|
Kevin
Byrne
|
Running
to Home |
Chapter
3 - Hitching a Ride
Part
1
Bridget led Lesley a few blocks to the mission she had been speaking of. When Lesley saw it, she was not impressed. The mission appeared to
have been located in an old store or restaurant that had gone out of business many years before. There was line stretching from the door of
the mission part way down the block. Most of those in line appeared to be men of all age and races. Some looked like they hadn't seen a razor or a barber in months. Most had ragged clothes, with shirts that were barely holding together and pants that were fraying or ripping at the knees and the hems. As they got closer, Lesley got an overbearing whiff of unwashed bodies, some so strong that she felt she would lose whatever she had just eaten. A few women also were in line, two shepherding small children. They shared the same condition of clothes and gave off the same odor of the unwashed. A few of the line holders were muttering to themselves, in unintelligible, nonsensical ravings.
"Where do all these people come from?" asked Lesley.
"Some have drug problems," Bridget answered knowledgeably. "They're addiction to coke or heroin and spend anything they can get for the next high. One guy over there used to be a stockbroker. One or two others wrote for TV series. But the drugs picked their pockets clean. A few are old drunks, who have the small problem of spending everything they find for booze. We have some mentally sick people there who can't stay on their medication. Years again they locked them up in mental institutions. Most of those places, however, looked like dungeons. They've been closed down but the people who used to be in them now live in the streets because they can't fit in anywhere else. Those women with kids probably can't find housing because their rent got too high. I think one of them has been living out of her car. The other goes to the shelter when she can."
"This is awful," expressed Lesley. "They wouldn't have this in England!"
"Welcome to the land of opportunity and rugged individualism," responded Bridget. "It's sink or swim and you're looking at the one who
are drowning."
Bridget and Lesley joined the line, just behind a man with a dirty trench coat, tattered sneakers and frayed jeans. Every now and then he
lift a brown paper bag to his mouth and drank. His stench was overbearing. He gave them a baleful stare and then went back to his bag, which held something of greater interest to him.
Just then, the door of the mission opened. A women, plump, stern, efficient, fortyish, appeared. "OK folks, go on in, single file. Most
of you know the drill. Remember, just one serving of everything. We have to feed as many as possible."
The line lurched forward. Bridget and Lesley shuffled along with the line as it gradually entered the old store front. As the entered.
Lesley saw a line of tables to the right that held the food. To the left were a series of old rectangular tables that looked like castoffs
from school cafeterias. Bridget grabbed a tray, utensils and napkins. Lesley mimicked her, not knowing what to expect. She followed Bridget as the first server picked up empty plates and put on a mysterious, unidentifiable piece of meat covered in thick, congealing gravy. The server handed the plate to the next woman who tossed on spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and put a ladle's worth of the same gravy on the
potatoes. She passed the plates to a gray-haired man who put a tablespoon of peas on each place. He then handled the plate to the
Bridget and the next to Lesley. Lesley looked at the meal. She objected to the peas on general principles. The meat looked unappetizing. The potatoes appeared to be decent but she feared how they would taste with the gravy. Lesley looked up and saw Bridget was a few steps ahead of her, getting a roll and a pat of butter. Next came the drinks, boxes of milk or juice. Bridget picked up an apple juice.
Lesley chose the chocolate milk.. Lesley hurried to catch up and got her own roll. The girls were next faced with a choice of brownies or
cookies. Both opted for the brownies.
"You like chocolate too?" inquired Lesley.
"I rarely get the stuff so I take advantage whenever I can," answered Bridget.
Bridget then led Lesley over to the far end of the room, to a table a bit distant from the rest of the crowd. They sat, contemplating their
dinner.
"I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse," announced Lesley as she started to carve her meat.
"That's good," responded Bridget, "because that's probably what you're eating."
Lesley dropped her knife and fork like they were heating irons and recoiled in horror. "What??!!! They wouldn't dare ....." Lesley
stopped as saw Bridget burst out laughing uproariously. She could hardly get a word out as she laughed at Lesley's reaction. Finally, as
she calmed down to a smile, she spoke. "Don't worry about it, I'm only teasing. It's probably a piece of indigestible beef."
