Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

Автор книги: Medora Sale

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“What time is it?” asked Eleanor. “I have to get home before it’s time to get Heather off to school. I am not one of your carefree singles.”

Sanders reached over for his watch. “Would you believe that it’s only 9:30? That’s what happens when you leave for dinner before the sun sets.”

“Mmmm,” said Eleanor, giving herself up to the moment, “set the alarm for two o’clock.”

“Why not five?” he murmured. “I’ll cook you breakfast.”

Chapter 8

It was the final five minutes of Amanda’s second last class of the day, English. The sun pouring into the classroom seemed to have infected teacher and students with a spirit of lazy contentment. It had been a long, cold winter. The discussion of Alexander Pope’s Rape of the Lock was dwindling into nothing; even the title was no longer capable of producing giggles. In that soporific atmosphere, the secretary’s head poking around the corner hardly caused a ripple. Miss Whitney lazily took the proffered piece of paper, read it, and called to Amanda.

“It’s a phone message. It’s almost time for the bell, so why don’t you go now and call? Take your books.” Startled at the unusual summons, Amanda hastily gathered her knapsack and poetry text and stumbled out of the classroom down to the pay phone in the common room.

She looked carefully at the words on the slip for the first time. “Please call your Aunt Kate as soon as possible.” Where was Aunt Kate? The number on the message was not familiar. Amanda fished out her quarter and dialed the number. A pleasant masculine voice answered with the words, “Harris and Robinson. May I help you?”

“May I speak to Dr. Abbott, please?” asked Amanda.

“And who may I say is calling, please?”

“It’s her niece, Amanda,” she replied, confused.

“Oh, yes. Is that Miss Griffiths? Dr. Abbott is in a brief meeting right now. Would you like to hold? She shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.” Ten minutes sounded like an eternity to Amanda, who could at that moment hear the bell ringing for Latin. “Wait a moment, I think she may have left a message for you.” There was a pause. “Here it is. Could you please meet her at 3:30 at the corner of Mount Pleasant and Elm, the southeast corner? She is picking up your parents at the airport.”

Still clutching her magic piece of paper, Amanda pelted into Latin class, no later than several of her slower-moving classmates. Breathlessly she waved the slip in front of Mrs. Cowper’s face and explained her predicament. Her parents were coming in; her aunt wanted her to drive out with her to the airport to meet them; and could she leave class five minutes early?

Mrs. Cowper reacted predictably. “Of course, Amanda! How nice that your parents are coming in. Keep your eye on the clock and slip out when you need to. Leave yourself enough time to get to your locker. Have a lovely time tonight!”

It was a couple of minutes before the final bell when she stationed herself on the prescribed corner, looking intently down the hill for Aunt Kate’s car to appear. She scarcely noticed the yellow police car pull up in front of her and stop, lights flashing. The handsome young constable who was driving got out and walked over to her. She looked up in surprise. “Excuse me, miss, but are you Amanda Griffiths?” She nodded, beginning to feel a sickening sense that something was very wrong. “I was asked to pick you up and take you out to the airport—something about an accident—” As his voice trailed off, he smiled and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Is it my parents?” she asked. “Has someone been”—she couldn’t say the word that was on her mind—“hurt?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he answered gently. “But if you’ll come with us we’ll soon have it straightened out.” He propelled her toward the car and opened the back door. There was a man in plain clothes sitting on the passenger side, looking straight ahead. She climbed in, and only realized after the door slammed shut that there were no handles on the inside. That and the mesh between the front and back seat gave her an uncomfortable caged feeling.

Instead of heading north in the direction of the airport, however, the car turned right off Mount Pleasant into north Rosedale; it cruised along Summerhill, into a park, past the sign that said “Official Vehicles Only,” and down a steep hill. Amanda opened her mouth but could not phrase a question that seemed adequate to the occasion. Besides, terror had taken away her voice, and she was grappling to maintain an outward appearance of calm. The car stopped, and the driver got out. He opened the door and bent over to peer in. She shrank back automatically. He turned away from her; when he turned back to her he had a handkerchief in his hand, with a sickly, sweet, chemical smell to it. As she opened her mouth to scream he clapped it over her face, soaking wet and cold. She struggled for an instant.

