Page 60 of It Takes a Thief

Wow, he nailed that one. My happiness had come softly year after year with Ford. First Fidelia, then Niko. Our joy had seemed complete.

My postpartum depression had thrown our perfect rhythm into shock. I couldn’t rouse myself out of it, and Ford had work to do. My friends didn’t know what to do. Faux Pas’ wife Sapphire recommended antidepressants, which I didn’t take because I was breast feeding Niko. A remote chill had fallen over Ford and me, and to this day it had lingered. I had been floating, waiting for deliverance. All my harsh words about how much he worked had created a defensiveness, a bitterness inside him. I was ranting and raving against a brick wall. I had known what I was getting into, that was his message. And we’d been happy when he worked so often before. What had changed?

My patience, that’s what. I was getting older. I saw mortality staring me in the face. My mother was gone, long may she rot in hell. The parents of friends were going at an alarming rate, taking away that barrier between us and death. I wanted to grab life by the horns and run with it! I wanted to take a family vacation to Hawaii, to float in the sun-warmed water for a whole week. I wanted, I wanted. None of that ever materialized.

Kilchii Begay said, “Life is an autopsy lab where we all practice our skills on each other. We’re all interns in life, stumbling around without clues. We take part in this ‘hospital’ known as the world. We all display the wounds we give each other.”

Sing it, brother. Kilchii Begay was a medicine man and had some intriguing recipes for soothing various conditions. It was awhile, maybe ten miles, before I realized the driver had taken the southbound highway toward Show Low. I pounded on the plastic.

“Hey,” I bellowed. “Why are we getting off here? I’m going to Pure and Easy.”

“Just a detour,” he said calmly. “We need to pick up someone else.”

“No!” I shrieked. “That wasn’t part of the deal! I’m going to see my sister in the emergency room—I don’t want to pick up anyone else!”

With that, he pulled over to the shoulder. I was huffing and puffing, gripping my Kilchii Begay book in my whitened fists. He yanked my door open and grabbed my purse, slamming the door shut behind him. Getting back into the driver’s seat, he tossed my purse on the passenger’s seat and got back into traffic.

Yes, he did all this before I could respond. What in fuck tarnations? “Hey!” I shrieked again, pounding on the plastic. Both doors were locked. “What’s going on? What kind of an Uber driver are you?”

He finally answered. “The worst kind.”

I knew then that I wouldn’t see my sister that day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MADISON

Another twenty miles and the driver stopped once again.

I thought maybe he was sick of me pounding on the obviously unbreakable plastic. I even saw him reach into the console and pull out some earplugs to stick in his ears. I was terrified, hoarse, like an alien begging to be let out of a bubble. My tears and snot ran together in a river down my face, which smeared up the clear plastic.

All I could think was why? Did this have something to do with crime on the Rez, with some person I’d treated? Did I fix up the wrong gang member, or let the right gang member die? Did someone want me out of the picture so she could hook up with Ellis? All sorts of ideas tore through my head. None of them really clicked.

Then the driver pulled over. I saw him fiddling around in the front seat with a bottle of what looked like rubbing alcohol. I sat quietly, finally. Waiting tensely with wide eyes, so wide they hurt. He poured the alcohol onto a cloth, then got out.

I could smell the chloroform before he even yanked open my door. No one was gonna chloroform me. It gave you a nasty headache and had to be kind of continually applied. So I helped him open the door by kicking wildly, shrieking,

“Who the fuck are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Let’s say a friend is worried about your well-being.”

That told me exactly nothing, but the guy—who now wore a black face mask, like he was robbing a bank—also withdrew a Smith & Wesson from his jeans and levelled it at me.

I abruptly stopped kicking. He came closer, looming. I backed up all the way to the other door, but soon I was crushed. I tried rolling over. Nope. He got that rag on my nose and mouth and bam, within two minutes of him pressing, I was out like a lamp.

I came to in a large bedroom. The rag was nowhere to be seen, although the sickly sweet smell lingered, so they must’ve wanted me to wake up. My limbs felt made of granite. I struggled for what seemed like ten minutes to gain control of them. Move, damnit, move! I was so dizzy the ceiling swam, so I closed my eyes, but that only increased the blinding headache, so I opened them again.

A giant picture window looked out onto a stunning desert vista. We’d been heading south toward Show Low, and chloroform would last about an hour if the rag was kept over my face, so that’s where I estimated we were.

Except we were in the mountains. We looked down on the town. Judging from the size of the bedroom and the extent of the vistas, this was some rich guy’s house, his getaway. Did I even know anyone this rich? Wait. Ford does.

But… Why would anyone related to Ford’s business want to kidnap me?

Unless… They wanted money from him. Ransom. That must be it. Could be some of those Cutlasses. I knew they were pissed because Ford’s company had stolen some workers of theirs. Maybe they wanted money to make up for lost wages.

Feeling and energy were coming back into my limbs. But when I felt I could finally lift my arms, I couldn’t. Or couldn’t, very far. They were chained to the headboard.

My legs were free, so I kicked some life into them. No one had disturbed my clothes, so I wasn’t afraid of the sexual angle. Most pervs, I’d seen, took the easy way out and molested their victims while the woman was knocked out. Less hassle, obviously, and way to go on the necrophilia angle. Eyew.