contact with all four of my men under four different frequencies.” He showed Myron a walkie-talkie of some kind with a digital readout.
“Different frequencies,” Myron repeated. “Wow.”
“I say all this not to impress you but to stress how dumb a flight attempt would be. Do you understand?”
One more nod.
They were in a wine cellar now. It smelled as robust and oaky as, well, a perfectly aged chardonnay. Arthur was there. His face was skull-like, his skin drawn up tautly against his cheekbones. Chance was there too. He was sipping red wine, studying the color, trying very hard to look casual.
Myron glanced about the wine cellar. Lots of bottles in crisscrossed shelves, all tilted slightly forward so the corks would remain properly moist. A giant thermometer. A few wooden barrels, mostly for show. There were no windows. No doors. No other visible entranceways. In the center of the room was a hefty mahogany table.
The table was bare except for a gleaming set of pruning shears.
Myron looked back at Sam. Sam smiled, still holding a gun.
“Label me intimidated,” Myron said.
Sam shrugged.
“Where is Brenda?” Arthur demanded.
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
“And Anita? Where is she?”
“Why don’t you ask Chance?” Myron said.
“What?”
Chance sat up. “He’s crazy.”
Arthur stood. “You’re not leaving here until I’m satisfied that you’re not holding out on me.”
“Fine,” Myron said. “Then let’s get to it, Arthur. You see, I’ve been dumb about this whole thing. I mean, the clues were all there. The old phone taps. Your keen interest in all this. The earlier assault on Anita. Ransacking Horace’s apartment and taking Anita’s letters. The cryptic calls telling Brenda to contact her mother. Sam cutting those kids’ Achilles tendons. The scholarship money. But you know what finally gave it away?”
“There’s another thing I don’t get. If the Bradfords have had a tap on Mabel’s phone this whole time, wouldn’t they have been able to trace Anita’s calls?”
Win mulled that one over. “Maybe,” he said, “they did.”
Silence. Myron flipped on the radio. The game was in the second half. The New York Dolphins were getting crushed. The announcers were speculating on the whereabouts of Brenda Slaughter. Myron turned the volume down.
“We’re still missing something,” Myron said.
“Yes, but we’re getting close.”
“So we still try the Bradfords.”
Win nodded. “Open the glove compartment. Arm yourself like a paranoid despot. This may get ugly.”
Myron did not argue. He dialed Arthur’s private line. Arthur answered midway through the first ring. “Have you found Brenda?” Arthur asked.
“I’m on my way to your house,” Myron said.
“Then you’ve found her?”
“I’ve be there in fifteen minutes,” Myron said. “Tell your guards.”
Myron hung up. “Curious,” he said to Win.
“What?”
And then it hit Myron. Not slowly. But all at once. A tremendous avalanche buried him in one fell swoop. With a trembling hand Myron dialed another number into the cell phone.
“Norm Zuckerman, please. Yes, I know he’s watching the game. Tell him it’s Myron Bolitar. Tell him it’s urgent. And tell him I want to talk with McLaughlin and Tiles too.”
The guard at Bradford Farms shone a flashlight into the car. “You alone, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
The gate went up. “Please proceed to the main house.”
Myron drove in slowly. Per their plan, he slowed on the next curve. Silence. Then Win’s voice came through the phone: “I’m out.”
Out of the trunk. So smooth Myron had not even heard him.
“I’m going on mute,” Win said. “Let me know where you are at all times.”
The plan was simple: Win would search the property for Brenda while Myron tried not to get himself killed.
He continued up the drive, both hands on the wheel. Part of him wanted to stall; most of him wanted to get at Arthur Bradford immediately. He knew the truth now. Some of it anyway. Enough to save Brenda.
Maybe.
The grounds were silk black, the farm animals silent. The mansion loomed above him, floating almost, only tenuously connected with the world beneath it. Myron parked and got out of the car. Before he reached the door, Mattius the Manservant was there. It was ten o’clock at night, but Mattius still displayed fall butler garb and rigid spine. He said nothing, waiting with almost inhuman patience.
When Myron reached him, Mattius said, “Mr. Bradford will see you in the library.”
Myron nodded. And that was when someone hit him in the head. There was a thud, and then a thick, blackening numbness swam through him. His skull tingled. Still reeling, Myron felt a bat smash the back of his lower thighs. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees.
“Win,” he managed.
A boot stomped him hard between the shoulder blades. Myron crashed facefirst into the ground. He felt the air whoosh out of him. There were hands on him now. Searching. Grabbing out the weapons.
“Win,” he said again.
“Nice try.” Sam stood over him. He was holding Myron’s phone. “But I hung it up, I Spy.”
Two other men lifted Myron by the armpits and quickly dragged him into the foyer and down the corridor. Myron tried to blink out the fuzzies. His entire body felt like a thumb hit with a hammer. Sam walked in front of him. He opened a door, and the two men tossed Myron in like a sack of peat moss. He started to roll down steps, but he managed to stop his descent before he hit bottom.
Sam stepped inside. The door closed behind him.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s get this done.”
Myron managed to sit up. A basement, Myron realized. He was on the steps of a basement.
Sam walked toward him. He reached out a hand. Myron took it and pulled himself to his feet. The two men walked down the steps.
“This section of the basement is windowless and cement-lined,” Sam said. Like he was giving a house tour. “So the only way in or out is through that door. Understand?”
Myron nodded.
“I got two men at the top of the steps. They’re going to spread out now. And they’re pros, not like that Mario asswipe. So no one is getting through that door. Understand?”
Another nod.
Sam took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “Lastly, we saw your buddy jump out of the trunk. I got two marine sharpshooters hidden out there. Persian Gulf War vets. Your friend comes anywhere near the house, he’s toast. The windows are all alarmed. The motion detectors are set. I’m in radio contact with all four of my men under four different frequencies.” He showed Myron a walkie-talkie of some kind with a digital readout.
“Different frequencies,” Myron repeated. “Wow.”
“I say all this not to impress you but to stress how dumb a flight attempt would be. Do you understand?”
One more nod.
They were in a wine cellar now. It smelled as robust and oaky as, well, a perfectly aged chardonnay. Arthur was there. His face was skull-like, his skin drawn up tautly against his cheekbones. Chance was there too. He was sipping red wine, studying the color, trying very hard to look casual.
Myron glanced about the wine cellar. Lots of bottles in crisscrossed shelves, all tilted slightly forward so the corks would remain properly moist. A giant thermometer. A few wooden barrels, mostly for show. There were no windows. No doors. No other visible entranceways. In the center of the room was a hefty mahogany table.
The table was bare except for a gleaming set of pruning shears.
Myron looked back at Sam. Sam smiled, still holding a gun.
“Label me intimidated,” Myron said.
Sam shrugged.
“Where is Brenda?” Arthur demanded.
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
“And Anita? Where is she?”
“Why don’t you ask Chance?” Myron said.
“What?”
Chance sat up. “He’s crazy.”
Arthur stood. “You’re not leaving here until I’m satisfied that you’re not holding out on me.”
“Fine,” Myron said. “Then let’s get to it, Arthur. You see, I’ve been dumb about this whole thing. I mean, the clues were all there. The old phone taps. Your keen interest in all this. The earlier assault on Anita. Ransacking Horace’s apartment and taking Anita’s letters. The cryptic calls telling Brenda to contact her mother. Sam cutting those kids’ Achilles tendons. The scholarship money. But you know what finally gave it away?”