Eleanor sat with her mother, lazily drinking tea and letting her thoughts float idly where they would. Her mother was chewing over a problem having to do with the planting of some perennials at the bottom of the garden and the apparently related question of whether the tenant who was renting the coach house over the garage for a handsome sum should be allowed to buy a puppy. A standard poodle was what he had in mind, and the various strengths and weaknesses of the breed—as understood by Jane Scott—were being canvassed minutely. “You see, dear, poodles dig. I know they do, because they’re just like terriers, and it’s impossible to keep a garden if you have a terrier. So what do you think I should do?”

Eleanor paused and looked at her mother. She hadn’t been listening carefully enough to know which problem had actually been tossed in her lap, and besides, it seemed obvious to her that her mother would plant what she liked and that Susan, who owned the house, coach house and all, would not object to anything her new tenant wanted to do of such an innocent nature. “Well,” she temporized, and was saved by the sight of Kate Abbott waving through the living-room window and striding around to the side door. “Kate,” she hailed, “come and have some tea.”

“Well, I don’t really think I should,” she said. “I just came over to see if Amanda was here. She wasn’t home when I got in, and it occurred to me that she might have wandered over.”

“She’s not here,” said Eleanor. “But we can ask Heather. She might know where she was going after school.” She called upstairs and was finally greeted by an answering shout and the appearance of her daughter. “When did you last see Amanda, dear?” asked Kate. “And did she say anything about where she was going?”

Guilt compounded with alarm spread itself over Heather’s face. “I haven’t seen her,” she said. “I waited with Leslie for the longest time, and then one of the other girls said that Amanda had gone already, and so Jennifer and Leslie walked me home. They said it was all right.” Heather’s eyes swam with tears as she felt the weight of the awful responsibility they felt for one another on these trips back and forth. “Maybe she’s still at school waiting for someone to walk home with; Miss Johnson said she’d suspend anyone who walked home alone or didn’t make arrangements.”

Kate gave her a reassuring hug and said that it was perfectly all right, that Amanda had probably arranged to do something else, and that she, Kate, had forgotten all about it. That had happened before. But after Heather, relieved, had run off again, she turned a very alarmed face to Eleanor. “Do you suppose she is still at school?” asked Kate. “Perhaps I’d better go over and see.”

“No,” said Eleanor. “We’ll call the school, and if I can’t get anyone there, I’ll drive over. You want to stay at home so you’ll be there to scream at her when she walks in. Who’s that girl that lives around the corner—the one who walked Heather home?”

“Leslie—Leslie Smith. She lives on MacNiece. They’ll be in the phone book. We just have to find a Smith on MacNiece.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Eleanor. “There’s an easier way. Heather! Get me your yearbook! Her number will be in there. It’s a lot easier than plowing through four pages of Smiths.” Heather appeared, book in hand. But Leslie Smith, although easily located, had no more help to offer.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbott,” she said. “But all I know is that someone—I think it was Kim—said that Amanda had left early and so we shouldn’t wait. I figured she had a doctor’s appointment or something like that.”

“Why don’t we go over to your place,” suggested Eleanor, “and take the yearbook with us, and see if we can track her down?”

Jane Scott, who had been listening quietly to all of this, nodded in agreement. “You go back, and Mrs. Flaherty and I will come over with a bite for you to eat.”

But half an hour later, at 5:45, they were no further ahead. No one had answered at the school office, so Eleanor had driven over. But Amanda was not among those dressing after late soccer practice, or on the stage polishing up their routines for the music show, and none of these girls had seen her. Jennifer knew no more than Leslie, and Kim vigorously denied having said anything about her whereabouts. Baffled and frightened, they looked at each other over a plate of sandwiches, untouched, and a bottle of sherry, sitting on the coffee table between them.

Eleanor checked her watch and decided it was time to take more decisive action. “Are you really worried?”

“I’m terrified. Not only am I fond of Amanda, but I keep imagining my brother’s face if something has happened to her. But it’s only been a couple of hours since she got out of school. If I call the police they’ll laugh at me.” She pushed per long hair back into its fastenings and composed her face. “You see, she’s never done anything like this before, and she and her friends are very careful about letting you know where they are these days, even if it does irritate them to have to do it.”

“Right,” said Eleanor firmly. “I’m calling John. He’ll know whether we should worry or not, and he certainly won’t laugh.”

“John?” said Kate. “What can he do?”