"Well," protested Lesley, "I don't see the fun in trying to deprive a hungry girl of a decent, hearty meal with an outrageous lie."
"Sister, if you had been sitting where I'm sitting, you would have found it hilarious."
Lesley hurrumped in an effort to preserve her dignity. "Well, it's just not nice to make a joke like that."
"Ok, Ok, I'll try not to get between you and your food. I still think the joke was funny;. It certainly was funny when it was played on me."
Lesley smile a weak smile at the thought and then resumed carving the meat. Its toughness eventually yielded to the plastic knife. Lesley
took her first bite and found it to be just about what Bridget described, tough and almost indigestible. Still, she persisted in carving and chewing, ready to eat shoe leather if she had to in an effort to satisfy her hunger. She figured the meat wasn't too far off from the shoe leather idea. The potatoes were satisfactory even if they were salty. She took one swallow of peas before drawing the line though. Peas had always disgusted her and these peas were even worse that the ones her mother get trying to get her to eat. Bridget noted Lesley reluctance.
"You going to eat those peas?" she asked.
"No, there are some things that just can't be eaten." Lesley declared.
"Mind if I have them?" Bridget asked as she chew a particularly tough piece of meat.
"Help yourself," Lesley said as she gestured. Bridget picked up Lesley's nearly empty plate and dumped Lesley's peas in the place where
hers used to lay. Bridget then inhaled them and returned to her last few bites of beef and potatoes. She and Lesley finished about the same
time, pushed their trays away and leaned back in their chairs munching on their brownies.
"What now?" asked Lesley.
"Well, they'll make a few announcements and then we leave. There's the shelter around the corner we can spend the night at."
Just then, a tall, thin man, somewhere in his forties, stood in the front of the room.
"Good evening, ladies and gentleman, for those of you who are new, I'm Reverend Davis. I hope you have enjoyed what little we could give you
tonight. We wish to thank the men and women who made the meal for us and the people who provided it. We do have a few announcements. The
Alcoholics Anonymous meeting will be upstairs in the back room at 8:00 p.m. tonight. The single mothers are
inited to a training session on
how to manage their funds. That will take place at the same time in the front room. We'll have a babysitter available to watch the kids. The shelter will open at 9:00 tonight, first come first serve. I think we have enough room for all the women and children here. We can maybe take about 25 men. Remember, no smoking and no drinking is allowed in the shelter. All right, now let us pray."
Lesley folded her hands together and lowered her head. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bridget lean back with her arms crossing her chest. Reverend Davis' pray interrupted her observation.
"Lord, we thank you for the food you have given us tonight. Bring comfort to the poor and lonely you have before you tonight and protect
them as they leave here. Bring them the love that you have brought the world. Amen."
Lesley lifted her eyes and looked into Bridget's. "Don't you believe in pray?" she asked.
Bridget answered with a touch of bitterness. "I gave up on prayer a long time ago, after about four years in the foster system. I used to
pray for a loving family. All I got were tyrants or people trying to take advantage of me. I don't see the point of it now. I'm out of the
system for the moment on my own efforts and I intend to stay that way."
Lesley did not push the point, because she did not want to alienate her new companion. She needed Bridget to get her through this mess and she didn't want to risk losing her as she had lost so many other friends before, even though it was mostly Amber Foster's doing. Bridget got up from the table and sling the backpack back across her shoulder. "Let's go. We want to make sure we get beds tonight."
Lesley meekly followed Bridget out of the mission and turned left with her down the street. Bridget led her to what appeared to be a small,
musty, former warehouse, with a small crowd in front. At the door to what apparently was the shelter was a rotund, bald man with an earring
in one year and a clipboard in his hands.
"Listen up folks," the bald man said, in a bass voice that instantly quieted the chattering crowd, "I'm letting females and women with
families in first. Then we'll get to the men. So those of you in front, make a path for the women and children."
