Like a Toad Among Tulips

Like a toad among tulips the man had his right hand in the pocket of a brown tweed jacket looking too warm because everyone else looked like May flowers.

Sharon felt for her pistol. And the tracker.

Her photographer mind clicked on. He might be the man, now feigning interest in a shovel, nodding at the clerk in the booth while glancing at the woman with the grade-school girl throwing tennis balls toward a stack of plastic garden gnomes.

What’s he playing with in that pocket? She measured the crowd. 75 or 80 maybe. Mostly families. Lots of kids. Too close for a gun battle.

The white van behind him was backed in for a quick exit. Yes, a Ford, with rust near the gas filler cap. So this is the monster who had taken her Butterfly in February.

. . .

Little Meghan had been wearing butterfly shoes when she had gone to the party. The white van had driven away just after she pulled in behind it. She wouldn’t have thought to get the license plate. Busy with kids Penny said, “Meghan went out on the porch to wait for you.”

“By herself?” Sharon demanded.

“She said it was too noisy. She was afraid she wouldn’t hear you.”

“But the snow!”

“Oh, it’s just flurries. I helped put her hood up.”

They looked everywhere. Upstairs, downstairs, closets. Kids were crying.

It took the cops twenty minutes to arrive. When Sharon described the van the officer winced. “Yes, ma’am. That’s number two. We can only hope he’s holding them alive someplace.” Sharon vomited.

Penny never forgave herself. Said she should have made Meghan wait inside. Penny’s daughter was still taking therapy about the nightmares.

But Sharon, instead, enrolled in Street Survival. The instructor called her Kujo. Over the objections of her lawyer husband she bought the .38 and took lessons from a retired Marine sergeant. “Be cool. Remember the training.” Stuffed gear in a duffle bag. In March her boss wrote her up for spending too much time on videos about tracking devices. In April she followed home three white vans. One plumber jumped out with a wrench and threatened her. Her ten-year-old son called her crazy. Her husband just hugged her. “I support whatever you have in mind, sweetheart. Just don’t get killed.”

. . .

So now she worked her way forty yards around the park, grabbing a cotton candy for cover, making conversation with an old lady. She dumped it in a barrel as she rounded a tent.

Ugh! He looked right at her. Clean-cut white guy, brown hair, dark eyes, about six feet. Then he turned back toward a clown and smiled. She let out a breath. Good, he had never seen her before. She walked toward a blue car in the parking lot. The woman was telling her daughter, “Riley, stay close.” The bastard’s eyes narrowed, writing it down. Sharon’s stomach turned. She should be kind to the woman and just shoot the bastard. But she had to follow him. Had to find out if Meghan was still alive. She stepped behind the van, snapped a photo of the plate, then slapped the tracker under the bumper. She opened her phone and punched the app. There it was, a blue circle, supposedly good for two miles. She wouldn’t test it.

She jumped in her gray Corolla and waited. And waited. Oh, no. She hadn’t entertained the possibility that he might get cold feet or just lack the opportunity. He was walking about with his hand in that pocket. What’s in there? Now smiling at the rose bush lady. Now buying a hot dog.

She glanced down at her phone. His blue light was still flashing.

The crowd broke out in laughter. A mime and clown were duking it out. There! That was his cover. He had the little girl. A dog leash he was showing her. Damn it! She should save the world and just shoot the bastard. But maybe he would take her to Meghan.

The girl collapsed so he scooped her up and put her in the van, fastening the seat belt. Like he really cared. He pulled away just as the woman screamed, “Riley! Where are you, Riley!”

He turned right onto Martin Avenue, toward Glenfield. Here we go.

Just far enough back to see him in the distance she stayed on his tail. The blue light kept flashing. He took the Glenfield exit, then turned down a farm road. The gravel made her lips squeeze together. Be careful about the dust.

Left at the Hereford sign. Around an old farmhouse. He parked behind the barn. Sharon’s heart pounded. “Butterfly, honey, mommy’s coming!”

She passed by the driveway for cover. After stopping in the ditch where the bushes were head-high, she held the pistol in her lap for a second. Then released the safety.

She followed the irrigation ditch along the fence row, passed a dilapidated tractor. Over the wheel she studied the barn. The door would be locked on the inside, if he was smart. And he looked smart.

She ran behind a round hay bale just a few feet from the door and listened. A girl was crying. No, two, at least two.

Be cool, remember the training.

Now he was talking, laughing. “Which of you is next today?” He was jangling chains or pulleys. Good sound cover.

Stepping to the door she paused and lifted the latch. Ah. He was not so smart after all.

She threw open the door. Meghan screamed, “Mommy! Mommy!” Wow! Even with his pants down he was fast. He lifted a big automatic and flipped the safety. But he only got off one round while she squared off and squeezed—one, two, three, four, five, six.

He slumped like a toad.

She dropped the gun. Four girls. She released them all and hugged Meghan. She pulled another girl close and said, “This is Riley.” The fire in her belly made her grunt. She forced a big smile. “Riley, this is my daughter Meghan.” Her hand was dripping blood as she waved them all together in a circle. “You have to help each other now.” She slumped to the barn floor and dialed 9-1-1, then handed the phone to Meghan. “Talk to the nice people, Butterfly. Tell them to come and help us.”