"Mrs. B! What a pleasant surprise. But why are you whispering?"
"Don't talk, just listen." Her voice trembled. "I'm on my cell phone and I don't know how much time I have until he comes back."
"Comes back? Who comes back?" I found myself whispering as well.
"Oh, Hannah, I was tailing that so-called gardener, trying to take a clearer photograph, when he caught me at it. He smashed my camera, threw me into the back of his van, and took off! I've been kidnapped!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kidnapped?
I felt like I'd been struck squarely between the eyes with a two-by-four. Here I'd been sitting at home, keeping my own comfort-loving derriere well out of harm's way, believing that Mrs. Bromley was safely ensconced in a B &B on Maryland's bucolic Eastern Shore. How could she have been kidnapped?
It didn't seem like a good time to ask.
"We've stopped now, for some reason," Mrs. Bromley whispered, before I could say anything else. "Frankly, I think he's lost. He didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. Lights are on, but nobody's home."
"Can't you open the door?"
"I tried. I think he's got it tied together on the outside."
"Can you tell where you are, Mrs. B?"
"No! The cargo doors have windows, but they're all painted over. And there's a sliding Plexiglas panel that opens into the cab, but it's so scratched up I can barely see out of it. Just a minute." I heard banging and scraping sounds, then Mrs. Bromley came back on the line. "Damn thing has a lock on it, too."
"Thank goodness he didn't notice your cell phone. Tell me you called 911!"
"Of course, dear. The minute he drove away. I gave the operator a description of the van and my general impression that he was traveling north on Riva Road, but then I lost the blasted signal."
"As long as you have the cell phone, the police can locate you by tracking your signal through the cell towers. Right after I hang up, call 911 again."
"I don't know how long I have before the batteries run out." Mrs. Bromley drew a quick breath. "Wait a minute! I hear something!" She paused, and I strained to hear what she was hearing, too, but the only thing that came over the line was silence. "There's traffic going by, so I must be near a well-traveled road, but I can also hear music. Just a minute."
The line went quiet again, while I nearly expired from tension. "Somebody's playing music," she said at last. "No, wait a minute, it's chimes. Westminster chimes!"
One block away from where I stood, the Naval Academy chapel bells had just finished ringing the half hour. "Oh glory!" I cheered. "I can hear the chapel bells! You can hear the chapel bells! You've got to be nearby!"
But where? I could eliminate the Naval Academy grounds. Because of heightened security following the commencement of the war in Iraq, no vehicle was allowed inside the Academy walls without a Department of Defense sticker. Marines behind barricades armed with M-16 assault rifles saw to that.
I needed more clues.
"Can you see anything out of that cab window?" I asked. "Anything at all?"
"A chain-link fence and something yellow. Wait!"
I waited, panic making a crescendo in my gut. I felt ready to blow, like a geyser.
"It's construction equipment," Mrs. Bromley said brightly. "One of those back hoe things."
Construction. Construction within earshot of the chapel bells. Not far from a main road. Nobody was building anything on King George Street, at least not that I knew of. The other main road into town was Rowe Boulevard. Holding the telephone, I paced back and forth across the carpet, searching my memory banks.
Wait a minute! The state of Maryland was building a public housing project at the far end of St. John's Street, just one block off Rowe. That might be it!
"Listen carefully, Mrs. B. When you call 911, tell them it's possible that you're on St. John's Street somewhere near the Bloomsbury construction site.
"All right."
"Now, hang up, Mrs. B. No, wait a minute! Can you set your phone on vibrate? When I call you back, I don't want your kidnapper to hear it ringing."
"His name's Chet."
"Chet? Your kidnapper's name is Chet? How do you know his name is Chet?"
"It's embroidered right on his shirt."
"Okay. Noted. What does the van look like?"
"It's a dark blue Ford with 'All Seasons Lawn and Landscaping' painted on the side in orange letters."
That was certainly inconspicuous. Chet, whoever he was, didn't sound like a pro, otherwise he'd have chosen a plain white van to transport his victim in. I didn't know whether his status as an amateur kidnapper would spell good news or bad news for Mrs. Bromley. "Stay put!" I ordered. "I'm coming to look for you."
"You think I'm going anywhere?"
"Duh. Sorry. And call 911!"
I hung up quickly and, just as quickly, dialed 911 to report the kidnapping myself. I also called Paul on his cell phone. He'd have it turned off during his meeting, of course, but I could leave him a message. I had promised on a stack of Bibles that I wouldn't leave the house. Well, lightning could strike me dead, I didn't care. This was an emergency. I knew God would understand. I wasn't so sure about Paul.
I raced up the stairs to the kitchen, grabbed my purse and the house keys, rammed an Orioles baseball cap over my curls, and added a pair of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis sunglasses that had been sitting in a basket on my kitchen counter ever since a house guest had left them behind more than two years ago. As a disguise, it was piss poor, but it'd have to do.
I eased out the back door, locking it carefully behind me.
I ran west on Prince George Street, dashed across Maryland Avenue and made it all the way to where Prince George intersected with College Avenue without collapsing. Astonishing! I would never have been able to do that before the race training.
Directly in front of me the St. John's College campus spread out in both directions, dominated by McDowell Hall, a grand, pre-Revolutionary brick mansion on top of a hill, and anchored by Greenville Library on one end and Woodward Hall on the other.
I could have turned left on College Avenue then right on St. John's Street, but if the van holding Mrs. Bromley was where I thought it would be, I could reach her more quickly if I cut across campus and through the parking lot adjoining Key Auditorium. I took off at a run, praying that either I or the cops would get there before Chet returned to the van and drove it away.
I jogged left, passing a replica of the Liberty Bell, and cut diagonally across the lawn, just your ordinary, Sunday jogger, panting like a hound dog in August, holding her sunglasses to her face to keep them from sliding off her nose.
The parking lot was jammed with cars and when I burst out onto St. John's Street near the Maryland state parking garage, both sides of the road were clogged with vehicles, too. Damn! Something must be going on at the college.
I checked my watch. Only three minutes had passed since I left my house.
I cut to the right, and as I drew even with the back of Key Auditorium, I could hear piano music. Ah, yes. The Heifetz piano competition. I'd read about it in the paper.
Under ordinary circumstances I might have paused to listen, might even have stuck my head inside the auditorium, but I found myself pausing only to catch my breath, my hands resting on my knees, eyes scanning the street ahead for any sign of a blue van.
There were three of them.
I jogged down the street, scrutinizing each van as I passed. None carried anything even remotely resembling an orange logo.
I jogged on.
Ahead of me, at the end of the street, behind a chain-link fence and not far from the banks of Weems Creek, sat a knot of construction traders. I raced in that direction, passing row after row of two-story town houses, sheathed in Tyvek, which were rising to my left out of the red Maryland clay. Just beyond the unfinished town houses, I came to a rutted road. I turned into the road and continued running, my ankles taking a punishment on the well-pocked surface as I thundered past a battered Ford pickup and a bulldozer.