The men grudgingly parted to make the path. Bridget and Lesley hung to the rear of the women and children as they entered the people. Lesley felt uncomfortable as what appeared to be leers from some of the shakier men. Bridget, she noted, paid them no attention. As they entered, a thin, small grandmotherish woman greeted them. "You two together."
"Yes" answered Bridget.
"Names?"
Before Lesley could get a word out, Bridget responded, "Donna and Rachel Saunders." Lesley was puzzled by Bridget's lie but she held her
tongue. She didn't want to risk a public scene and lose the chance at a bed.
"Donna and Rachel," the women announced, "We'll put you in one of the women's dorm rooms, up on the second floor. You'll be sharing with four other women. The showers are in the rear. Women have to be out of them by 9:30 so the men can use them. Next." Thus dismissed, Bridget and Lesley headed for the stairs, Bridget leading with the familiarity of one who had been there before. Bridget and Lesley came into the room finding the other four beds taken, leaving only two on the right side of the room, near the door. Bridget tossed the backpack on the one nearest the door. Lesley sat on the other vacant bed, facing Bridget.
When Bridget sat down, Lesley asked, "Why did you give false names for us just now?"
"Look," said Bridget, leaning forward and looking intensely into Lesley's eyes. "The police and the human services people are probably
looking for both of us under our real names. If we use our real names, one or the other will be here when we wake up and we'll be right back in the messes we'll trying to run away from. They'll just turn us over to whoever is asking for us and they won't ask too many questions. We're just little nuisances to be gotten out of the way before they can deal with the next crisis. We have to conceal ourselves as much as possible until we can get out of LA"
"But why did you say we were sisters?"
"If the people here think we're sisters, they're more likely to let us stay together. As long as we stick together, we have a better chance of getting through this together."
"Do you think we can get out of this city?"
"I'm thinking on it. When I get an idea, I'll let you know." Bridget placed the backpack at the head of the bed and laid down, using the
backpack for a pillow. Lesley stood up and took off her sweatshirt. "Going to take a shower?" she asked the reclining Bridget.
"No, taking a shower here is a bad idea. When you're in there, someone's liable to come by and take your clothes. It happened to me
once, here. I lost a good Black Sabbath tee shirt and nearly lost my only pair of Levi's. I grabbed the Levi's
back but the tee-shirt was out in the street on someone else's back by the time I got the Levi's back."
Lesley sat back down, disappointed at missing the chance to clean up. "You've been here before?"
"Yeah," said Bridget yawning, "this is my fourth time here. I ran into it the first time I ran away."
"You've run away four times?" Lesley asked incredulously.
"Yep and the police spotted me the first three times within a day or two. This time it's going to be different. I'm bound and determined to
get out of this dump."
"Why?"
Bridget turned and looked at Lesley. "Let's just say I'm tired of being a living punching bag. Now get some sleep. We've got to be ready
tomorrow to take advantage of any opportunity. Oh, and I suggest you sleep in your clothes, including your shoes. That way, you'll be sure
to still have them tomorrow."
Lesley laid down, following Bridget's advice. She suddenly realized how tired she was. She pulled the sheet over head and drifted off to
sleep, finally free of the worries of her first day on the run.
________________________
Lesley was running and dancing through golden fields, singing a song celebrating spring. She was wearing a gauzy white dress that hung down
to the ankles of her bare feet. She wore a crown and wild flowers braided into her hair. The sky was blue and the air was crisp with the
chill of spring that promised a beautiful day.
Suddenly, a hand reached out from ground and grabbed her left ankle. She began yelling but she could not escape the iron grip. She fell,
tripped by the hand, and awoke from her dream, yelling still. As she awoke she became aware in the darkness of the room that some woman,
dimly seen in the dark, was trying to drag off her left sneaker. She started kicking at the woman's hands with her right foot. "Stop it! Get away from my shoe! Stop it!" The woman ignored her and kept struggling to get the shoe off.