Eleanor shrugged impatiently. “My only problem is that I’ve never called him before—at work, that is.” She turned pink with embarrassment. “I always have visions of getting eight police cars and an ambulance if I call the department, so I’ve never tried.”

That elicited a slight smile. “Well,” said Kate, “let’s try now. Just look up ‘police’ in the phone and avoid any number that says ‘emergency.’”

“I’ll try his apartment first.” Eleanor took out her little book. But the phone rang uselessly in his empty bedroom. “Well, then, here goes.” She took a deep breath and dialed. It only took five minutes to get someone on the line who grudgingly admitted that he might know where John was and reluctantly agreed to fetch him. “Thank God,” she breathed into the receiver at the sound of his voice. “It’s me, Eleanor. I’m at Kate’s, and we need your help.” Her explanation tumbled out in an almost incoherent jumble of words.

“When did you say she was last seen?” he said at last. “Three-thirty? Wait there. I’ll be right over.”

It took him less than twenty minutes to pull up in Kate’s driveway. Eleanor dragged him in the door, spluttering apologies as she went. He raised his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me exactly what you know so far.” He sat very still and watched them carefully as he listened. “Now,” he said calmly after the story had trickled to a halt, “first let’s find out what happened at school. Why did her friends think she had left early?”

“I don’t know,” said Eleanor, “except that some girl—unidentified—said so, and everyone accepted it, of course. But I suppose that we could call Roz Johnson and see if she knows anything.”

Amanda was dreaming in garish colour that she was flying through a brightly painted department store filled with overstuffed furniture upholstered in various shades of bilious green and yellow. Suddenly, something went wrong with her flying mechanism, and she crashed, unable to save herself, into a particularly hideous couch that trapped her in its feathery depths. Her first thought at this point was that she was going to be sick. She gagged and retched and tried unsuccessfully to move. Her apparent paralysis panicked her completely, and she thrashed unavailingly until she was conscious enough to realize that her hands and feet were tied, and her mouth closed with a tight bandage. Voices floated in and out of her awareness.

“Undo that gag—come on, she’s going to be sick. Move it!”

“What for? Who cares? It’s not your goddamn car.”

“What for? You fucking idiot, she could choke to death, and then where’d we be?”

“Who the fuck are you calling an idiot? You said she’d be out for hours. Give her some more of that stuff.” Hands grabbed her, yanked the gag off her mouth, and pulled her upright. She opened her eyes, saw grass and the edge of a car seat wavering in front of her, and was very sick. Hands held her up as she retched and retched until her agonized stomach muscles could produce nothing more, and she sagged down with her head sitting against the greasy edge of the car door.

Then the hands grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of white, then a double blur of white: then, blinking and concentrating, she saw the handkerchief. She took a desperate last gasp of untainted air before it hit her face, and in the only defense measure her blurred brain could think of, she slumped inertly at once. The voices faded and echoed, far, far away, and once again she floated, lurching helplessly through a void that was at once black and harshly brilliant.

Eleanor sat aimlessly at the typist’s desk in the general office at Kingsmede, watching Roz Johnson and John trying to track down Amanda. They had abandoned a distracted Kate with Jane Scott, leaving instructions to call if anything happened.

“If she left early,” said Roz, “she should have signed out. They’re not allowed just to leave, even if they have a good reason. Although of course some of them do.” She was running her finger up the list of names in the sign-out book as she spoke. “But Amanda has never been one of those—so far, anyway. No, she’s not here.” She paused for a moment. “Well, we have to find out when she left. If she was in class last period then we’ll have some idea of the time.” She looked wildly about her. “Where in hell do they keep the student timetables these days? Sorry to appear so dim, but I’m used to screaming at someone else for information like this.” She sorted quickly through sets of files and notebooks. “Ah, there they are.” And she picked up a huge blue three-ring binder filled with computerized timetables. “Let’s see, today is Wednesday,” she muttered, “so she had Latin last period. Good. We call Isabel Cowper and see if she was in Latin. That’s simple—we’ll get there soon.” Roz disappeared into her own office and returned flourishing a typed list of names and addresses. “This shouldn’t take long,” she said. John moved over and sat on the desk next to Eleanor.

“Who’s staying with Heather?” he murmured.

“Susan. She got home just before I went over to get mother. Large families are terribly useful in a crisis.” She stopped to listen as Roz made contact on the phone.

