Citizen Insane - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,51

shot echoed in the cavernous space. I jumped and screamed. Colt shouted then moaned. Blood spurted onto Shashi’s jeans. I felt sick.

“What are you doing?” Shashi was livid. “This was supposed to be no casualties, remember? Threaten but don’t injure.”

“That was your idea, not mine.”

“Krystle,” I pleaded. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him again.”

“Shut up,” snapped Krystle. She poised her gun at Colt’s head this time, while he’d fallen to his knees, his face contorted in pain. “Or I’ll put the next bullet here.”

“This is not what I signed up for.” Shashi dropped her arm and the gun down to her side. Like two cowboys in a spaghetti western she and Krystle stood motionless, exchanging killer glares. I cringed, fearing Krystle would pop Shashi next and end any hope of us making it out alive.

Meanwhile, Bunny was hyperventilating and—from the sounds she was making—possibly giving birth. She had cowered behind me as we sat splayed on the cold floor tiles. “Bunny,” I whispered. “Think of your kids. Don’t lose it now.”

“It’s just that . . . I don’t think I can hold it, Barb.”

This was my chance to determine Shashi’s allegiance. I raised my hand. “Krystle—or KiKi is it? Um, Bunny has to use the facilities, if you know what I mean. Either that, or we’ll need a ‘SLIPPERY WHEN WET’ sign over here.”

Krystle shoved Colt forward and pointed to one of the two doors on the wall straight ahead. “You, move that way.” Colt moaned with every limp/crawl he took. She looked at Shashi. “Take Bunny to the bathroom then bring her to the conference room. Barb, you come with us or I’ll shoot Jerry Seinfeld’s other foot.”

I raised my hand again. “I have to go too.”

She pointed the gun at Colt’s good foot. “How bad?”

“I can hold it.”

Krystle had pointed Colt toward the door to the right of the directories and I followed obediently. I briefly considered tackling her, but that would have been like Pee Wee Herman trying to take down Lou Ferrigno.

When we reached our destination, she shoved Colt again. “Open the door.”

Colt moved painfully toward the knob. “Just wondering—are you into S&M? You seem the type.”

“Are you okay?” I whispered to him.

“I’ll be fine. I did like that foot though. We’d grown close over the years.”

Krystle wasn’t in a laughing mood. “You’re a regular Bill Cosby, aren’t you?”

“Besides the skin, hair and eye color and the fact that I’ve never touched a cigar—sure. We’re practically twins.” His hand turned the knob, but he lost balance and fell into the door. His body weight pushed it open and revealed the answer to the question that had been gnawing at me—where were Peggy and Roz?

They were in the conference room.

Eating pizza.

A long, sleek cherry wood table occupied the center of the expansive room. Flat screen TVs hung on the wall at each end while two more doors and three large, framed color photos depicting the nature of Rustic Woods lined the longer back wall. Quite a lavish conference room, fully decked out for absolutely nothing to happen. Except a kidnapping apparently.

Facing us and sitting in two of the numerous cushy black leather chairs surrounding the monstrous table were Peggy, shoving a slice of pizza into her mouth, and Roz who looked about as happy as Jack Nicholson being grilled by Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men. She wasn’t terrified. She was seething.

Peggy dropped the pizza onto the cardboard box in front of her and wiped her mouth with her hand. “Barb!”

Colt grunted as he moved to a chair. I helped him sit.

Peggy looked confused. “What happened?”

“Krystle shot him in the foot. You didn’t hear the shot?”

She blinked. “We did, but Shashi promised us no one would be hurt and this was all just for show.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think her name is really Shashi. She has—”

“A southern accent. I know. Her name is Marilyn Schmutz. It’s a long story. How are you two?”

“We’re okay,” Peggy answered. “But if you look under the table, you’ll see we’re limited.”

I bent to peek under the table and saw that their feet were bound with duct tape. Roz’s hands were also immobilized, resting quietly in her lap. Peggy’s were free to grab her pizza up and take another bite, which she did. “Sorry,” she said after swallowing. “I get low blood sugar. Have to eat something every hour or I get dizzy and crazy. It’s hereditary. My Uncle Declan—my mother’s uncle really—had terrible