Just then, Lesley heard the sudden squeak of bed springs. In the next moment, Bridget was by the woman, swinging her backpack. She hit the
woman, staggering her. The woman recovered without losing her grip on Lesley's ankle. Bridget hit her again with the backpack. The woman
lost her grip as she gave way to the blow and fell to the floor. Bridget stood over her and yelled, "Stop
it. You leave my sister alone."
The door to the room opened and the light was flicked on. In the doorway stood the grandmotherly woman, demanding, "What's going on her?
What's the commotion about?"
Bridget, standing defiantly turned her body to face the older woman. "This character was trying to steal my sister's shoes."
The older woman looked down at the other woman on the floor. By the light, Lesley could see she was dirty and disheveled, just like Bridget
had been when she put on her mad act. Lesley thought that for this woman, madness wasn't an act. The woman addressed the attacker as she
helped her up. "Alice, how many times to we have to tell you not to try to steal people's shoes? That's just bad
manners. Besides, I don't think this girl wears your size. Come down to the storeroom tomorrow and we'll see if we can find you a pair of
sneakers that fit." The older woman herded the attacker out of the room. She turned before turning off the light and talked to the girls. "I'm sorry about that.
Alice is obsessive about shoes. She occasionally tries to steal them from others while they're sleeping. I hope she didn't frighten you too
much. She's really not a threat to anyone. Just try to relax and get back to sleep." The older woman then turned off the light.
Lesley sat up and swung her legs out of the bed, facing Bridget, who was standing near here. "Thanks for defending me. I was frighten out
of my wits. I want out of here, I want to go home." She started sobbing and put her face in her hands.
Bridget leaned over and, placing her hands on Lesley's cheeks, sharply lifted her face. Bridget put her face inches from Lesley's, her steely eyes fixing firmly on Lesley's sorrowing eyes. Lesley stopped crying, startled by Bridget's action. "Listen up, kid." Bridget said slowly but deliberately. "No crying. You got me? Stop that blubbering. You start crying and you mark yourself as weak. Every predator in the street will be looking at you as the next victim, the next target. You've got to be tough on these streets. Don't let them see you
scared. Otherwise you're dead meat and might as well curl up and do the dying right here." Bridget released her just as suddenly as she had
grabbed her and sat down on her own bed.
Lesley was shaken by the whole incident and defensive about her reaction. "Don't you ever cry?" she asked, seeking some comfort.
"I gave up crying a long time ago. I never cry. I'm never going to be seen as weak."
Lesley was stunned by this coldness, this edge. "I miss my home. I just want to get home," she said by way of explanation.
Bridget looked at her across the dark gap. "I promise you, Lesley, I'll get you back home. Everyone who has a home belongs there. Now go
back and get some sleep. We need to be rested if we're going to get out of this town tomorrow." Bridget laid back down on her bed and rolled over, her back to Lesley. Lesley reluctantly laid down as well, her face to the ceiling. She still felt like crying, but she did not want to earn Bridget's disdain. She needed this strange red-haired girl to navigate this uncomfortable world. She tried to relax and sleep, tried to
recapture that dream of dancing in the spring sunshine. She succeeded in the former, but not the latter.
Part
2
Lesley
felt herself being shaken awake. "C'mon,"
Bridget was telling her, "time to get breakfast."
Lesley slowly sat up and flung the covers off. "I
need to freshen up before I can even face food," she
protested.
"All right, we'll hit the bathroom first."
Bridget turned and led the way with Lesley, bleary-eyed,
following. They hit the bathroom then went to the
sinks to wash up. Bridget placed the backpack between
them for safety. Lesley flung cold water into her face
in an effort to fully wake up. Bridget, annoyingly
chipper for so early in the morning, washed her face and
hands and then pulled a toothbrush out of her backpack.
Lesley remembered her toothbrush and pulled it out of her
sweatshirt pocket. Amazingly, it was still in one
piece. Lesley looked around but saw no toothpaste.
Bridget paused in the middle of brushing, and, foamy
mouthed, asked, "need some?"
"Yes, please" answered Lesley gratefully.
