In the Gingerbread House with Candyman
By Jolly
Chapter 10
THE SETTING SUN
The sun was just setting and the skies were a mash of fiery orange and crimson hues. The dark orange sunbeams shone through open windows, and imbued the furnishings of the room with the warmth of a reddish afterglow.
In there, five women were seated round a coffee table enjoying their coffee, sharing their concerns and finding strength from each other's tales of their husbands' successes over the years.
Laura watched the other four mothers from under her lashes as she slowly sipped her coffee. She was the youngest of them, being only almost forty. The others were in their 40s and 50s. Hannah Broadwick was the oldest, having just celebrated her sixtieth birthday. Then there were Sandra, Amali, and Patricia.
It was good to be with them. Because they were all in the same plight, they understood each other. There was no need to explain to each other; that was good. Some things just could not be put into words.
Like the agony of waiting for news of a loved one in danger, and the agony of not knowing if you would ever see them again.
"We have to believe that they will be found, Laura." Hannah reached out to comfort her. "Our husbands are all very reputable detectives and very capable men. They will find and return our children to us."
"And they have caught him once before," Amali added.
"So we can be sure they will catch him again this time," Patricia finished in a fierce tone.
The five of them stared at each other for a while. Then they smiled, finally at ease with each other.
"Come," Sandra said. "Let's not let that little miserable excuse of a psychopath spoil our day. I say we start planning our gathering for when our very talented husbands take him down and bring back our kids to us, shall we?"
"I would prefer to think about what to do to that miserable excuse of a man for bullying our kids when our husbands drag him before us," Laura spat out before she could stop herself.
There was a moment of quiet.
Then…
"I would not mind taking a cleaver to him, now that you mention it, Laura," Sandra finally said.
"Me too. But I think a cleaver is far too nice; I prefer putting him to the rack," Amali chipped in.
"My, bloodthirsty, aren't we?" Hannah commented, her eyes twinkling a little. "I say that's far too easy still! What about…"
And the threats went on and on, getting more ridiculous as the list grew. Soon all five mothers were hunched over laughing hysterically at their own wildimaginations…
HBHBHBCon Riley smiled as he heard the laughter floating down from the cozy living room upstairs. It was good to hear those women laugh. They had handled themselves well and deserved what little joy they could find during these dark hours when all their flesh and blood children were missing.
He closed the door softly and returned to the kitchen.
Then he frowned as he returned his attention to the notes and the lists spread out before him on the table. There was something nagging at him, but he just could not figure out what that was. Something about the detectives themselves. Again, he went through the notes he made on the eight detectives.
Mathew Broadwick
Wife: Hannah
Children: John
Mike Pontulous
Wife: Grenadine (deceased; car accident three years back)
Children: Michelle
Jude Lawson
Wife: Valerie (deceased; reason unknown)
Children: Yvonne
Emilio Carlos
Wife: Sandra
Children: Enrico, Eduardo, and Eleonora
Kane Smith
Wife: Amali
Children: Arthur
Gaby West
Wife: Patricia
Children: Rosalyn, Richard
Madeline Florence
Husband: Harry Florence (deceased; terminal cancer ten years back)
Remarried to Jack Nashel (also deceased; boating accident two years back)
Children: Marianna, Drusilla (from first husband)
Fenton Hardy
Wife: Laura
Children: Joe, Frank
Eight detectives and five spouses, Con mused.
Then he froze.
Thirteen years ago, thirteen agents were kidnapped over thirteen months to be killed, but one survived. The psycho responsible was believed dead.
That was what he was told.
Thirteen years later, the thirteen kids of those eight detectives and their living spouses were taken.
Eight and five made thirteen…Was that last thirteen just a coincidence? Or was it part of a grand plan of some sort? Con wondered. A sudden unease began to form in his guts. He reached for his cell phone.
Of course it could all be coincidental! he told himself.
Still, something about those numbers bothered him.
There was no way that Candyman, whoever he was, would know that three of the detectives' spouses would be conveniently dead thirteen years after the original incident, would he? Con reasoned out logically to himself as he dialed Fenton's cell phone number.
He started to pace about the kitchen. Come on, connect…he grouched at his phone. While waiting, he took a glance out of the kitchen window.
Time flies! It's already nightfall… Con commented to himself.
He waited patiently for his phone to make the connection. Come on, Fenton, pick up the phone….
Nightfall? Wait a minute… where did that word come from?
"The number you are trying to contact cannot be reached at the moment. Either you have the wrong number or the cell phone is currently switched off…" His cell phone said to him.
Damn! That stupid FBI building must be jamming cell phone and radio signals for security reasons! He started to feel his heart beat just a little bit faster. He took several deep breaths.
Don't be silly! Con scolded himself as he reached for the house phone instead to call the FBI New York Headquarters.
Yes, it connected.
He could hear the ringing tone.
Click.
"If you know the extension number, please press one…"
Con's lips tightened into a straight line. No, he had no idea where Fenton might be in that very big FBI complex in New York City.
"If you know the full name of the person you want to contact, but don't know the extension, please press two…"
Con glared at the phone before him wishing he could shake some sense into it. That was not a valid option for him either, since it was clear Fenton was not a FBI staff member.
"If you are calling to report any suspicious sightings or a crime you witnessed, please press three…"
This time, Con cursed.
"If you…"
Con started swiveling around, trying to see beyond the shadows about him. He had this very bad feeling in his guts…
The one-way electronic phone message droned on and on.
"If you wish to speak to the operator, please press 8…"
FINALLY!
Con pressed 8, and forced himself to be patient. His eyes continued to scan his surroundings.
'Nightfall…' the air seemed to whisper to him.
He shivered.
The operator answered. He asked for Fenton Hardy. He was told no such person existed on the FBI staff list, of course. Con slapped his own head lightly with his open palm in frustration. What was he doing?
He asked for Maxwell Kendall instead, and was told that the director was not available to take calls.
Was it his imagination, or was the air around him getting heavier and stuffier?
Again Con forced his thoughts off his immediate surroundings back to the phone call. He needed to get to Fenton.
"Well, get to Maxwell!" Con almost yelled back at the operator. "Tell him it's about the top priority Candyman case, dammit!"
Con did not realize, but his breathing was becoming deeper, heavier, and raspier.
"If you can't get Maxwell, then get me another person who is involved in that case. I need to speak to Fenton Hardy…NOW. It's an EMERGENCY, you hear me?" Con spat into the mouthpiece.
He was yelling. Con suddenly realized, bemused. He was actually yelling!
And…Emergency? Again, where did that come from?
Con's heart was pounding furiously now. Come on, Fenton, get to the phone…
"Please hold the line…"the operator said in a calm and dispassionate voice.
Con bit down hard on his lips to stifle the unbearable urge to scream into the phone. Come on, someone get me to Fenton now…. Con felt a burning sensation at the back of his eyes.
He blinked.
His behavior was so unnatural! Con realized, but he could not seem to be able to do anything about it. How could he, when he didn't know what was wrong?
"Hello, this is Agent Cassandra here…""I need to speak with Fenton Hardy NOW," Con yelled back. Or was he sobbing? No, he was babbling. Please… he pleaded.
"I am going to get him now, okay? Please stay calm, all right? Take a deep breath…"
He could hear the soothing feminine voice from the other end of the line repeating the same words over and over.
He struggled to breathe. He could feel his sweat pouring down his back.
Finally that so-familiar voice:"Fenton here…"Then there was silence, deep and bottomless. The phone line was cut.
And the lights went out.
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