The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (26 page)

“Let’s go.” Her face was urgent.

She was right. Whatever was going on here felt wrong. The energy was too agitated. Disturbing. Slowly, trying not to attract attention, I led Molly back to the edge of the crowd, toward the side door. But tables were set up there, blocking the exit, and people scrambled around them, cash in hand. “Two large on Jangles.” “Five on Ajax.”

People were pushing to place their bets on whatever was about to happen. Okay. Time to go. I spun around, looking for a way out, slamming smack into a sweaty preppy-looking man with thick sandy hair, rough acne scars and tortoiseshell glasses.

“Christ Almighty. Can you watch out?” He stepped squarely on my foot, pushed Molly aside and rushed toward the tables. Wincing with pain, I was tempted to limp after him and share my thoughts about his behavior.

“Mom.” Molly tugged at my hand. “Come on.”

A woman with the skin color of cappuccino stood in our way, smiling as we tried to pass.

“Excuse us.” I motioned toward the exit. “We’re just leaving.”

“But it’s lockdown.” Her smile faded; she tilted her head, eyeing us. “They’re starting.”

I nodded as if I knew and kept moving, trying not to draw attention, guiding Molly away from the platform.

The pirate and the man in the cowboy hat stood at the now locked garage door, blocking it. The crowd huddled around the arena, tense, hot, hungry. Brett and his buddies stood on tiptoes and craned their necks to see over the heads of adults. Oh, God. The first event was announced, and one by one, like heavyweight champions, dogs were introduced, led through the garage to the plywood structure.

Oh, God. The dogs—they were going to fight each other. That’s what the arena was for. That’s what people were betting on—the outcomes of the fights. How stupid was I? I should never have come in here. Incredibly, stupidly, I’d brought my six-year-old daughter to a dogfight. The dogs were released into the ring, ready to draw blood. The crowd swelled and hollered; the noise level peaked. I was sure Molly couldn’t see over the others, but I covered her eyes anyway.

“Mom,” she complained, “stop it.”

“Hush, Molls.”

“Mom, I can’t see anything—”

“Shh.”

I cupped my hands to make blinders, letting her see enough to stop her complaining but still limit her view, and I kept leading her slowly, inconspicuously away from the arena. As the fight began, I watched not the dogs but the crowd, their faces. What kind of people were these? Who would come to see dogs fight, let alone bring their families, their children? They looked ordinary, like folks you’d pass in the mall or the market. But as they watched their eyes grew bright, their skin flushed and thirsty. Their teeth gleamed; their bellies released howls and haunting bellows. The closed garage became airless, rank with the odors of tension, and, I was certain, fresh blood. And, even above the shouts of the crowd, I was sure I heard the soulful wails of wounded beings, the ripping of living flesh.

Keep moving, I told myself. Take Molly and get out of here. Casually, slowly, I edged her toward the door. We passed the coffee-toned woman, who now stood on a wooden crate in her Prada shoes, straining to see the fight. Her friend, wearing a diamond tennis bracelet and a brown ponytail, whispered something into her ear, and the two broke up laughing. We moved past the preppy guy again. Except for his rabid expression and dripping brow, he looked like an ordinary accountant; maybe he was one. His fists tightened around his betting slips and his jaw clenched; sweat beaded on his temples as he muttered a curse. Keep going, I told myself.

And we did. We kept moving until we were too far back to see the ring. And finally I took my hands away from Molly’s eyes and led her to the door. The pirate and the cowboy blocked us.

I pointed to Molly. “Bathroom,” I explained. I rolled my eyes, trying to seem annoyed, as if I resented having to leave the fight.

The men hesitated, assessing us.

Molly shifted from foot to foot, dancing impatiently. Maybe she really did need the bathroom.

“She’s Yvette’s friend,” the pirate remarked.

The cowboy raised an eyebrow. “Then where’s Yvette? Dammit. She knows the rules.”

I shrugged, trying to seem apologetic. “We’ll only be a minute.” That would be about how long it would take us to run off the property.

Finally the pirate made up his mind and stepped aside.

“Your bag.”

My bag?

The cowboy reached for my purse. “Leave it with us.”

Damn. He wanted insurance to make sure we’d come back. I had no choice; I handed it over to him.

“Why’s he taking your handbag, Mom?”

