Death Before Facebook

losing precious milliseconds, tugging at the car handle, through the window seeing Sally’s small brown head hit the door on the other side, calling out her name—
Sally!
—before hearing the Tercel’s ignition. The key had been left in it, ready to go.
    She had had to grapple for her own extra key from under the right fender, a tiny delay that had made the difference. Then began the chase, Reed still on automatic, just doing what she had to to get her child back. She paid no attention at all to where she was being led, what neighborhoods she went through, where she got on the expressway—she just drove; and now these scenes had started flashing, perhaps the first sign of sanity returning.
    Could this really be she. Reed Hebert? What did she think she was doing?
    She thought she should stop and call the police, but she knew she wasn’t about to. She might not be able to find a phone booth. If she did, 911 might be busy; might not answer right away. She’d lose the Tercel.
    What if she had stayed at her parents’ and called the police from there? That was the only sane thing to do, but she hadn’t thought of it; hadn’t thought anything at the time, had simply been the burden her feet were carrying. But it now occurred to her that she wouldn’t have known anything about the car if she had, not its color or model or license number, all of which she knew now.
    So I must be doing the right thing.
    She neither believed that nor disbelieved it. It was just something to think while she drove.
    They were near Bayou St. John, she noticed.
    She thought:
This isn’t right. What the hell are we doing here?
    She realized that she thought she understood why Sally had been taken, but a place like this didn’t begin to enter into it. Gentilly. The posh, newer part, about two blocks from near slums.
    The Tercel stopped in front of an enormous house, an absurdly huge house, as big as any on St. Charles Avenue, built of gray stone and surrounded by a fence of iron bars standing dignified as deacons. A group of men walked out of the gate and turned left on the sidewalk.
    The Tercel driver got out of the car and, clutching Sally, raced to the gate, now being closed by a man in a suit who still managed somehow to look like a servant. Sally was screaming:
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!
    Reed certainly wasn’t going to bother to park. Simply abandoned her car in the street. As she rounded it, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of one of the men in the little group, who had all turned toward the screams.
    It was Bruce Smallwood, whom she knew from her pleadings before the casino board. With him was Lafayette Goodyear, another member of the board, and she thought a third was Barron Piggott, a colleague of theirs, but she couldn’t be sure.
    Thank God.
    She closed her eyes for a second, in relief or silent prayer. “Bruce! Lafayette! Help!”
    None of them moved.
    Men she had been to lunch with, sat across a table from. Smiled for.
    Barron had even tried to grab her thigh, but she’d seen it coming and crossed her legs.
    The kidnapper was screaming above Sally: “Goddammit, let me in. Get Mo. Tell Mo I’m here, goddammit. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
    The entire group of able-bodied men, civic leaders, stood as if nailed to the spot, looking as frightened as she was.
    If her child were to be rescued, it was up to Reed.
    She reached for Sally, but the kidnapper’s body was in the way. She closed her fists and began beating that body as hard as she could—the shoulders, the back, the kidneys, she hoped. But she didn’t feel the slightest yield.
    “Give her back to me, goddammit! Sally, baby, it’s okay. Mommy’s here. Everything’s going to be—” She couldn’t get the last word out She had intended to say “fine,” but she was out of breath. And besides, she hadn’t the heart. She didn’t believe it. Woefully, she looked again at the group of men.
    One had broken from the group, Lafayette, the only black one, who was running toward her, finally moving his fucking ass.
    But the gate swung open and the kidnapper fell away from Reed.
    Startled, she swiveled and saw that two men had pulled the kidnapper through the gate, Sally kicking as hard as she could.
    They pulled Reed in, too.
     
    BUY HOUSE OF BLUES at www.booksbnimble.com or www.amazon.com

The Skip Langdon Series
 (in order of publication) 
     
NEW ORLEANS MOURNING
THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
JAZZ FUNERAL
DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK