Myth Man (38 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

“H
ELLO,” PRESTO CALLED OUT. Nothing.

He kept a normal pace through the foyer. Where it split (a hallway that led to his bedroom on the left and the brick wall that partitioned to the living room on the right), he crashed to one knee with his gun extended. “I know you’re here,” Presto said.

“That’s good fatso,” she said with sudden informality. “I have a gun to your mom’s head, so cut the bullshit.”

Presto stood sideways with his gun extended, his lower body blocked by the wall partition.

She was right. Ridgewood stood behind his mother, a silenced 9mm gun pressed against her temple.

His mother did not look scared. In fact, her visage exuded tenacity with eyes that prowled and a steel, firm posture. “Son,” she called, “listen to me. Do not give in to this hussy. There are two dead cops in the bathroom. And … ouch!” She screamed as the gun swatted her head.

“Shut up, you old bitch,” said Ridgewood. “Dom, give me the key.”

Presto considered his options, which were not bad, except for the fact that a gun had just cracked his mother’s skull. Yet, his mother had not been subdued.

“Dominick, listen to me. The cancer. I’m dying. Soon. You have a life to live. Do not waste it on me.”

Ridgewood’s gun struck his mother again, but his mother’s dire words brought more pain that the stark visual of Ridgewood’s strike. He could not let her words affect his composure.

“It’s over, Agent Ridgewood. The police are on their way here. Whatever your end plan is, it’s over.”

Ridgewood grimaced. “There’s where you’re wrong. If you think I’m the top of the food chain on this, you’re crazy. Burton never got to make that second phone call, according to my source, so unless you had any other bright ideas, I’ll take that key.”

Presto considered her words. He believed her claim of acting on orders. This he figured. Who it was irked Presto, but for now, he was more concerned with survival. His options seemed as limited as the typical
Restaurant Week
prix fixe menu specials. He was not sure if it was funny that he thought of food in this crisis.

“Only if you let my mother leave,” he mustered.

Ridgewood knocked the request down with a shriek of laughter. “You’re not in position to make demands. We both know how this is going to work.”

Presto did. That’s what he was worried about. “I left the key with a nice Dominican fellow who gave me a lift here.”

“That’s a shame,” Ridgewood said. “Then you die.” She cocked the gun against Cleo Presto’s head.

“No,” yelled Presto. “Okay, I have it,” he acquiesced. “It’s in my jacket pocket.”

“Then drop your gun,” Ridgewood ordered.

“Damn, my leg hurts,” Cleo Presto said. She stretched it for a second and then stamped her foot down on the floor three times.

“You stupid bitch,” Ridgewood seethed. She almost laid her hostage out with the gun, but at the last second she slowed the impact of the blow. She needed the shield for a few minutes longer.

Frozen, Presto saw blood trickle from his mother’s head.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

“Y
OU’RE NOT GOING UPSTAIRS, Arthur,” demanded his wife. “You saw that boy. He was scared.”

Mr. Stagnuts looked at his wife of thirty-eight years. Many people asked how he stayed married to her. He sometimes wondered himself. They were so different. He was funny, free-spirited, and jovial. She was stiff, wary, and maybe even maniacal. He was the
Stag
and she was the
Nuts
. But he knew one thing. His wife loved him with all her heart, and that counted a lot in this world.

His wife was usually right about things, but he heard the distinctive three-knocks. It was a call for help. He couldn’t ignore it, and he couldn’t look in his wife’s eyes and face the disapproving, hurtful look she undoubtedly cast. He knew she was serious when she had not even mentioned that her beloved chandelier still vibrated from Cleo Presto’s call.

“I’m going upstairs, honey. If I don’t call or return in five minutes, call the cops.”

Arthur Stagnuts just hoped the next call would not be for an ambulance.

*****

Ridgewood was in a bind. The bitch stamped her foot for a reason. Why? It could have been some diversion, but she doubted that. If it was, nothing had happened. It had to be something else. Her next thought was that it was a signal of sorts. She assumed it was to the neighbor below them. What did that mean?

The old hag said she was dying. Maybe that meant if she were in trouble, her neighbor would summon an ambulance, or the neighbor was on his way upstairs to help. If it were the latter, he’d probably have the keys to this place, so locking the door was not a likely option.

Both of the scenarios were bad. She had to think fast. If the neighbor was on his way up, she had to act faster, and fat-assed Presto was between her and the door. And if the neighbor arrived, Presto would tell him to leave and call the cops.