I squeezed her hand but didn’t answer.

“Knock at the patio. Tell them Digger said to let you in.” The pirate opened the door and switched on lights, illuminating the entire backyard. Before he could reconsider, I pulled Molly outside and we hurried away in the direction of the house.

B
EHIND US, SPECTATORS ROARED.

“Mom? What is that place? Why did that man take your handbag?”

“Shsh.” I pulled her across the yard. “I’ll explain later. We have to be quiet.”

“Why?” Her voice was loud. “Everyone else is shouting.”

“Molls, shh.”

“Mom. That boy, Brett? He said his mom’s going to win ten thousand dollars in there tonight. Is she?”

I looked back, saw Digger talking into a cell phone, his eyes on us, so I steered Molly toward he house as if we were going to the bathroom. But as we walked I looked around, searching for a way out. The gate to the backyard was locked; a small battalion of bulky men stood guard. A tall wrought-iron fence blocked the perimeter of the yard. Think, I told myself. There’s got to be a way.

Molly persisted. “Mom. Hello? Answer me.”

I couldn’t remember the question. “I don’t know, Molls. Just come along with me, can you?”

“No. You’re scaring me.”

“It’s okay. Don’t be scared.”

“Mom. You’re not making sense.”

“I’ll explain later, okay?”

Digger was still watching as we knocked at the patio door. He was still watching as the door opened, and as I told the mustached, heavyset man who opened it that we had to use the bathroom. He gestured inside. When we were in the bathroom with the door locked, I knelt and spoke to Molly in a whisper.

“Molly, we have to get out of here. And we have to sneak.”

“Why?” Her face said she thought I was crazy.

“Just trust me, will you? We’re going around the corner of the house to sneak over the gate. But we have to be very quiet.”

“Mom, why don’t we just tell them we want to leave?”

“They won’t let us.”

“Why not? They have to. It’s a free country—”

“They have the gates locked so nobody can come in or go out. Look, these people…What they’re doing here is illegal.”

“Really?” Molly’s eyes widened. “So call Nick, Mom. He’ll arrest them.”

“Molls. I don’t have my phone.”

She paused, grasping the idea. “It’s in your bag?”

It was, yes. As was the rest of my life—credit cards, driver’s license, cash, house and car keys. Dad’s wedding picture and slippers.

“So we can’t leave.” Molly was beginning to panic. “These people are bad guys. And that man has your stuff—”

“Don’t worry about my stuff. Just act normal and come with me. I’ll get us out of here. Okay?”

She bit her lip, nodding, and I kissed her forehead. Then, hand in hand, we left the bathroom, nodded to the mustached guy who didn’t even look up as we went by, and began to head back to the garage. When I thought that no one was watching, I ducked with Molly behind the bushes near the fence and rushed her around the house, dodging the line of sight of the men at the gate, crouching under windows, edging our way silently toward the front of the house.

“I’m going to boost you up over the fence,” I whispered. “Climb over the top, jump to the ground and run to Grandpa’s.”

She gaped as if what I said made no sense.

“Understand?”

“But what about you?”

What about me? I looked at the fence; it had smooth vertical bars that had to be eight or ten feet tall. No way I could climb it. But farther down, near the front of the house, I saw a magnolia tree. Its branches extended close to the top of the fence. Maybe I could climb it and shimmy along a branch, slide myself over the top. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“But—”

“No time to talk. Come on.” And with that, I rushed Molly to the fence, stooped and held her around the waist. “Stand on my shoulders.” One foot after another, she climbed up, and I leaned against the fence for balance. “On three, I’ll stand, and you grab on to the fence and climb over.”

I counted and, on three, pushed with my legs to a standing position. Molly hopped up and grabbed on to the top of the fence. Then she swung a leg up and over, shifted her weight and sat straddling the fence.

“Okay?” I whispered.

But she didn’t answer. Still holding the fence, she lifted the other leg, and, facing away from me, without looking back, she leaped or fell eight feet down to the ground, letting out a loud involuntary shriek.

“MOLLY? ARE YOU okay?” I kept my voice low. “Molly?”

She didn’t answer. She rolled on the ground, moaning. Oh, God. Was she hurt? I looked around, saw nobody. Maybe no one had heard her scream. With the tumult in the garage, maybe they wouldn’t hear me call to her, either. “It’s okay, Molls. I’ll be right there.”