“She isn’t? Do you know where she is?” A pause. “Do you know where they went for dinner? It’s important.” Another pause. “Well, did they say when they’d be back? This is Rosalind Johnson, from Kingsmede, where she teaches.” An excited burst of noise from the receiver. “Yes, hello, Cynthia, it’s nice talking to you, too, but I must reach Mrs. Cowper.” Exasperation showed in Roz’s face. “I don’t suppose they said which movie they were going to, did they?” Despair settled on her features. “Well, if she does call, tell her I must speak to her at once. And, in any case, she’s to call me as soon as she gets in, either at the school number or my own private number. She has it.” Roz listened again to a spate of high-pitched noise. “Fine, Cynthia, and thank you. Now don’t forget, it’s important.” She put the receiver down. “God help us, I think that woman’s salary should be cut for going out and leaving her kids with the vaguest idiot in the Grade Ten class. Anyway, she’s out to dinner somewhere, and then going to a movie somewhere, but she might call in to check on the kids.” She reached over for the blue book again. “So, what did she have before Latin? That might help—you never know.” She stared at the timetable. “English. Now who teaches her English—oh God, it’s Anne Whitney. Young and single. She’s probably out too.” She picked up her phone list. “You know, they always tell me that they have so much work to do that they never have a chance to leave their desks until midnight. Ha!” She dialed carefully, and they all waited. And waited. No response. “Damn,” said Roz finally. “Okay, I’d better call Sylvia. She runs the office here and generally knows what’s going on. Then I’ll just keep trying the others. They can’t stay out all night, you know. They have to come to work in the morning.”

“John, we can’t just wait here and watch Roz trying to telephone, can we?” asked Eleanor. “I mean anything could be happening to Amanda. Shouldn’t people be searching or something? Shouldn’t you get in touch with the department?”

“I did, darling. And they’re watching for her. But if she was picked up by him, and unless we accidentally stumble across him, it’s probably already much too late. I’m sorry—not that we won’t keep trying.” He reached out and took Eleanor’s hand. She turned and stared, white-faced at him.

“That poor kid! And poor Kate. I can’t bear it.” John handed her his handkerchief as tears poured down her cheeks.

Amanda swam back and forth between consciousness and black lurching oblivion. Voices rose and fell; each time they penetrated her conscious mind they were clearer and made more sense.

“We’ve got to get her the hell out of this car,” said one voice urgently. “The only time I can get it back in the garage without anyone noticing is between 8:00 and 8:30. Where did you leave yours?”

“I told you, Rick. It’s in a lot at the Chester Street subway station. And we’d better get a move on.” Amanda’s stomach gave an ominous heave as the car veered and speeded up. She breathed as deeply as she could through her nose and gradually the nausea eased.

“Where can we switch her over? It’s going to look goddamn peculiar if someone sees us dragging a girl out of a patrol car and dumping her somewhere else.” The voice called “Rick” sounded worried.

“I’ve got it all worked out, Rickie baby. Not everyone is as stupid as you are.” The other voice was venomous in its contempt. “You just let me out at the parking lot, go round the block, and follow me again. When I drive into the garage, come in after me. Then we’ll switch her.”

“Jesus, Jimmy, what if someone sees us?”

“No one will see us, okay?”

There was a ruminative pause as the car bucketed and bounced over potholes and obstructions. Amanda’s head began to ache fiercely. “Did you hear her? I think she’s awake again.” Rick’s voice was edgy, nervous.

Another pause. Amanda lay as quietly and still as she could, breathing, she hoped, with the languor of one heavily doped. “Naw. She’s out for the count. Listen, she’s coked up to here on that stuff.”

“I wish you’d give her some more. It gives me the creeps thinking she might wake up on me when I’m alone in the car.”

“For Chrissake, Rick. If I give her any more, it’ll kill her. Haven’t you heard of autopsies? You are the stupidest goddamn cop in the entire bloody force. They can tell what someone dies of, you know. And she isn’t supposed to die from too much chloroform.” The meaning of his words was slow to reach her, but when it did a wave of cold, hideous panic swept through Amanda.

“Well then, I don’t see why we have to wait. Why not bash her head in now? She makes me nervous.”

“Look, Rick, you do what you’re told. I’ve got this all worked out, and you’re sure as hell not going to fuck it up now. Shut up and drive.”