Ridgewood panicked. She thought about taking a shot at Presto. Enough of his girth poked out from the wall’s partition. She had the silencer. She could blast her way out. That seemed her best option.

She quickly turned the gun and fired.

“Bitch.”

*****

Cleo Presto hated Agent Ridgewood before she ever laid eyes on her. Now in her presence, she witnessed her outward beauty and her inner evil, yet something deeper irked her. This hussy had used her son.

Her only concern was for her boy. Cancer would soon take her life. She hid her fate from him because she loved him and didn’t want their last days spent together in the shadow of gloom. Everyone knew but Dominick. Only her revelation was supposed to come at a later time, under more tender circumstances.

She had to think of something. Then she had stomped her foot three times. She hoped Arthur would come and hear their cries for the police. Right now the hussy had the upper hand. She had to change the dynamics.

It worked, but perhaps not for the better. She heard rapid breaths from behind her. She felt Ridgewood’s gun-free hand grow tense and sweaty on her clamped bicep. Next she felt the pressure from the gun release from her temple, and the body from behind shift quickly. She was going to shoot her son.

Cleo Presto propelled herself low and backward, like a cornerback making an awkward tackle. Two shots rang out.

From her back, she could not see her son, and she didn’t hear him cry out. A hand came around her neck and pulled her up.

“Bitch.”

*****

Detective Presto’s hand touched the brick wall thankful for stone rather than cheap standard sheetrock, which was as bulletproof as cellophane.

When he tried to roll over, his back screamed with pain. His weight overburdened him, and he could not find the leverage to get on his knees.

Despite the pain, he smiled. Momentarily forgetting his mother’s mortality, he briefly savored the clip she threw on Agent Ridgewood’s knees.

Then the front door of the apartment opened. There stood Mr. Stagnuts.

Arthur Stagnuts saw Dominick down on his back struggling to get up. He sensed no danger and ran to help.

Dominick’s hand went up in halting motion. “Stop,” he screamed, “go back and call the police.”

He tried to stop his momentum. A bullet over the partition wall did.

Arthur’s stout body almost fell on top of him. He couldn’t look at his dead friend. Seconds could not be spared. He looked out the open door and saw no one.

“Yes,” Presto screamed hopefully. “Mrs. Colby! Go inside, turn every lock on your door, and get the police here. Now!” he shouted and than roared with rage over his dead friend.

He screamed at Ridgewood. “I’m giving you one way out. It works for all of us.” He hoped he was loud enough that Ridgewood would think she should have heard an apartment door close.

He listened. He tried to hear his mother. He could hear a struggle of sorts. Good enough, he hoped.

Presto called out. “You’re time is short, and you’re not getting past me. Here’s the deal. I throw over the key. You release my mother. We go down the hallway to my room. You leave.”

After several seconds, Ridgewood said, “Okay. You have my word. Throw it over.”

Presto felt terrible about using his beloved snake in a dangerous ruse. She’d been lucky to survive his clumsy falls. Surely she was perturbed. He hoped so. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the cloth sack.

He knew much depended on luck. Aphrodite was a small snake, possibly as light as the metal key and ring. He needed a reason for her to be suspicious of the cloth sack.

“Okay,” he replied. “The truck key is in some cloth sack Bailey gave me, along with some other type of ancient ring he was given by Rabbi Ackerberg. He said it had to with what was inside the crate.” He paused for credibility. “That’s all I know.”

“Just throw it over,” Ridgewood said.

Presto hoped Aphrodite was testy with all the day’s action. He swung his arm around the wall and slung the sack in the living room.

He heard Ridgewood say. “You open it, bitch.”

After a few seconds, his mother sarcastically informed, “There. Now do you want me to grab the key too, or do you think there’s a mouse trap inside?”

“Shut up. Give it to me.”

Then Presto heard music to his ears.

“Ouch! Fuck!”

The hook snared his fish. For a moment, he felt like the kid on the fishing pier again, the thrill of the catch.

The happy tune changed.

Ridgewood screamed. “You asshole. Now your mommy dies too.”

“No,” yelled Presto even louder. “You listen to me. The snake is poisonous. If you don’t do what I say, you will die!”

*****

Ridgewood was in a state of shock. How could everything have gone so wrong? She’d been assured everything had been taken care of. She just had to do her part, but now she saw no way out.

When she reached in the sack, something bit her. She tore her arm out, and there attached to her index finger was … a snake? She screamed and violently shook her hand. The snake crashed against the floor and slithered away.

