create my plan and take him by surprise. Frankly, the sly bastard might weasel out of his just desserts if I tipped my hand. I bit back my rage and answered the phone with my sweetest voice.
“Hi sweetheart,” I said, as a sugary voice crept through the scowl on my face.
“I need to speak to Helen D’Armane,” a gravelly male voice declared.
I frowned and wondered who this idiot was. Of course it was “me.” This was my cell phone.
“Speaking,” I said, leaning back into my chair as it made an audible creak. “Who is this?”
“I’m the man in charge,” he said with an abundance of melodrama. “We’ve got your husband, Mrs. D’Armane.”
I paused for a moment.
“Come again?”
“We’ve taken your husband. And if you don’t want this frog bastard chopped up like … like uh … like uh…”
“Like celery?” I offered, fairly certain that this was some kind of sick, stupid joke.
“Yeah! Celery! If you want your hubby back, alive, you’ll pay us $50 million in –”
I didn’t hear the rest because I was laughing so hard that I dropped the phone. I cracked up until more tears – of mirth – came out of my eyes. I had to give this prankster a hug if ever I saw him. The way this day was going, a good cleansing laugh was just what I needed.
I picked up the cell phone.
“This is for real, lady!” the “kidnapper” shouted.
“You’re saying that you kidnapped my husband?”
“Yes!” The kidnapper yelled in exasperation. “And you’ll need a bunch of tiny coffins for him if we don’t get $50 million in six hours.”
I glanced at my watch and noted the time, fine with playing out this silly prank a bit longer.
“It’s five o’clock p.m. on a Wednesday,” I cleverly replied. “The banks are all closed.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Uh … make that six hours after the banks open tomorrow then.”
“And how do I know that he’s alive?”
“Your husband?”
“Yes,” I bit back an insult and sighed. “How do I know he’s not already in pieces?”
“I’m calling you on his cell phone, right?” the kidnapper argued.
“Doesn’t mean he’s alive,” I leaned back in my chair and fantasized about Andre really being kidnapped and killed somehow.
“Good point,” the kidnapper admitted. “Hold on.”
“Okay,” I muttered.
As I waited, I wondered how these pranksters got their hands on Andre’s cell phone. While he had a sense of humor, he wasn’t one for pranks …
Then it dawned on me – this was not a joke.
Andre was in trouble. And, for a moment, a part of me wanted to help him. But then I glanced back at computer, grabbed the mouse, and clicked through the digital photos from earlier. I stopped at one where Andre and a pair of slutty blondes were playing a naked round of “Twister” … on our bed.
That moment of concern passed. I let my mind wander over the possibilities as the minutes went by. My arm started to get tired when I heard a rustling sound on the telephone.
“Helen?!” Andre’s voice addressed me from the other end. “Helen! It’s me!”
“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice full of well-faked concern.
“Just a little banged up, my love,” he replied, his perfectly sexy phone voice edged with fear. “They want the money by 3pm tomorrow, in untraceable diamonds … or they’ll kill me.”
I bit back a giggle, relieved that I didn’t have to keep a straight face. $50 million in diamonds? While we were in New York, that was a pretty damned tall order.
“Where?”
“They’ll call you at noon with the details. And no police, my love. Be prepared to deliver it alone.”
Like hell I will!
“Of course,” I lied. “I love you.”
“And I love you –”
The phone was pulled away from him.
“There! He’s alive! Now, do what he says and you’ll get your loving husband back tomorrow. Do you understand?!”
“I understand,” I replied as I fought back the giggles.
“And no police!”
“No police,” I covered my mouth with a hand.
With that, the kidnapper hung up. Then I burst out laughing. This had to be the best day of my life! I reached into my purse and pulled out a quarter. While I’d love nothing more than to sit back and leave my husband to these morons, it might come out that I received a ransom call and did nothing (an unforgiveable sin amongst the wealthy). Worse, the authorities might think I was involved.
So, I readied the quarter for a toss.
Heads: I’d call the NYPD and try to find as much costume jewelry as possible on short notice. Even with their trigger-happy reputation, I’m sure that the cops could probably save my blue blood of a husband and catch his dimwitted kidnappers.
Tails: I’d call Bernard, who’d probably snort something powdery and show up with a bunch of armed thugs. They’d tear this town apart, looking for Andre, and probably get him killed via friendly fire.
To hell with it!
I’ll do both!
And if he somehow survives, I’ll take him for everything he owns.
THE MIKUTU
Father Edgar Jaisalu slowly regained consciousness. The kind, aging Nigerian was in his early 60’s. He felt nauseous, as though one of the hangovers from his wilder youth had returned to haunt him. Short, white-haired and balding, he was very shortsighted. But even without his glasses, Jaisalu was able to sense that he was tied to a metal chair in a frigid, dark room with a solid concrete floor. He also noted that his kidnapper(s) left him in his black-and-gold Pittsburgh Steelers pajamas with nothing on his wrinkled feet. A light switch was flicked behind him and fluorescent overheads hummed to slow life.
“Hello?” Jaisalu asked, his mild accent laced with fear. “Who’s there?”
“Hello, Father Jaisalu.”
Jaisalu