Bridget handed over the toothpaste she had on the sink
shelf. Lesley fell to work, trying to remember the
last time she had done this. She was amazed to
remember that it had been Thursday night, a day and a half
and another lifetime ago. She spit and rinsed and
handed the toothpaste back to Bridget. "Give me your
toothbrush and I'll pack it up with mine,"
Bridget offered. Lesley handed it over and watched
Bridget toss both toothbrushes in a side pocket.
Lesley then pulled out her hairbrush and began to attack her
knotted mop of hair. After a few tugs that nearly
brought tears, Lesley had her hair somewhere near normal.
"Could you put this in your backpack as well?" she
asked Bridget. "Sure," Bridget answered and,
without further comment, packed up Lesley's and her brushes.
Lesley looked in envy had how easily Bridget's hair had
managed the adventures of yesterday. Bridget hoisted
the backpack on her shoulder. "Let's go. We
don't want to get the cold eggs."
The two girls left the shelter and walked the short distance
to the mission. They got in the now familiar line for
trays of scrambled eggs and sausage. They ventured
back to the same distant table. Lesley immediately
took a bite of the sausage while Bridget paused to take off
the backpack. "These are very tasty bangers," she
pronounced
"What did you call them?" asked Bridget,
mystified.
"Bangers," Lesley repeated.
"Well, in this country, we call them sausage."
Bridget proceeded to open three packets of ketchup and
poured them generously over her sausage and eggs.
"You trying to drown your breakfast?" asked
Lesley.
"Best thing for it. Adds some real taste to the
stuff," assured Bridget.
Lesley silently shuddered at the thought of the concoction
of eggs and ketchup. She tasted the eggs and added
salt and pepper for flavor. The two ate silently and
greedily, knowing the next time they would eat was
unpredictable.
Just as they were finishing, Rev. Davis spoke up from the
head of the room. "I want to introduce a couple
who have come here on their vacation to perform missionary
work in our area. Bill, Diane, would you please come
out." An older, thin, white haired man came out
from behind the table where he had been shoveling out the
eggs. From the kitchen, came a shorter woman,
gray-haired, of almost the same age. They stood
tougher, next to Reverend Davis. "I want to thank
Bill and Diane Braumgarten for coming here from Denver for
the week. They'll be leaving after breakfast to head
home after a week of doing God's work here."
Bridget's head popped up as she heard the announcement and
her eyes brighten. She caught Lesley's eye from across
the table. "I have an idea on how to get out of
LA Just follow along with me and, whatever I say, play
along."
"You aren't going to lie again are you?" asked
Lesley anxiously.
"Only as much as I have to," said Bridget as she
rose from the table. She put the backpack back on and headed
for the older couple who were doffing their aprons.
Lesley caught up with her, reluctant to engage in Bridget's
deceptions.
"Excuse, Mr. and Mrs. Braumgarten?" called out
Bridget. The couple turned to look at the two girls.
Bridget drew close to the two older folks and plunged in
while Lesley stood back, near her shoulder.
"Could you take us to Denver with you?" pleaded
Bridget with well acted sincerity.
"Why?" asked Mr. Braumgarten warily.
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Donna Saunders and
this is my sister Rachel, actually my half-sister."
Lesley nodded to the Braumgarten with a wan smile, wondering
what Bridget was up to now. Bridget, for her part,
realized that she had to explain Lesley's English accent and
her California accent while calling themselves sisters.
"We have family in Denver that we need to get to."
Bridget paused and lowered her head for dramatic emphasis.
"You see, our father died a month again. We have
no money and no family in this area. The rent was paid
through the rest of the month, but that ended a few days
ago. We're trying to get to our grandmother's house
near Denver to live with her. She can't afford to send
us plane fare or bus fare so we were ready to hitchhike
there. But Rachel here is a little scared of the two
of us trying to hitchhike to Denver."
Mrs. Braumgarten nodded sympathetically. Bridget knew
she was won over. But Mr. Braumwagen looked skeptical.
"If you're half-sisters, how did two end up with your
father? And how come you're both about the
same age?"
