The Bodyguard

Relax... Chuck bit back laughter. He’d robbed liquor stores, run drugs, mugged doofs in parking lots and stolen more cars than he could count. He’d never kidnapped anyone before. It surprised him how scared he felt. The caper hadn’t seemed real until they’d actually entered that fancy cabin. He’d been shaking ever since.

The grab had gone down easy. Too easy. A knock on the door, the doof answered and the girl had been asleep on the bed. Shoot up the doof with dope, then pack the girl to the car. Nothing to it.

Chuck kept playing the grab over in his mind, looking for bungles and wrecks. The whole thing had gone down as sweet as candy. No witnesses, no noise, and they hadn’t left behind fingerprints. It looked like Bo was right, and he was about to make the easiest ten grand of his life.

Except, he’d never done anything easy in his life. Something always went wrong.

He sipped the coffee. It burned his tongue, soured his mouth and slid down his throat like bubbling acid. It hit his gut with a thud and a jolt. He shuddered. Bo had resumed reading his magazine. A travel magazine, the only kind Bo ever read. Bo Moran’s big dream was to buy a monster RV complete with toilet, shower, microwave oven and satellite TV. He wanted to travel the highways and byways.

Chuck paused at a window. Thin curtains printed with yellow flowers and teapots were held back by bits of twine from the grimy glass. He’d covered an ancient Buick, swiped from an old lady too blind to drive, with tree branches. Once they ditched the car nobody could ever trace it to him. Bo’s Bronco glinted in the sun and looked misshapen with its oversized tires and steel bumpers. Trees grew right up to the house, reminding Chuck of the grisly old fairy tales he read to Paul. He half expected to see wolves slipping through the shadows.

Or FBI agents.

In and out, sweet as candy, he thought, trying hard to make himself believe it. Nobody gets hurt, nobody gets caught. In the movies the FBI always caught the kidnappers—usually by gunning them down. The Feds had helicopters, dogs and fancy electronic equipment. Bo said no way would the FBI get involved. Not a chance.

“They always call the cops,” he said.

Bo turned a page.

“How long till the doof wakes up? What if he calls the FBI? They’ll tap the phone. They can trace the call.” He stepped away from the window, with his back to the wall.

“Sit down. You sound like a herd of elephants.”

“He’s gonna call the cops.”

Bo rested back against the cushion and sighed. “I ever tell you a lie, man?”

Always, Chuck thought. He sipped the bitter brew.

“You ever hear the saying, If it looks good, then it is good?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s one of them down-home truths. As long as we look good, we do good. Get it?”

Chuck didn’t get it, but he was stuck. “I’m gonna check on the girl.” He turned for the doorway covered by a sheet of striped cotton. He pulled the curtain aside.

Paul sat next to the bed, hunched over, industriously filling in the designs in a coloring book with a crayon. Chuck grinned. Give Paul a coloring book and he could amuse himself for hours. The kid was a true artist. Maybe instead of a trip to Vegas when this was over, Chuck would get a bigger refrigerator for the apartment. That way he’d have more room to display Paul’s pictures.

The girl appeared to be sleeping. Paul had covered her to the chin with quilts, concealing the duct tape binding her arms and feet. A black-satin sleep mask covered her eyes.

Chuck’s gut tightened. He’d done a lot of crappy things in his life, but he’d never hurt a girl. Easy in and out, sweet as candy. They’d collect the money, give the doof directions, then split. No problem. But Bo hurt people—men, women, girls, even kids if it suited his purpose. Chuck let the curtain fall and wished he’d never met Bo Moran.

A brush of air tickled Paul’s cheek. He stopped coloring the round table of Camelot and noticed the curtain swinging over the door. Wind hammered the thin walls, and he could feel the floor thrumming under his feet. Goosebumps itched his arms. He turned his gaze on the girl. Penny was her name—Penelope. He liked the feel of her name rolling through his brain. Penelope. It made her sound like a princess in a fairy tale, like she belonged in his King Arthur coloring book.

He eased strands of silky pale hair off her cheeks. Pretty girl, Princess Penelope.

She made a small noise. Startled and guilty, he jerked his hand off her face. She moaned and struggled weakly under the covers. She said something he couldn’t understand.

“What?” he whispered. He set the book and crayons on the floor beside him. The dark corners and buckled floorboards housed mice, he felt certain. He hoped they didn’t like the taste of crayons.

Penny groaned, loudly.

Little retching noises bubbled in her throat. Paul understood that sound. Chuck liked his booze even when it made him sick. When he was sick, Paul knew not to let him sleep on his back where he could swallow his own vomit. He eased an arm around her narrow shoulders and helped her upright.

Her retching stopped and he grinned at having done a good job. “It’s okay, Miss Penelope,” he whispered.

He glanced up to see Chuck in the doorway. His brother looked kind of sick himself. “What are you doing?”

“She’s sick. I was helping.”

Bo shouldered Chuck out of the way. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Paul tightened his hold on the girl. She sagged in his arms and whimpered deep in her throat. He petted her soft blond hair.

“Chuck, you better get it through that dimwit’s head.” Bo’s eyes blazed animal fury. “If that mask comes off I’ll cut her throat and his.”

Chapter Four

“Yep, deader than a party at my in-laws’ house.” Sheriff Eldon Pitts used a thumb to cock back his cowboy hat. Staring down at Julius’s body he clucked his tongue. He twisted his lips and blew a long, confused-sounding breath.

Hunched against a wall, Frankie knew that with the sheriffs arrival she’d lost what little control she had over the situation. She chewed her lower lip. Both McKennon and her uncle had warned her to keep her mouth shut and to stay out of the way. Not that she had the faintest idea about what to do, anyway. She couldn’t see past being furious at Julius for getting Penny into this mess and terrified about what the kidnappers might do to the girl.

She studied the sheriff. About her height, he had a big face made bigger by a huge mustache that concealed his mouth. He appeared confused, and she wondered if he’d ever dealt with a kidnapping before. Or a murder for that matter. The county population was almost evenly divided between long-established ranchers and those who catered to tourists. Drunk drivers probably made up the bulk of local criminals.

“May I?” McKennon asked. At a nod from the sheriff, McKennon used one finger to lift the comforter high enough to see Julius’s body. “No sign of violence.” He then directed the sheriff’s attention to the wastebasket. “I think analysis will show those syringes contained a barbiturate. Miss Forrest claims her sister doesn’t drink alcohol, so Mr. Bannerman drank the scotch.”

“Booze and downers, a lethal combo.”

“But accidental. They expect him to pay the ransom.”

“Is he rich enough to pay three million?”

“His mother is.”

“Hmm, we have ourselves quite a situation.” The sheriff clucked his tongue again. “Might be a bad thing if those crooks find out they murdered this man.”

Brilliant deduction, Frankie thought sourly. She turned her gaze out the window. Her hope of mustering these men into organizing a search party was dying fast.

“What is your connection to all this, Mr. McKennon?”

“I’m employed by Maxwell Caulfield, Mr. Bannerman’s stepfather. I was assigned as Mr. Bannerman’s bodyguard.”

A twinge of sympathy tightened Frankie’s throat. McKennon couldn’t very well sleep in the cabin with the newlyweds, but Max and Belinda were going to blame him, anyway.

“You didn’t see anything? Hear anything?”

“I slept in the lodge last night.” He’d assumed his mob-enforcer impassivity, but Frankie suspected it cost him dearly to admit this failure.

“I better call the coroner then. State police, too.”