What a joke! Jim and the rest of the kids had had Art pegged the first time they set eyes on him, with his stiff white shirt and black wing-tipped shoes. And going to all the movies the junior high kids went to. God, he'd even seen Art in the malt shop after school, sitting there sipping at a soda, pretending to be reading the Wall Street Journal while he peeked over the top of his folded paper, sometimes holding it upside down. How could a blunderer like Art have a wife as pretty as his?
He would soon find out, he thought with a very real pain in the pit of his stomach. Mark swallowed dryly and walked up the cement steps that seemed to be endless, like a condemned man walking the deathly stretch from his jail cell to the gas chamber.
Suddenly a thousand questions and insecurities crashed down on him like a mountain waterfall, flooding his cheeks with the rising guilt of his actions. Five pounds, five pounds, chanted voicelessly inside his head, giving him the courage to raise a quavering finger to press the doorbell. As he watched a demure, petite-sized woman wipe her hands on her apron and head toward the open screen door, a smile on her face like she was expecting him, he was frozen with stage fright. He'd expected a snarl, a door slammed in his face, an angry dog ready to spring at his throat, but never, never this!
Before he had time to introduce himself, the door was opened to him, and the auburn-haired housewife had stepped aside, allowing her guest entrance and encouraging him with a swift motion of her hand.
"Hello," she said gaily. "My name is Kathy… and you're…"
"Ah, Mark… I mean Martin," he stammered, flushing crimson. Christ, she was so agreeable, so pretty and so young. Maybe he had the wrong address.
"Well, Martin, I guess we have a big day ahead of us, don't we?" Kathy motioned for the boy to follow her into the kitchen. "I was just having my coffee, I hope that doesn't hold you up. Is there anything I can get you? Do you need anything?" she asked, looking at him with all the sweetness she could muster, hoping his answer might shed some light on the mysterious surprise Art had promised.
"No, no, nothing, thank you."
Kathy watched her young guest studying the pattern of the tile only now and then raising her head long enough to look at her questioningly; when she countered his deep glance with her own penetrating blue eyes, he averted her eyes immediately. He seems awfully young; I wonder if he works. Ah, ha! Maybe he's here to cut the grass and trim the hedges; God knows they need it. But she decided not to press the point, she didn't want to ruin Art's surprise.
"Well, I know you've come here for a surprise… that's what Art said," smiled Kathy, sipping on her coffee, wrinkling up her nose.
"Huh?" Mark asked dumbly. What is going on here? he wondered. She acts like she was expecting me! Jesus, what the hell am I so uptight about? I think I could tell her to take off her clothes right here and she'd start stripping. Boy, this is weird, too weird. Gotta get out of here.
"Mrs… ah," all he could think of to call her was Mrs. Art. Nobody knew Art's last name.
"Kathy, please call me Kathy, Martin," she half whispered, swallowing the last of her coffee and rising from her chair.
"Kathy… are you ready to go now?" he asked hesitantly, waiting for her protesting resistance; that's the way it always happened on the FBI. She was supposed to fight and scratch.
She shot him a pleasant grin and reached behind her back to untie her apron strings, while Mark stared at her dumbfoundedly. "Be with you in a second." He watched her dart off down the hallway, listening to the light-footed pad, pad, pad of her footsteps smacking against the hallway carpet. She returned fifteen seconds later with her handbag. "All set, Mark…"
Before reaching the front door, she turned. "Can you tell me where we're going, Martin? Or is it a surprise?" she asked gaily.
"Ah, it's a surprise," he smirked, walking slowly so that the handcuffs in his belt pouch didn't rattle or arouse suspicion in the inordinately agreeable woman.
"Oh!" burst Kathy, clasping her hands together and staring at the motorcycle with a giggle. "Don't tell me we're going on that! Wouldn't you rather take my car?" She pointed to the garage. "It's just like in the movie last night, I mean… well," she suddenly felt embarrassed, too much like a young girl, almost vulnerable. But Art's words, "Give him anything he wants," halted those suspicions, shot them down like a row of moving ducks in a shooting gallery.
"You just wait while I turn this thing around, Kathy," he gulped, thinking for the first time that he'd have to drive through her neighborhood. God, what if somebody should see them? He only prayed she wouldn't start screaming or trying to jump off the bike or anything dumb like that. Five pounds, he assured himself, and turned the key in the ignition to kick off the motor. Why the hell a motorcycle? he questioned again. Why not a car? Why Art's wife?
"Okay, jump on," he commanded as imperiously as a fifteen year old's cracking voice could sound.
Giggling, and feeling more like the buxom blonde teenager in last night's movie than a twenty eight year old housewife, Kathy swung her right leg over the high padded seat, surprised at her own agility.
"Hang on around my stomach," called Mark over his shoulder as the bike ground its way in first gear out of the paved driveway and sped up to second as it roared down the winding neighborhood streets. At the end of the block, Mark stopped at the stop sign, letting a pick-up truck, with "Harvey's Horticulture" printed in sprawling green letters on a white background, pass by in front of him. He shivered and looked the other way as the driver stuck his head out the window and called and waved hello to his hostage. Biting into his lower lip, Mark felt cold chills running up and down his aching spine.
Witness number one, coming up, he thought, his nostrils flaring with the realization of what he was involved in. Hostage… kidnap… juvie… five pounds… Christ, if he got caught he'd spend the rest of his teenage years behind bars. What different would five pounds make then?
Behind him, Kathy smiled at the sunshine. Oh, Art was quite a master at surprise when he put his mind to it. He wasn't as dull and dedicated as he seemed. She stared at the shirted back that rippled in the summer wind, tempted to rest her head against the youth's firm, athletic body. And where was this young, good looking boy with the deep brown eyes taking her? He was going to take her for a ride… maybe to meet Art somewhere and they'd go have lunch under a weeping willow tree. This boy was probably another paid informer, an undercover cop who was learning the ropes at an early age. Maybe he'd even spent a little time in Juvenile Hall, long enough to realize the only way to get out was by cooperating, and now here he was, a young policeman himself. What else could he be? She closed her eyes, feeling the sensual warm summer winds blow her hair in swirls around her head. Oh, but it felt good. She wanted it to last forever.
The suspense grew, and suddenly she just had to know. "Where are we going?" she screamed till the tendons in her neck stood out like telephone cords.
"Just for a ride!" he called back, changing lanes to allow a delivery truck to pass by.
Mark headed for the outskirts of town, taking the side streets and alleyways, winding and turning, just when Kathy thought she knew where they were headed. It wasn't until they passed the high school, which marked the boundary line of the village limits, that Kathy became alarmed. After that, she knew, there was nothing but farming lands and empty space. Too much empty space.