Even as I ran for the magnolia tree, I felt the contraction begin. Damn. I couldn’t deal with a contraction now. Molly might be hurt. Holding my belly, breathing from my diaphragm, I scooted to the tree, found a low branch, stepped onto it, found a foothold in a higher one, then a higher one. Foliage blocked my view of Molly, and the contraction progressed, owning my body, making me dizzy. Oh, God. The baby—I needed to stop and keep still until the contraction peaked, but didn’t dare. Instead I kept climbing, scratching my face and arms, twisting around branches to make my way up. Finally, when my feet were high enough, I grabbed hold of an overhead branch and edged out on a limb toward the top of the fence. The limb was thinner than I’d realized, and it swayed, sinking beneath my weight, threatening to snap. Lightheaded, swooning, I told myself to go slowly. Slowly was the only way I could go; the contraction tightened and held on to my torso. Don’t faint, I ordered. Just keep moving. And then, just when I thought I was going to make it, I heard a snap, and the branch beneath me was suddenly gone. Broken off. I was hanging by my hands, dangling from the sagging overhead limb. The contraction tightened. Hold on, I ordered myself. Just get over the fence. I kicked my legs out, banging my ankles against iron. Cursing, I looked around and saw the thug named Digger emerging from the garage, heading for the house. He was carrying my pocketbook, probably wondering where we were.

“Mom…” Molly’s voice came from some bushes.

“Wait,” I whispered; it was all I had the breath to say. I had to move; Digger was coming. My muscles screamed in protest as I tugged on the branch, lifting myself up, thrusting first my leg, then my body forward over the fence. Twisted, suspended at an angle, breathing through the peak of the contraction, I looked around to see if Digger had spotted me, and, just as his gaze turned my way, in one swift motion, I let go of the tree and swung forward, grabbing on to the fence, somersaulting, tumbling head over heels to the ground.

Oh, God, I thought. The baby. Not sure how many bones I’d broken, I lay on the ground in a fetal position, catching my breath, cradling my belly, praying I hadn’t hurt the small being inside.

“Mom,” Molly grabbed my hands and pulled. “Get up.” She had a scrape on her cheek, and she was looking over the fence, at the backyard. “They’re coming.”

Panting, I followed her gaze and saw not just Digger, but several men in leather pointing guns and shouting, heading our way.

S
OMEHOW
I
GOT TO
my feet and hurried off with Molly. The lights were on at Lettie’s, so we headed up her front path. Nobody would bother us there, not with all her guard dogs. Lettie would call Town Watch and the police, protect us from Digger. I rang the bell and banged on the door, but got no answer. Dogs howled and yipped, but no Lettie. None of her testosterone-loaded helpers. Nobody. Where was everyone? She’d been there just an hour earlier. I pounded on the door, but couldn’t linger; any second Digger and his gangster posse would appear. So we hurried on to my father’s place. And faced a locked door. My key, of course, was in my bag. I looked back down the street. We’d had a head start, but the men were moving more quickly than we were.

“Come on,” I held on to Molly’s hand and we ran toward the back of the house.

“Oh, no, Mom.” She’d figured out where we were headed. “Please, can’t we just go home?”

“No keys.” I was out of breath, panting.

“I can’t go down there, Mom.” It was a whine. “I can’t. My knees.” They were bleeding, scratched from her fall.

“Sorry, Molls. We have no choice.” I pulled her across the lawn toward the back of the house.

“Why are they chasing us? What do they want?” She was out of breath, panting.

“Hurry.”

“I’m scared. I want to go home.” Her chin was quivering.

“It’s okay.” What was I saying? “Just hurry.”

We scurried around back and flew down the slick basement steps, slipping silently through the doggie door. This time was easier than the last; this time, Molly didn’t fight me. She scooted ahead, leaving me to squeeze my way through on my own. And I did. I lowered myself into the slime at the bottom of the stairwell, got down on my hands and knees, felt the cool muck slogging through my fingers.

“I can’t take it anymore.” The voice was desperate. Female.

“What?” I froze, crawling in sludge, realizing that the voice I’d heard hadn’t been Molly’s.

“You promised it would get better, Walter, but it isn’t. It’s worse. I can’t live like this anymore.”