Bridget had her tall tale ready. "Well, if you
must know, it's a real tragedy. You see, my dad
was a bigamist. He often went to England on business
and, unknown to our mothers, married twice. He was
raising us up separately with an ocean between. A
couple years ago, Rachel's mom died in a terrorist bomb
explosion." Lesley thought Bridget was pouring it
on a bit thick. Bridget, ignoring Lesley's vibes of
yet more skepticism, pushed on. "Our dad brought
Rachel to California to live with us, called her an orphan.
My mom caught on to the bigamy about a month later.
She had an awful argument with dad and then got in the car
and drove out of the driveway without looking. I don't
think she saw that trash truck coming. Crumpled the
car like a tin can. They had to cut the body out.
Dad tried raising us alone and was doing good until he got
lung cancer last year. He lost his job, he lost his
insurance, he lost everything before he died." At
this point, Bridget gave a few little sobs. Lesley
tried hard to look sad, thinking inwardly that Bridget was
bucking for an acting award for her skillful deceitful
performance. Bringing the well acted sobs under
control, Bridget looked up at Mr. Braumwagen and continued.
"The creditors took everything, the books, the
computer, the furniture, Dad's clothes. They only left
us what we can carry in this one backpack.
Mr. Braumgarten surrendered. "All right, wait out
front with my wife while I bring the car around."
He turned walked back through the doors to the kitchen.
"Let me get my purse and things," said Mrs.
Braumgarten. She went back to the kitchen as well.
As soon as she walked through the door, Lesley pulled
Bridget by the sleeve until she was within whispering
distance.
"Are you always going to lie like that?" she
asked.
"Don't knock it. It got us a ride out of
here," replied Bridget. "Haven't you ever
lied?"
"The last time I did it," recalled Lesley,
"Sister Joseph caught me out and had me on my knees for
three hours saying the rosary for forgiveness."
"When was that, last year?"
"When I was seven."
"Ouch," said Bridget. "At least in this
country we're not suppose to have cruel and unusual
punishment. However, that never stopped a calculus
test."
"Calculus? You've taken calculus?" asked Lesley in
astonishment.
"Up until three days ago," shrugged Bridget.
"I'm pretty good in math."
Lesley tried to figure out how the conversation had gone
from moral issues to math. Before she could finish
retracing the conversational steps, Mrs. Braumgarten
returned, purse in hand and coat over her arm.
"Well girls, lets get going. The day's not
getting any younger." She led the way to the
front door of the mission. Bridget wondered if she had
hitched a ride on the Mayberry bus.
As they came out to the street, Mrs. Braumgarten started
waving. Down the street came an old Buick, with
repainted spots that apparently had been rusted.
Bridget looked the car over and wondered if it would make
it to Denver or die in the middle of the desert.
Lesley admired the skill it took to keep such a old car in
repair. It reminded her of the work her father
constantly did on their car to keep in running just a few
more months. The car pulled in front of them and Mr.
Braumgarten spoke through the open passenger window.
"Get in girls. It's time to get on the road.'
Lesley and Bridget got in the back seat and settled in, the
backpack between them. As soon as Mrs. Braumgarten got
in and belted, Mr. Braumgarten pulled away from the mission
and headed down the road.
Bridget kept quiet as she watched Mr. Braumgarten maneuver
through the streets of Los Angeles while Mrs. Braumgarten
guided him, map in hand. Bridget felt better when they got
on the freeway. She kept track of
every turn and highway until Mr. Braumgarten got on
Interstate 15 heading north. She breath a quiet sign
of relief, knowing that this time, she would make it out of
Los Angeles and begin anew.
Lesley also remained quiet. She did not want to get
caught up in Bridget's lies, uncomfortable with the false
pretenses that got them the ride and wary of contradicting
Bridget's stories, causing everything to fall apart.
She preoccupied herself with the scenery, such as it was,
without any sense of where they were at any moment in time.
As soon as they got out of the heavy traffic, Mrs.
Braumgarten turned and asked Bridget, "What's your
grandmother like?"
Bridget smiled. Lesley was worried about what tall
tales laid behind that smile. "Oh, she OK as long
as she's sober, which is most of the time."
