Read Online Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller by Michael L. Weems - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael L. Weems
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right? I’ve heard about this before. They keep them alive, in a small house out in the country or something, sometimes for months, right? Right!?”
“It is very possible, señora ,” Vargas told her. “Such things happen occasionally in this part of the world.” Off to his right stood an official from the governor’s office that shadowed Ramirez and Vargas, then reported back to his superiors. He cringed with Vargas’s words.
“Why don’t they have better security?” asked Mr. Woodall. “I thought the kidnapping problem you had down here was only in Mexico City or along the border. We would never have let Taylor come here if we knew you had a kidnapping problem here.”
“Actually, it is unusual that the victim is a tourist. Normally, what you have said is true,” said Ramirez. “This is the first time we’ve had an American tourist kidnapped in this way from the boulevard.”
“We have one of the largest police forces in the world,” said the official who now stepped forward. “We take our security very seriously. We will not rest until we have found your daughter and brought any responsible criminals to a swift justice.”
This seemed to placate Mrs. Woodall, at least for the moment. She grabbed her husband’s hand. “I feel so helpless,” she told him. “We’re sitting here, just talking and talking, and she’s out there, God knows where.” She pictured Taylor, lying in the gutter, bleeding and beaten, gasping for air, calling for her parents, and yet here they were, still talking. Or maybe she was in a dark room somewhere, tied to a chair with a blindfold and gag in her mouth. This image didn’t seem a much better alternative. To keep from descending into madness, she concentrated on reminding herself what she’d heard about these sorts of things. The kidnappers usually just wanted money and therefore wouldn’t be likely to hurt Taylor because if they did there’d be no ransom. Taylor was alive somewhere, uncomfortable and scared, maybe, but alive. She made herself believe that a call would come and they’d get her back. It became her internal mantra, we’ll get her back, we’ll get her back.
But the afternoon wore on with no demand, only hollow assurances of best efforts with no tangible progress. Finally, Jim Woodall couldn’t take it anymore. He whispered to his wife “Well, I’m not just going to sit here and do nothing. These people obviously aren’t getting anywhere.” He picked up his cell phone and stood up to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To call an old friend,” he said, “someone who might actually be able to get something done around here.”
Chapter 11
In a posh office in Dallas, a receptionist sat at a large oak desk answering the phone. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Law office of Catherine James, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, is Catherine in?”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Jim Woodall.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
She transferred the call to a phone sitting atop another larger oak desk where Catherine James sat peering over papers, her black hair pulled neatly back and her blue eyes moving quickly over the pages. She’d just settled a large lawsuit based on an oil pipeline leak and subsequent environmental damage, garnering her client a more than fair deal by having the supplier of the sealant kick in half the damages via their insurance carrier. She was now putting the finishing touches on the release.
Behind her two posters adorned the wall, one of Mukhtar Mai and one of Neda Agha-Soltan, as well as a Rice University bachelor’s degree, a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from the University of Texas, and an enormous and intricately detailed world map. When her secretary told her who was on the phone she picked it up with a pleasant voice. “Jim?”
“Hi, Catherine.”
“It’s good to hear from you. How are you?” It was
“It is very possible, señora ,” Vargas told her. “Such things happen occasionally in this part of the world.” Off to his right stood an official from the governor’s office that shadowed Ramirez and Vargas, then reported back to his superiors. He cringed with Vargas’s words.
“Why don’t they have better security?” asked Mr. Woodall. “I thought the kidnapping problem you had down here was only in Mexico City or along the border. We would never have let Taylor come here if we knew you had a kidnapping problem here.”
“Actually, it is unusual that the victim is a tourist. Normally, what you have said is true,” said Ramirez. “This is the first time we’ve had an American tourist kidnapped in this way from the boulevard.”
“We have one of the largest police forces in the world,” said the official who now stepped forward. “We take our security very seriously. We will not rest until we have found your daughter and brought any responsible criminals to a swift justice.”
This seemed to placate Mrs. Woodall, at least for the moment. She grabbed her husband’s hand. “I feel so helpless,” she told him. “We’re sitting here, just talking and talking, and she’s out there, God knows where.” She pictured Taylor, lying in the gutter, bleeding and beaten, gasping for air, calling for her parents, and yet here they were, still talking. Or maybe she was in a dark room somewhere, tied to a chair with a blindfold and gag in her mouth. This image didn’t seem a much better alternative. To keep from descending into madness, she concentrated on reminding herself what she’d heard about these sorts of things. The kidnappers usually just wanted money and therefore wouldn’t be likely to hurt Taylor because if they did there’d be no ransom. Taylor was alive somewhere, uncomfortable and scared, maybe, but alive. She made herself believe that a call would come and they’d get her back. It became her internal mantra, we’ll get her back, we’ll get her back.
But the afternoon wore on with no demand, only hollow assurances of best efforts with no tangible progress. Finally, Jim Woodall couldn’t take it anymore. He whispered to his wife “Well, I’m not just going to sit here and do nothing. These people obviously aren’t getting anywhere.” He picked up his cell phone and stood up to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To call an old friend,” he said, “someone who might actually be able to get something done around here.”
Chapter 11
In a posh office in Dallas, a receptionist sat at a large oak desk answering the phone. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Law office of Catherine James, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, is Catherine in?”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Jim Woodall.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
She transferred the call to a phone sitting atop another larger oak desk where Catherine James sat peering over papers, her black hair pulled neatly back and her blue eyes moving quickly over the pages. She’d just settled a large lawsuit based on an oil pipeline leak and subsequent environmental damage, garnering her client a more than fair deal by having the supplier of the sealant kick in half the damages via their insurance carrier. She was now putting the finishing touches on the release.
Behind her two posters adorned the wall, one of Mukhtar Mai and one of Neda Agha-Soltan, as well as a Rice University bachelor’s degree, a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from the University of Texas, and an enormous and intricately detailed world map. When her secretary told her who was on the phone she picked it up with a pleasant voice. “Jim?”
“Hi, Catherine.”
“It’s good to hear from you. How are you?” It was
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