Roz came back into the office with a pot of coffee and three cups. “I hope black is okay,” she said wearily. “There doesn’t seem to be any milk left.” She poured coffee and passed the cups over the desk, then sat down. She looked progressively more haggard as the evening wore on. “Let me give Anne another try,” she muttered. “It must be fifteen minutes since I called her last.” She let the phone ring as she dangled the receiver from her fingertips and continued to chat. “I wonder if this is the most efficient way to go about things—Oh, hello! Anne? Roz Johnson here. Look, we have a problem. Was Amanda Griffiths in class today? Sure, go and check.” She looked up. “Well, she’s home. She sounds a bit cheerful, but she’s gone for her attendance book.” Roz spoke into the phone again. “She was. You’re sure.” Another pause. “What sort of message? Are you absolutely certain? Of course.” She raised her eyebrows. “Well, we can’t find her at the moment.” A pause. “We tried that. If you think of anything else, call me here at the office, or at home, if no one answers here. Thanks.”

Roz hung up the receiver and looked rather unhappily over at John and Eleanor. “According to Anne, Amanda got an urgent message to telephone her aunt as soon as possible. She let her leave class early. And that’s all she knows. But I guess she didn’t use the phone in the office or Sylvia would have mentioned it. I think. I’d better call her again and make sure.” With a sigh she reached for the list once more. “And you can use that phone if you want to check with the aunt. Not that I think for a minute it was a genuine call. It wouldn’t be the first time people have used faked messages to try to get the girls out for one reason or another.”

The car lurched sideways; there was a screech of brakes and loud horns. Maybe they would get into an accident. Amanda prayed for a car to smash into them, preferably on the side her feet were wedged against, not her throbbing head. Then the car pulled up and stopped. She rocked back and forth on the floor between the front and back seats.

“Is this it? Look, will you check and make sure she’s still out?”

“Goddammit, Rick, she’s still out. If she comes to, she’ll make a lot of noise and stuff—like the last time. Stop worrying.”

“Well, hurry up, then. I don’t want her moaning and throwing up back there.” She felt the car shudder as the door slammed, then the monotonous bumping along the pitted road surface started up again. The horrible black swirl of unconsciousness started to take hold of her again, in spite of the pounding of her head and the ache of her pinioned arms. I mustn’t, she thought, I mustn’t fall asleep. Must stay awake. Awake. She was dimly aware of further stops and starts. Time telescoped; the surface beneath her heaved up and down. Then the vibration under her stopped. The change shocked her awake again just as the door beside her head was opened.

“Here, grab her,” said the voice she recognized as “Jimmy.” Again she tried to breathe like one profoundly doped. Hands grabbed her shoulders and dug cruelly into them, then yanked. In spite of herself, she stiffened as her head cracked against something hard. “Shit, Rick, you don’t want to bash her brains out all over the car. Be careful.”

“Well, give me a hand then. She weighs a fucking ton.”

Amanda bristled a little at that. “It’s just because she’s dead weight. Here, I’ll get her around the waist.” She forced herself to lie totally helpless in their grasp as they pulled, pushed, and jostled her out of the back of the yellow patrol car. Suddenly she was in the air, then dropped, her back on something soft, her feet trailing on the hard ground. The short pleated skirt of her uniform flipped up, and she could feel cold, damp air on her unprotected thighs. Then she felt a pair of cold, damp hands on them, moving upwards.

“Just a minute, Rick. How much time you got? I mean, she’s just lying there, and no one can get in this garage. She’s supposed to look like she’s been raped, anyway.” Jimmy’s voice sounded hoarse and far away as the hands started tugging at her underwear.

There was the noise of feet. The hands abruptly left her thighs. “Shit, Jimmy, now who’s being stupid! Don’t you know those bastards can tell who raped somebody? It wouldn’t be the right guy. Christ! Go buy yourself some tail if you can’t wait. I can give you some great names.” Amanda felt herself being hauled up into another car. “And don’t mess around with her while I’m gone. I gotta go now and return the car. I’ll meet you at 8:45 outside the park.”