Mrs. Braumgarten gave a little gasp. "How could
you and your sister live with such a person?"
"Well, we don't have a lot of family so we don't have
much choice. Don't get me wrong, we love Gram dearly, don't
we Rachel?"
Lesley was caught off guard by the question aimed at her.
She had hoped to remain an innocent bystander.
"Oh, erm, yeah, she's a sweet old dear, as long as she
sticks to tea." Lesley hoped to avoid a guilty
conscience by talking about her own grandmother but she
feared where this conversation was going to head.
"See, both Rachel and I get along real well with her as
long as we hide the bourbon."
"Don't you have anyone else to stay with?" queried
Mrs. Braumgarten, with concern in her voice.
"Not really," said Bridget. "My Uncle
Steve is serving time for grand theft auto so he's tied up
for a few years. Aunt Liza moved in with her
girlfriend Marsha so she too besotted in love to look after
teenagers. Aunt Dorothy just had her seventh kid so she's
really doesn't have time for us, particularly since her
fourth husband left her a month ago. Oh, and Uncle
Jacob had something going on. Do you recall what it
was Rachel?'
Rachel felt like the hot spotlights were shining on her.
She had to improvise, to lie, which made her very
uncomfortable. "Didn't he contract AIDS?"
she said.
"That's right. It was probably from his drug
habit wasn't it?" said Bridget. Lesley merely
nodded without saying a word.
"Oh you poor dears," said Mrs. Braumgarten.
Bridget figured her plan was working. She hoped to
keep Mrs. Braumgarten's sympathy while keeping her from
prying too deeply into hers and Lesley's lives. She
feared Lesley would let something slip if questioned too
closely but it would be suspicious if she didn't say
anything about the imaginary relatives. Then Mrs.
Braumgarten turned to Lesley, the action that Bridget
feared. "And you dear, what about your
relatives."
"My mom was an only child so I don't have any aunts and
uncles. My mom's parents moved to New Zealand a few
years ago for retirement so they're beyond reach."
Lesley hoped the truth would satisfy Mrs. Braumgarten and it
apparently did. She turned back to face front to look
at the road. She fiddled with the radio until she got
a country music station. Bridget inwardly groaned.
She might have preferred questioning under torture rather
than listen to two minutes, much less two days worth of
country music. She decided to ask the age old travel
question. "So, when do you think we'll get to
Denver?"
"Oh, about this time tomorrow," answered Mr.
Braumgarten cheerily.
"Tomorrow? Isn't it about a thousand miles from
LA to Denver?" asked Bridget surprised at the answer she had gotten.
Mrs. Braumgarten responded. "Oh, we don't like
staying over in any motels. We just tend to drive straight through the
night. Mr. Braumgarten and I trade off on the driving every two to
three hours. We've done this several times. We should be back in
Denver for the noon prayer service at our church."
Bridget was appalled at the response. She had wanted
to get out of LA but she hadn't planned on a force march. Here she was,
stuck with an older couple who liked country music and a helpless, weepy,
naive companion. She felt it couldn't get much worse.
She ventured another question. "What do you folks do for lunch."
"Oh we packed a lunch to eat on the way. We have
some tongue sandwiches with us."
Lesley was pleased, "Oh good, tongue. I
love tongue sandwiches."
To Bridget, things had just gotten worse. "Do you
have anything in a peanut butter and jelly?" she asked.
_____________________
Tom Patterson was sitting in on the edge of his easy chair,
sipping his beer, as he watched the Manchester-Birmingham soccer game
continue as a scoreless tie past the 80 minute mark. He was pulling
hard for Birmingham to drub the hated Manchester team. He heard
the phone ring in the kitchen. It was Saturday night so it was
probably Lesley making her weekly call to tell her parents how everything was going
in the
States. He let his wife, Nora, answer it. He
figured they would chat about female stuff for a good 15 to 20 minutes before he
would come on his perfunctory fatherly questions. He probably had
enough time to watch the end of the game. Birmingham was attacking
the goal so he had to stay.
