Perfect Grave

Chapter Fifty-Five

S o far this morning, Bob Germain was four for four.

Rare on residential routes, he thought as he stopped his Escort wagon in front of number five and reached for his clipboard. Let’s see. He ran his finger down the page with the Super Quick amp; Friendly Delivery letterhead.

Recipient is Rhonda Boland. A letter from an insurance company.

“Help me, Rhonda,” Germain chuckled to himself after ringing the doorbell, wondering if he’d be lucky enough to have all twenty-five of his deliveries be home. Could be a record-setting day.

He rang the bell again. As time ticked by in silence, his hope faded.

“Figures.”

He reached for his pad to leave the message that he’d return later. His pen was poised when he was stopped by a noise from inside. What the heck was that? Sounded like a cry. He banged on the door.

“Hello!”

He tried the handle, surprised to find it was unlocked.

“Anybody home? You have a delivery! Hello!”

He heard another sound like a woman’s muffled groan. He entered, calling as he moved farther into the house, scanning it for a clue, hoping that he wasn’t going to come upon a love session, like his buddy did.

Getting down in Tacoma.

Germain stopped in his tracks.

First hair, then a forehead and a woman’s face, her mouth covered with tape. She was on the floor, on her back, taped to a chair, moaning, rolling her head.

Germain rushed to her side, pulled the tape from her mouth.

“Please, he’s got my son!”

Her face was bruised. He checked for more signs of injury.

“Who?” Germain glanced around. “Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere else?”

He pulled out his keys, extracted the blade of his pocketknife, and sliced at the tape, freeing her and helping her sit more comfortably.

“Ma’am, I don’t know what happened but I think I should call an ambulance.”

“No!”

“Ma’am, I think you need help.”

“My son! He took my son! Don’t call the police! He’ll kill him! Oh God!”

“Who? Ma’am we have to call some-”

The phone rang, jerking Rhonda to her feet. She trailed tape as she scrambled, grabbing the phone before the second ring could sound.

“Mom!”

“Brady! Oh, honey are you all right? Where are you, just tell me!”

Rhonda heard a scuffle, traffic noise. It had to be a public phone.

“Brady!”

The stranger came on the line.

“This is your wake-up call!”

“Please don’t hurt him! Please let him go! I’ll sell my house, anything! I’m begging you! Please!”

“You’ve got twenty-four hours to pay me in full! Say good-bye to your mother, pup!”

“Mommee!”

“Brady! I love you! Brady!”

The line died in her hand and Rhonda collapsed on the floor. She cradled the receiver, then released an agonizing sob.

Germain was dumbfounded.

“Ma’am, I think you’d better call the police right now.”

“ Nooooo! He’ll kill him!”

Germain blinked, then swallowed and looked around until his attention went into the bedroom, the posters of the Mariners, Spider-Man, the models of choppers and cars, ships, the skateboard.

A boy’s room.

On the floor he saw the photograph of a woman and a boy.

Isn’t that the murdered nun whose picture’s been all over the news?

Sister Anne.

Who’s the boy? What the hell’s going on?

Germain looked at the bed. At the sheets. At the small, dark smears.

Blood?

He reached for his cell phone, pressed 911 to get the police and an ambulance to Rhonda Boland’s address when Rhonda hurled herself at him, struggling for his phone.

“I told you no police! Now he’ll kill Brady!”

Germain held her back until he’d completed the call.

Rhonda dropped to the floor.

Would she ever see Brady again?