The door slammed against her feet. She heard the slam of another car door and the starting of another car engine. Her protector—as she now identified him—had gone. Leaving her alone with a disgusting voice and slimy pair of hands called “Jimmy.” She tried to wriggle herself into a more comfortable position without moving noticeably. The car door by her feet opened again. She felt the agonizing crunch of a bony knee covered in coarse material on her calf, then an elbow pressed on the seat beside her. Heat radiated from the body poised above her, and a hoarse voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll wait till little Rickie isn’t so nervous, and we have a little more time.” A huge hand clutched her; then she was abruptly dumped over the edge of the seat onto the floor, wedged face down on one shoulder.

The living room of the suburban townhouse was no longer brightly neat. Opened newspapers were scattered over the floor; grease and egg yolk congealed on plates scattered about the room. Various items of clothing lay where they had been taken off, and the television set flickered on, unheeded. He was sitting on a large chair with the walnut-veneer coffee table in front of him. Beside him on the floor were his coloured markers in their plastic case. He pushed the table out of the way, went out of the room; down the three steps, he made a right turn into the kitchen. The table was covered with more dirty dishes. A carton of milk sat, warm and sour-smelling, on the counter beside a dirty frying pan and some used coffee cups. He reached into the cupboard and took out the last clean glass, put it down, and reached into the refrigerator for a large bottle of Coke. When he turned back to the counter, there was no space to put the bottle down; with a gesture of impatient rage, he swept the counter clear in a welter of flying glass and sour milk. He put the bottle down, and there was no longer a clean glass waiting. He hit the counter with the bottle, and then stood, trembling, clutching the bottle in both hands. Finally, he walked carefully over to the far cabinets, his feet crunching on broken glass, and carefully lifted down a dusty tumbler from what was obviously a “good” set, poured his Coke into it, and returned to the living room.

His last failure still rankled. Not since the very beginning had he been humiliated this way, and he was sure that it must have been a matter of insufficient preparation on his part. He would pick a site tonight and, tomorrow, would inspect it carefully. Friday was plenty of time to act. He could certainly wait until Friday. He picked up his red marker and started to wave magic circles above the map. He chose, he rejected, he chose again. Finally he took out his yellow marker and made a little dot beside a green space. Then he took out his operations notebook and jotted down a strategic route. When he finished he leaned back in his chair and stared at a spot on the wall above the draperies, his mind empty of conscious thought, but filled with flickering, garish images.

Amanda strained her ears to pick up what was going on but heard nothing except the distant hum of traffic. After what seemed an interminable time, the garage door was thrown up once more, the door to the car opened and slammed, and the key turned in the ignition. She had been lying with her face pressed into the space under the front seat, choking on the fine dust of the floor, terrified of moving lest she attract Jimmy’s attention once again. The garage must have been built on a dirt laneway of ancient and epic disrepair; with every enormous bump her head jerked and she scraped her nose against the seat back. Finally they reached pavement again and the car maneuvered along the uneven streets, screeching to halts and spiraling in an endless series of turns. They finally pulled up with a nauseating bump. The door opened once again.

“It’s about time you got here. Christ! Where have you been? And what in hell were you doing? Listen, if you were messing around—”

“Don’t worry,” said Jimmy soothingly. “I wouldn’t mess around without giving you your chance, too, Rickie baby. Anyway, I had to make a couple of phone calls that took me a little longer than I thought. We don’t want to do this too soon. It’d be better to wait until everyone’s gone home to bed anyway.”

“Wait! Shit, Jimmy, I have to go on duty at eleven. It’s going to look pretty funny if I don’t turn up on time. And I want to take a shower before I go on.”

“A shower! You’re kind of weird, aren’t you? I mean, thinking of showers right now.” Jimmy’s voice was light and mocking now. “Well, here we are.”

“Just a minute. I’ll move the barricade.”

“Isn’t that going to look funny?”

“Naw. The guys who patrol around here always move it. And half the time they don’t bother putting it back. It just has to be moved for the next car. No one will notice.” The car door opened, cold wind blew in; then it shut again, and the car bounced downward.

The car crept slowly onto what must have been dirt or grass. It bumped its way cautiously along and then gently stopped. “Okay.” Jimmy’s voice was clear, authoritative now. “We get her out of the car onto the grass. Untie her and take off the gag. There’s a big rock under the seat on your side. Got it?” There was a murmur in reply. “Okay. As soon as she’s untied, we toss her in the bushes and bash her head in. And don’t screw up. Just a minute. You see anyone?” There was a pause. “Okay, let’s go, and don’t waste any time.”