He was sipping his beer when he heard Nora let out a bone
chilling scream. He was so startled that he spilt some of the
beer on his chest. He knew only one thing could cause such a
scream. He forgot the game, put down the beer and ran for the kitchen.
Nora was standing there crying hysterically. She
couldn't talk. She could only hold the phone out to him as she held her other
hand up to her face to catch the flow of tears. Tom grabbed the
phone from her.
"Hello, this is Tom. What happened to
Lesley?"
"Mr. Patterson, this is John Blondin. I'm afraid
Lesley's been kidnapped."
Tom sat down hard in one of the available kitchen chairs,
shocked at the news. "When did this happened? How?"
Mr. Blondin, infuriatingly calm, responded. "How
it happened, we don't
know. We think it happened Thursday night or Friday
morning."
Tom's anger rose. "And you're just telling us
now??!!!," he nearly shouted into the phone.
"Please, please Mr. Patterson, let me explain,"
Mr. Blondin begged. "We finished the concert in Los Angeles Thursday night.
Lesley went straight to bed. Friday morning, when we went to check
on her, she was gone. We thought she might have gone off for an early
breakfast somewhere so we wanted around the motel a bit. When
she didn't come back for a couple hours, we started driving around the city,
looking everywhere we could think off. Our worry grew by the
hour. We only found out what happened last night when we found the ransom
note in her room."
"Ransom note? What did they want?"
Mr. Blondin's voice gulped over the phone. "The
note asked for $300,000 American."
"How much is that in pounds?"
"About 200,000 pounds, I'm afraid."
Tom was staggered. That amount would just about wipe
out Lesley's trust fund, her hope for a better future than her parents
could give her. But Tom would give it all and more, would give
his life, to get his daughter home safe. "When do they want
it?" he asked.
"They didn't give a date. They said that would be
in a later note. However, they want it paid in New York City."
"New York City!" exclaimed Tom. "That
doesn't make a whole lot of sense."
"These things don't make sense," Mr. Blondin said
reassuringly. "But since he or they have Lesley, we have to play by their
rules. We are not to contact the authorities. But I'm going to need
you and Mrs. Patterson to come to New York as soon as possible. I
can authorize your plane tickets on my credit card. Try to get the
earliest flight you can to New York. Once you're here, we can authorize a wire
transfer of the trust fund so it's available in a New York bank for when we
get instructions. Please, it is urgent that you get to New
York as soon as you can."
"All right, Mr. Blondin, we get right on it.
We'll head for Heathrow in the morning."
"Good, Good. I'll try to get you tickets on
British Airlines. Checkat the counter when you get to the airport."
"Thank you, Mr. Blondin. We'll do everything we
can. We just want ourlittle girl back safe and in our arms."
"As do I, Mr. Patterson, as do I."
Tom hung up the phone. Nora collapsed into his arms.
"What are we going to do Tom?" she wailed. "How are we
going to get our Lesley back?"
"Here's what we're going to do, dear. You are
going to back to the bedroom and pack our bags. We're going to take on out
of here first thing in the morning. While you pack, I'm going to
swing around to Dick Miller's house."
"Why Dick's place?" asked Nora, looking
questioningly at her husband.
"Since Dick works for the local police, he might have
some advice forus about how to handle ourselves. And if he doesn't,
I'm sure he can tell me someone who does." Tom wiped a tear from
his wife's glistening cheek. "We'll get her back, Nora, we bring her
home." Tom only wished that he could assure himself.
Back in Los Angeles, Blondin turned to Nigel as he hung up
the phone. "Well, the line is baited, the lure is set. We
just reel the Pattersons away from their home, so that little vixen can't reach them,
swindle the money, and get on the first plane to parts unknown."
"Are you sure it's going to be as easy as all
that?" asked Nigel
skeptically.
"Don't worry my boy. We're dealing with a couple
of working class people and a girl who's afraid of her own shadow. Why,
it would be more difficult to take candy from a baby."
>>
Chapter 4 - Things to do in
Denver
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