Turning a corner brought me to a bedroom with another door on the opposite wall. The creak of floorboards led me through that door and into an old kitchen at the rear of the house.
The tall, scraggly man with the crooked nose had cleaned up, yet I still recognized him. He was the panhandler from that day. He held the shotgun in his right hand as he carried my daughter by her waist under his left arm. Her little legs kicked as they dangled, but that damned hood was still over her face. Behind him was an open door descending into darkness-the basement where Mariah had been held all this time.
“Don’t come any closer, bitch,” he scoffed.
“Give me my daughter,” I said, pointing an empty gun at his head in a bluff. I was so worked up for fear of him doing something to Mariah that I didn’t think to take Junior’s weapon.
“So you can kill me?” he said, making me wish Mariah’s ears were covered, as well as her eyes.
“Don’t give her up and that definitely happens.”
“Nah. Why in the fuck would I trust a nigger bitch like you? I ain’t Tony, all strung over that sweet black ‘tang of yours. Throw your gun over here and I don’t turn li’l miss into a pincushion.”
“Look ... do you have any kids?” I asked as he slowly backed toward the basement door. I guess his plan was to hole up down there with Mariah as his shield until some more of Dash’s people arrived—backup we in no way could contend with.
He placed the shotgun against Mariah’s dangling body. I shuddered, knowing what it would do if he pulled the trigger. “Throw it. Now,” he said.
I closed my eyes, saying a quick one-word prayer: Please. When I opened them again, he was still standing, prepared to ruthlessly murder my daughter. A pair of hands with a glint of silver between them rose up out of the darkness behind him.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” I relented, not giving away what I was witnessing. I threw my empty pistol off to his left, knowing his eyes would follow it. At that moment, the shotgun moved clear of Mariah’s body and he turned it toward me.
“Bye, bitch,” he said with a grin just as Sihad emerged fully from the basement and whipped the taut wire over his head, twisting it tightly around his neck. As the panhandler gagged, he dropped both the shotgun and Mariah to the floor, fighting for his life. With fingers desperately trying to come between wire and flesh, both he and Sihad tumbled down the stairwell into the darkness below.
I could hear thuds and the sounds of a struggle. Then silence. Kicking the shotgun farther away, I ran to my daughter.
“Mommy?” Mariah called out as I swiftly pulled the hood off her head. Her eyes flickered as she adjusted to the sudden light. I couldn’t tell just yet if she’d been drugged.
“Shhhh. It’s okay. Mommy’s gotcha,” I said as I rocked with her in my arms.
I could hear feet lumbering up the stairs, unsteady but getting closer. I held on to Mariah tightly as I scooted away from the basement door on my butt. I didn’t know who would emerge.
It was Sihad, bruised from the fall and the struggle, but alive.
“How did you... ?” I asked.
“Hey. You said they were keeping her in the basement, remember? Figured I’d double back and go in that way. Window was tight, but I didn’t go on Weight Watchers for nothin’,” he crowed with a cocky, busted-lip smile.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“No need. Just doing my job,” he replied.
Junior came into the kitchen, helped along by the remaining member of our group. “Hey. We gotta get word to Pop and get the hell outta here. Now,” he urged.
“Mommy? Why are you all dressed alike?” Mariah asked, looking up at all of us.
“’Cause they’re Mommy’s playmates, and we’ve been playing hide-and-seek with you. Now you’re it,” I said, softly kissing her forehead as I sobbed. “You’re it, baby.”
Harris
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