Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder

him to lie on the floor.
    Six bullets. Their captor had made a point of counting them out as he showed them his gun’s cylinder. There were more than enough to kill all of them, Martha thought hopelessly.
    “Who else is due home?” Anderson asked.
    “Just my husband—but I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
    That was true. John Carelli was a painting contractor, and his work meant irregular hours. His wife prayed that he would be late on this night. Perhaps if he tried to telephone and got no answer, he might be forewarned. He was the only one left who could save them, but she knew there were enough bullets for him, too, if he should be ambushed the way the rest of them had been.
    Her heart sank as she heard the door upstairs open and her husband’s voice calling for her. Moments later, John Carelli came bounding down the stairs. His eyes widened with shock as they grew accustomed to the dim light in the bedroom. The gunman loomed over him, aiming at his heart.
    Carelli’s eyes darted around the room, and he saw his injured wife, his two sons, and the neighbor boy—all of them bound and gagged. He realized instantly that if he tried to fight the man, there was a good chance that one of more of them might die. So Carelli stood helplessly as Anderson tied his hands behind him. Then, the huge convict picked Carelli up effortlessly, slung him over his shoulder, and started to carry him upstairs. Before he left the room, he turned back to Martha Carelli.
    “Stay here. My friend is in the garage,” he warned. “If you move, everybody’s going to get it.”
    She nodded her head. But then he changed his mind and ordered the bleeding woman to walk slowly ahead of him as he carried her husband upstairs. Once on the main floor, he dumped John Carelli in a bedroom.
    Nudging Martha with his gun, he ordered, “Now we go to the kitchen. I want you to cook me that steak you’ve got thawing on the counter.”
    Trembling, she obeyed. She broiled the steak and fried some potatoes. Anderson wolfed the food down, but managed to eat with one hand while he held the gun in the other. When he’d finished, he instructed Martha to fix a plate of food for his “buddy.” After she’d dished up more food, he told her to get the rum out and make two rum and Cokes. But she didn’t have any Coca-Cola, and he was visibly annoyed. She grabbed some pineapple juice as a substitute. He swigged that down, and then headed out toward the garage with the second plate of food and a drink.
    “And don’t try anything while I’m gone,” he warned gruffly. “My buddy has a police scanner and if you call for help, he’ll know right away. If you want to see your family again, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
    Martha Carelli believed him. Why would he bother to ask for extra food and drinks if there wasn’t another man hiding in the garage?
    As Anderson walked back into her kitchen, they both jumped when a knock sounded at the front door. Her captor led Martha into a bedroom where she could look out and see who was there. It was a only a neighbor boy. They waited until the child stopped knocking and walked away.
    A little later, someone else knocked at the door. Martha peeked out through a crack in the drapes and saw it was a man whose pickup truck was parked in the driveway. She didn’t recognize him. Her sons had a paper route, and of course they hadn’t delivered their papers. Maybe the stranger was a customer wondering where his evening paper was.
    At length, he too got back in his truck and drove away.
    “How about that other kid downstairs—the neighbor boy?”
    Martha realized that Anderson must have been watching her family for some time. It was obvious he knew just who was supposed to be there and who didn’t belong.
    “Is anybody home at his place? Anybody who will miss him?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know. His mother works nights,” she said faintly. “His little brothers and sisters are over there alone.”
    “Good. When it gets dark, we’re getting the hell out of here—and you’re going to drive me. You just remember that my buddy’s staying here with your family. You mess up or try to get away, and all it will take is one phone call back here and he’ll take care of them.”
    Martha was sick and dizzy from the concussion she’d suffered. Her nose was broken and it throbbed with pain. One of her eyes was swollen shut, making her half blind. She had to do what he said.
    Despite the strong drink,