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Mark attempted to study; he starred at his civil tort textbook, but was unable to concentrate on any of the words; he was desperately trying to read.
This is useless, come on, Mark, try harder; you can do this.
After forty-five minutes of trying to read the same paragraph, he tossed the textbook aside and grabbed the telephone. He dialed the familiar number, and after two rings a gruff, "Lieutenant Harper," sounded through the telephone. "Hi, Frank, it's Mark, hey, what did this FBI agent say today?" Mark questioned.
"Hey, Mark . . . not too much actually, I tried to pin him down to what he wanted exactly, but he didn't do much talking at all, he just mentioned your name and asked what I knew about you. Then he just listened to my speech; he really never said too much of anything after that. I told him we could help if he needed our assistance; he nodded his head and left. No thank you, no nothing. It was actually kind of weird, so I called the Bureau and they told me they couldn't even confirm to me that they were involved in a case here. I even tried the old inter-departmental cooperation spiel and it got me absolutely nowhere."
"Wow, that does sound a little strange," Mark pondered. "Hey, Frank, thanks for the info," as he disconnected the call.
Man all this thinking, I'm hungry; breakfast didn't last too long.
Frustrated from not being able to study, and the inability to gain any information, Mark decided to head down to the local market to pick up some food for lunch before Hardcastle returned from his expedition. After all, food always made him think better and all of a sudden he was hungry again. He thought he had better go and return before the judge found him gone and not studying, to avoid another lecture from Hardcase about not applying himself and kids today having no commitment. God, he could hear the lecture word for word in his head. He quickly jumped in the Coyote and headed down the highway, unaware that the dark Ford was following him.
At the market, Mark grabbed several bags of munchies, along with some salad fixings to make chef salads for lunch. While debating what kind of salad dressing to buy, he turned and looked up into a set of beautiful blue eyes. As his eyes scrolled down and then up, he determined those eyes came with a gorgeous and shapely blonde bombshell who was smiling in return.
Thump, thump oh my God, she's gorgeous.
"Hel-lo," he began, trying to maintain some sort of male bravado.
She giggled while responding, "Well, hello. I see someone else didn't have anything in the refrigerator to eat; now I don't feel quite so stupid."
"Stupid never, hungry always." He extended his hand, "Hi, I'm Mark, and you are?"
"Katrina . . . and are you from around here, Mark?"
The two quickly became embroiled in a stumbling conversation while attempting to get to know each other, until Mark realized how much time had elapsed. Hardcastle would probably tear into him if he happened to return and find him gone. Mark quickly explained to Katrina that he needed to leave and asked for her telephone number.
She again shyly giggled, telling him to follow her to her car. Leaving the market, Mark was so caught up in her distracting beauty that he was oblivious to the three huge goons who smoothly came up behind him, and quickly and almost effortlessly forced him into the black stretch limo that had slipped behind the Coyote.
Oh, smooth move, Mark; just let some beautiful girl lead you right into a trap, hell you made it so easy for them they didn't even need to put forth any effort.
Inside the limo he was quickly frisked and relieved of the keys to the Coyote. One of the goons exited, keys-in-hand, to follow the limo with the Coyote.
"Hey, what do you guys want?" didn't even reward Mark with a glance from these goons. "You know, I think you really got the wrong guy here," he continued, which brought him emotionless stares. As he continued to try to use his verbal gift, he soon realized that he was getting nowhere, as the limo continued its journey.
He was quite aware that the goons had not bothered to restrain him in anyway, which could mean two things: either they really did not want to injure him in anyway or they knew that they could handle him if he tried to escape. The latter idea left a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. The darkened windows of the limo made it difficult at best for Mark to try to ascertain where they were heading.
Okay, Mark, keep it together, keep trying use your gift of gab since you can't tell where they're taking you; let's see what you can learn about what's happening here.
After approximately forty-five minutes, the limo slowed and turned into a long gated driveway. When the vehicle came to a stop, the doors were immediately opened and Mark was pulled from the limo. The strength of the goons holding onto both of his arms gave him little choice but to walk where they guided him, up the steps into the front of a stone mansion.
Once inside, he was guided across the foyer and up steps and shoved, stumbling, into a large bedroom. The door closed behind him and he heard the click of the lock as it snapped in place. Mark glanced around the room, his eyes quickly settled on the windows. He strode quickly across the room and rapidly pulled the drapery aside. Steel bars across the windows effectively blocked his escape route.
"Damn," he muttered to himself as he again scanned the room for any possible assistance. The door was solid wood, probably oak, and gave no indication of a hint of weakness. Neither the bedroom nor the attached bathroom supplied anything he could use to pick the lock, or use as a weapon to escape. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, he was stuck here until they let him out. Mark eventually settled to sitting and then lying on the bed, contemplating how ticked off Hardcastle was going to be when he got home and found McCormick gone.
Oh shit, he's gonna be ticked off, how am I gonna get out of this one, and what the hell do these guys want anyway?
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Meanwhile, back at Gulls Way, Hardcastle arrived home to find the Coyote and Mark missing. Growling to himself that the kid would never learn, Milt entered the house, grumbling the entire time.
Throwing his keys on the desk in the den, he picked up the phone and dialed Frank. At least Frank would listen while he grumbled about McCormick not listening to him. And he needed to discuss what he had learned from his contacts with someone to help him sift through his thoughts. It concerned him that he really had to apply pressure to obtain the tidbit of information on what the FBI wanted from McCormick. Maybe discussing it with Frank would give him some idea of where to proceed next, especially since Mark was currently among the missing, probably out wasting his time on a bimbo, Milt thought with a grimace.