Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [71]
The man wearing the maroon sweatshirt and baseball cap had one hand on Samantha’s throat; the woman pressed a handkerchief into her mouth. She struggled.
“Cut it out, kid,” he growled.
“Calm down,” the woman told the child. “Take it easy. We don’t want to hurt you. Just stop kicking.”
“Watch your speed,” the maroon sweatshirt told the driver, a younger man, wearing a suit and tie on this leisurely Saturday. “Don’t get us stopped.”
They crossed the Potomac on the George Mason Memorial Bridge into Virginia, and continued on I-395, passing the Pentagon and proceeding to exit seven, where they turned onto Route 120, taking them in a northwesterly direction. At Ballston, they turned left on Wilson Boulevard and proceeded through Arlington until reaching Seven Corners, their final destination, a well-kept small one-story gray stucco house set far back from the road. A row of seven-feet-high hedges close to the house spanned the front, shielding it from street view.
By now, Samantha had stopped struggling, reduced to whimpering and occasional outbursts of full-fledged wailing. During the trip, the man had secured her hands and ankles with black duct tape and affixed a large, clean, powder-blue handkerchief across her eyes. They quickly carried her from the car to the house, entering through the front door and locking it behind them. The driver, who’d remained in the car, turned it around and drove away.
Once inside, the woman placed Samantha on a single bed in a rear bedroom. The only window was locked and nailed shut, and covered with a heavy red drape sealed at the edges with tape. The man in the sweatshirt went to the kitchen, where he turned on a police scanner and listened to a rapid succession of messages concerning the event: “Child abduction reported on the Mall, Independence Avenue, all available units report to scene.” He smiled. Nothing about the car or their identities. Smooth as silk.
He went to the bedroom where the woman, whom he now called Greta, had removed the gag from Samantha’s mouth and loosened the tape from her hands. The little girl sat up against the bed’s headboard and cried.
“Now, look,” said Greta, “I know you’re scared out of your wits, and I don’t blame you. I would be, too. But here’s the deal. You seem like a smart kid, so I’m sure that we’ll get along just fine—provided you do what I tell you to do.” She reached for a homemade ski mask sewn from a multi-colored piece of fabric and slipped it over her head. She indicated that the man, Paul, was to leave the room. With the mask over her face, Greta undid the handkerchief from Samantha’s eyes.
“That better?” Greta asked.
“Who are you?” Samantha managed.
“That’s not important. We don’t want to hurt you, and we won’t. You just have to stay here a little while until we make some business arrangements. Once that’s done, you’ll be back home with your family. How’s that sound?”
“I want to go home now.”
“Well, that can’t be, my dear. That just can’t be.”
Greta was a stocky, solidly built woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her voice didn’t match her frame. It was a deep, soothing, sexy voice of the sort heard on all-night big city radio stations from female disc jockeys cooing into microphones and spinning romantic music for the nocturnal lonely. The tone had its intended effect on Samantha. She visibly relaxed and brought her sobbing under control.
“Now,” Greta said happily, “how about some macaroni and cheese, and a soda? I bought some things especially for you that I think you’ll like. Most girls your age like mac and cheese and soda. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to lock the door behind me. There’s nothing in this room that can get you in trouble, and don’t even think of trying the window. It won’t open. And don’t start yelling or anything silly like that. There’re no other houses near us, not a soul to hear you. Understood, Samantha?”
She nodded.
“That a girl,” Greta said, patting Samantha’s hand.