Chapter 7

A few minutes later, at their feet lies… a package…

Six feet long, encased in sacking, wound with chain. A careful observer might see it quiver.

“There a pizza place around here?”

McCullen eyes his companion. “Pizza? You want pizza?”

“Sure. I’m hungry. We’ve done everything he asked, haven’t we?” He prods the canvas bundle with the toe of a boot. “He’s not going anywhere, is he.”

“I suppose.”

Andrech jingles change in his pocket. “Mine’s pepperoni. What you having? It’s on me. With the bonus we’re getting on this, I think I can splash out.”

“Napolitano then. Extra anchovies.”

“Done.” Andrech turns for the door.

“And pick up some beers too.”

“Done too.” He strolls out.

Above them, Mitch backs away from the vault-light.

*****

There’s only one guard left…

But he’s still in the room with Frank.

Mitch looks over the rusted vault light, eyes the chain-cutters and the crowbar, weighs the chances in her head of being able to cut through even the corroded grill…

And not be heard…

And get down and in…

And get Frank out again…

And find Jenny…

…

…

She watches from above as he lights up a cigarette, inhaling slowly, then blowing curls of smoke…

Maybe six feet tall…

Heavily built…

…

Not the sharpest knife in the drawer though…

He looks down, sniggers and kicks at the mummy at his feet then strolls out.

Mitch, still clutching her crowbar and chain-cutters, dashes for the front entrance. She sprints for it, loops around and hides behind the swinging door. A few seconds later, McCullen steps out into the dusk, standing to watch the rising moon. The tip of his cigarette glows orange as he exhales smoke.

Clutching the crowbar and her fragile courage together, Mitch advances.

At the last moment, he senses the movement and turns. But the bar, raised high over her head, is already swinging, descending; and half a second later, a yard of inch-thick steel catches him squarely in the face.

McCullen drops like a felled ox, screaming and groping at his face. Mitch swings again, the bar crashing down on the neck of her prostrate enemy. He gargles and screams once more, briefly, then falls silent.

Moving quickly, she grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him into the building and out of sight. A thin trail of blood scraps over the concrete, black in the falling night.

*****

How long will he remain unconscious?

Jenny…

Frank…

Where are they?

Inside the building, it’s all but dark.

Cigarette lighter…

Mitch rummages in the pocket for the lighter. Flicking on the pale flame, moving as quickly as she dares, she heads as best she can in the direction of the roof-light, searching for the way down.

“Jenny… are you there, Baby? Talk to Mommy…”

But there’s only silence.

Along a corridor, door after door; decaying offices, an ancient canteen…

A stairway.

It’s pitch blackness she descends, calling… “Jenny? Talk to me, Baby. Jenny, tell Mommy where you are…”

She’s here: the cellar. A canvas and chain bundle lies on the cold floor, soundless, unmoving.

“Frank?” He moans as she touches him through the canvas. “Frank, it’s me. It’s Mitch. We’re getting out of here.”

She fumbles at the chains circled around him then dashes back outside, stepping over the unconscious body en route. Grabbing the chain-cutters, she sprints back inside, eases metal jaws over a thick metal link and cuts…

And again…

And again…

Chains rattle off a section at a time, then quickly, she peels away the layers of sacking, starting where she thinks his head is.

Frank’s face freed, she strips away the tape and coughing and retching. “Oh, Christ, Mitch… I thought I was dead.”

“No time to talk. Roll over. Let me get the cuffs off you.”

He tries to roll. She pulls him the rest of the way, cuts through the thinner chain of the handcuffs, but doesn’t bother with the wrists. His hands are free.

“Can you stand?”

He struggles up, gasping in pain as he moves. “Watch me.”

“Quickly, we haven’t much time…”

“No problem. Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet. Jenny. Frank, they’ve got Jenny here somewhere. We have to find her.”

Frank goes very still.

“Frank? Frank, what’s the matter?”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

“Frank, what is it?” Her voice trembles. “You’re frightening me.”

“Mitch,” he takes her by the shoulders, with his one open eye, looks her in the face. “Mitch, you have to be brave. Jenny’s dead.”

Frozen save for the pumping of her lungs, “Dead? No, you're wrong. I saw her…”

“She’s dead, Mitch. And we have to go.”

Mitch’s breath judders and shakes. “She can’t be dead. My little girl. It’s a mistake…”

“Mitch, I saw it. I saw him murder her…”

“No…” Her voice morphs to a wail.

“He shot her. Shot her through the head. She’s dead.”

“Nooo…” Her voice a rising scream, Mitch beats his chest with her fists.

But he seizes her by the wrists. “Mitch, we can’t help Jenny. And we have to go. Now!”

“I can’t. I can’t. Jenny…”

He releases one wrist, pulls her by the other, towing her behind him. Up the stairs, down the corridor…

He pauses at McCullen’s prone body by the exit; hovers, looks out, then back inside, then down again.

“Mitch, help me.” He lifts the body at the wrists. She’s weeping, distraught, disabled with grief. “Mitch help me. Take his legs.”

“I can’t I can’t.”

“Mitch!” Dropping McCullen, he strides across, bringing his palm hard across her face. “You can cry later. Right now, help me.”

Streaming tears, “What with?”

“Larry has to think I’m dead. He wants to murder me. Let’s make him think he succeeded. If he doesn’t believe I’m dead, he’ll keep coming. Now take the feet.”

Shaking and crying, Mitch obeys him. Between them, they drag the unconscious McCullen along the corridor, down the stairs and into the cell. Frank grins as he tapes the mouth then rolls canvas around the body along with fresh lengths of chain. He snaps his fingers at Mitch, jabs a finger towards the stack by the wall. “Padlocks.”

Numbly, she obeys him. Glee on his face, Frank secures the chains in place. Then standing, he grabs her by the hand again. “Time to go.”

Quickly and quietly they move, Frank dragging his sobbing wife behind him. As they vanish into the darkness, a figure emerges from the darkness, carrying boxes and bags.

“McCullen? Got the food and the beer…” After a second he puts down his load, pulls a torch out of his pocket and makes his way to the basement. “McCullen?”

There’s no sign of his companion, but their prisoner lies on the ground where they left him.

Satisfied, he heads back up.

Happily chewing pizza and swigging beer, he waits. Headlights swing into view. A car pulls up and Klempner steps out, looks around. “Where’s McCullen? Downstairs?”

“I think he went with Mr Bech to search for the woman, sir.”

“Everything alright here?”

“Yes, sir.” He glances down at the spare box. “His food’ll go cold. Pizza, sir? There’s beer too.”

“Sure. Why not?” Klempner flips open the box.

“If you don’t like anchovies, sir, there’s pepperoni here.”

“I like most things. Anchovies are fine.” He peels off a slice, chews. “Just going downstairs. Keep watch.”

In the basement, his package is jerking and moaning. The moans rise in cadence, climbing octaves. The jerking has a desperate edge. Klempner smiles and takes another bite of pizza.

Could have used more capers…

*****