A Killing in the Hills

49


The sheriff’s cell went off. Bell, sitting at the kitchen table, clasping and then reclasping her hands, watched his face as he listened. It seemed to grow grayer by the minute. He didn’t blink.

‘Okay,’ Nick said. He was standing by the counter, in front of the green plastic dish drainer. He hadn’t taken off his coat or his hat. ‘Okay. Patch him through. And then you know what to do.’ He slapped a big palm over the tiny mouthpiece. ‘It’s the nine-one-one operator. Says a caller wants to speak directly with me.’ A pause. ‘He says he’s the guy who shot up the Salty Dawg.’ Another pause. ‘He’s got Carla.’

Bell bolted from her seat. She stood up so quickly that the violence of the motion sent the chair toppling backward. It bounced and clattered against the kitchen floor, sounding like a small avalanche of lids and saucepans. Bell paid no attention to it.

Just before the call came in, she had poured two big mugs of coffee, one for herself and one for Nick, from the pot she’d hastily made. She’d needed something to do with her hands.

The sheriff had been on the phone constantly since his arrival here, pacing, working through his checklist: law enforcement officials in neighboring counties, hospitals, Carla’s friends and teachers.

Working through it again.

Nothing. No one had seen or heard from her.

Now Bell was right beside him as he uncupped the mouthpiece. She didn’t have to stand so close, because Nick had switched the call to speakerphone. She knew that, and still didn’t move away.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

‘Here you are, Sheriff,’ the operator said.

A click, a blast of static, and then a man’s voice. Bell had never heard it before, but she knew it well. It sounded like a hundred other voices she’d heard while growing up in Acker’s Gap. A thousand. The familiar lilt and curl and twang. A way of drawing out certain syllables and blunting the ends of others. Prideful, prickly.

It was a voice from the hills.

And because she knew this voice, knew it so well, she was more terrified than ever. Now she understood what they were dealing with: a kid. A punk with power – whatever power could be temporarily derived from whatever gun he was fondling in his nervous hands.

He wasn’t wily. Wasn’t a strategist. Didn’t indulge in long-term thinking. He jumped when he was poked. Twitched when he was hit. A creature of pure impulse.

That made him breathtakingly dangerous.

‘Hey there, Sheriff,’ Chill said amiably. ‘Cold ’nuff for ya?’

‘Carla Elkins. Where is she?’

‘First off, doncha wanna know who I am? Since I pulled off the big shootin’ the other day and all?’

‘I don’t give a damn who you are,’ Nick said evenly. ‘I want to know about Carla Elkins.’

Silence.

‘Okay,’ Chill said. ‘Okay, okay.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, yeah, I got her. I’ll give her back, but I want some things first. I’m ready to make a deal.’

‘Good for you,’ Nick said. ‘But I need proof that you actually have the girl. And that she’s safe.’

Another silence.

The next sound in Bell’s kitchen, fuzzy from its mediation through a cell’s speakerphone, was a voice that made her heart jump.

‘M-M-Mom?’

Carla sounded groggy, confused.

‘M – mmm-mom? Are you th-there? I c-c-c-can’t – I – don’t—’

‘Carla,’ Bell said. ‘We’re coming, sweetie. Hang on. We’re—’

She was interrupted by a series of muffled bumps and then a rubbing sound. The man was back on the line again. His hard quick breaths came through the speakerphone with a rasp like a nail scratching a sidewalk.

‘That good enough for ya?’ he said. ‘Sure do hope so, cause that’s all you’re gonna get.’

Bell’s instinct was to scream, to threaten and curse at this man, demanding the return of her daughter. Or to beg, to plead, to be sweet to him, to promise him things, to offer him everything she had. Anything he wanted. Just don’t hurt her. Just don’t hurt my child. Please.

It took every bit of self-control Bell possessed to keep quiet. She had to let the sheriff run the show. She had to believe in his expertise.

‘Okay, so she’s alive,’ Nick said. ‘Keep her that way. Now, what do you want?’

‘First thing is, I want you and the bitch to back off.’ For the moment, the man’s voice sounded peeved instead of menacing, like a kid asking for a second cookie. ‘Just let it be, willya? Just mind your own damned business. Quit stirring everything up.’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’ The sheriff’s voice was calm. Bell wondered how he could be so calm.

‘I mean I want you to quit comin’ after us so hard.’

‘Who’s “us”?’ Nick said.

A snort of laughter. ‘You must think I’m the stupidest a*shole in the valley. Well, I ain’t. But I’ll tell you this much, I sure don’t plan to—’

‘We want the girl. Now,’ Nick said, cutting him off.

‘Maybe we better talk about it. Maybe we ought to discuss it in person.’

‘Fine. Where and when?’

‘That big-ass brick building on Main. The one with them big windows. Same block as the Salty Dawg. Don’t know what you call it.’

‘The RC.’

‘Whatever. Be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Huh?’

‘Is that all you want?’

There was a pause.

‘Hell, no, that ain’t all I want.’

The man, Bell sensed, wasn’t ready to make his real demands yet. He hadn’t thought this through. He was winging it.

‘I want a hundred thousand dollars,’ he suddenly said, and he said the number as if he’d plucked it from the air. ‘Yeah. No, wait – make it two. Two hundred thousand dollars. Yeah. And a new car. And a clear way outta there. Plus some guns. And some sandwiches.’

‘Okay.’

‘You got that?’

‘I got that.’ Nick looked at his watch. Now Bell understood. They were trying to trace the call. The sheriff’s aim was to keep the man on the line as long as possible. ‘Anything else?’

‘You better not be shittin’ me,’ the man said. ‘You sure as hell better be takin’ me seriously, fat ass, and writin’ all this down, or you’re gonna be in a world of hurt. You and this girl’s mama. You hear me?’

Bell could feel the sweat crawling down either side of her torso. Her mouth was so dry that swallowing hurt.

‘I hear you,’ the sheriff said. ‘I’m writing it down.’

‘Good. Good deal. Okay, well, I gotta go. Bring the money and the car, okay? Gotta tell you, though – I ain’t waitin’ too long. Twenty minutes. Tops. Any funny business – well, lemme just say that you’re gonna wish you never messed with me.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Okay,’ the sheriff said. ‘Oh, and I got one more thing to say, too.’ He had sounded reasonable up to that point; he’d sported the voice of a man with whom you could do business.

Now, though, just before he signed off, Nick’s voice changed. Steel glinted in it. You could only push him so far. ‘You harm a single hair on that little girl’s head,’ he said, ‘and I’ll hunt you down and I’ll personally cut off your balls with a rusty knife and hand ’em back to you in a paper sack, you hear me?’