Then came Presto’s words, “You will die.”

She wished she’d never gotten involved with this. It wasn’t the money that corrupted her, she told herself. It was her patriotic duty. She was following orders.

Now she was desperate. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she begged Presto. “Poisonous?”

“Yes,” his voice rang out. “She’s a coral snake, and she’s lethal. But if you do what I say, you can live and leave.”

Ridgewood’s heart drag raced, sudden speed that kept accelerating. Was Presto providing a parachute? Could she trust him? He’d already tricked her.

“Talk to me quickly, or your mom gets a bullet and dies with me.”

The hag called out. “Don’t listen. Let her die.”

Ridgewood struck her again. Again, she defied her pain.

“I love that snake,” the fossil actually said.

Ridgewood wanted to pump a bullet in the geezer, but she couldn’t just yet. “Dominick?”

Presto called back. “In the fridge, on the shelf below the eggs, are two loaded syringes. Take the pink one, pinch some fat, anywhere, and inject it all. A good amount of time has passed.”

“You’re bullshitting me,” she said.

“You can wait about fifteen minutes and call my bluff.”

Ridgewood tensed further. The fat sneak sounded so calm, so certain. She believed him. Why else would he have syringes in his fridge? The big load couldn’t handle his booze. She doubted heroin was his thing. She had to give it to him. It was a good trick.

Ridgewood maneuvered the mother up and went to the fridge. She went back to the stove and watched the kitchen entrance. She pointed the gun. “You open the fridge and give me the syringe.”

The annoying woman obliged. Ridgewood then ordered her face down on ground. She placed the gun on the countertop and grabbed the syringe. She tried to inject her arm, but she found it difficult to pinch the skin and work the syringe stopper. She rolled her shirt up a bit and found some flesh on her sculptured abdomen.

She injected herself.

*****

Cleo Presto’s smile kissed the kitchen tiles. She knew her boy had just bested the hussy. Ridgewood would die.

The two needles in the fridge were insulin and Lithro. Ridgewood injected the latter. While both would be lethal to a nondiabetic, Lithro acted faster, for more dire circumstances. If they could get by for another fifteen minutes, Ridgewood would go into hypoglycemic shock and lapse into a coma. Death was all but certain, especially without immediate care.

None would be forthcoming.

Her son called out. “Talk to me, Ridgewood. What’s going on?”

Cleo turned her head and looked up. Ridgewood appeared to be doing a nonclinical self-diagnosis of her well-being. Her fingers flexed. Her eyes blinked rapidly and focused on nothing. Then she ran her fingers through her hair and smiled. She probably felt good about things, seeing that nothing bad happened immediately after the injection. She bought it.

Ridgewood answered. “I just injected myself. I want to give it a minute to make sure you didn’t give me rat poison or something.”

Presto’s voice answered, “I saved your life, Lorraine. After you killed a friend and brutalized my mother. Do as you promised. Release her to me, we’ll go to my room, and you can leave.”

Cleo saw the sneer on Ridgewood’s face and knew it wasn’t over yet.

Presto wanted to talk to her, letting the drug surge through her body and alter her blood glucose level to about 600–800 mg/dl. Normal levels were about 110 mg/dl, while people with diabetes, like his mother, had levels around 140 mg/dl. Agent Ridgewood was in some serious trouble.

“Can I ask how you were going to pull the rest of this off?”

Ridgewood answered with a spiteful laugh. “No. No talking. Here’s how it works: Head down the hallway. Your mom comes with me to the door. Once it’s open, I’m gone, and she’s yours. Trust me. I don’t want this baggage with me.”

Presto didn’t like this. “Lorraine, my way works better.”

“No, Dominick. When I come around the corner, how do I know you won’t shoot me in the back?”

Presto waited a few precious seconds. “Because I just saved your life.”

Ridgewood snorted. “That’s funny. You’re the one that put the snake in the bag in the first place.”

“Listen, Lorraine,” he said with a slow calm. “Unlike a bullet, the snake bite was reversible. I just want to save my mother.”

“You will. Just do as I say, or she dies now. You’re a bigger target, and I bet I have better aim, so go to your room now. You can stand where you’ll see, but your mom’s a screen until we get to the door.”

“Please, Lorraine,” pleaded Presto.

“Move. Now,” Ridgewood yelled at her hostage. Ridgewood struck her again, and Cleo howled in pain.

Presto went down the hallway and into his room. He leaned his head and gun out. “I’m down the hall. Don’t do anything stupid.”