Free The Kidnappers by Willo Davis Roberts Page A

of gurgling sound, and Pink glanced at me, then sharpened his focus when he saw my expression.
    â€œJoe? What’s up?”
    â€œThat’s it,” I said, sounding hoarse. “That’s the car, Pink.”
    He saw it then. “You sure?”
    â€œYeah.” Breathing was an effort; I felt as if I were having to pull in air through a kind of plugged-up filter that wouldn’t let me get enough.
    â€œYou guys change your minds?” Ernie said, sliding into the front of our car. “I could use some help.”
    My lips were numb. “That’s the kidnap car. Right over there.”
    â€œHuh?” Ernie twisted around to look. “Come on, Joey, this is a hectic day. Give it a rest, okay?”
    â€œIt’s true,” Pink said, sounding squeaky the way he did when he was under stress. “It’s not a story he made up this time. The cops were here and talked to him, and it’s true. Willie Groves really is missing—”
    I jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. “Everything he said was supposed to be confidential, remember?”
    Pink died in midsentence. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
    Ernie was sitting with the car door ajar, the window rolled down. “No kidding? The cops were here?”
    No sense denying it now, I thought. Pink had let it slip. “Yeah, but we’re not supposed to talk about any of it.”
    â€œNo kidding. I apologize, kid. I thought it was more of your usual baloney. What makes you think the car over there’s the one the kidnappers used? There must be a couple thousand Chrysler New Yorkers in the city just like it. You said you didn’t get a license number.”
    â€œThat emblem on the door’s not standard, though. Did you see anybody around that car?”
    â€œWasn’t paying any attention,” Ernie said. “I been busy. Want me to check it out, see if there’s anything in it that might be significant? Get the license number?”
    He reached over and got a little notebook out of the glove compartment, then brought a stubby pencil out of his shirt pocket and got out of the car.
    â€œThis is spooky,” Pink muttered. “Shall we look at it up close, too?”
    Ernie was already heading for the New Yorker, and Pink and I fell in behind him.
    â€œWhat if the driver comes out and catches us?” I wondered aloud. “He can’t be very far away.”
    He certainly wasn’t. Before we were halfway there, the motor in the Chrysler roared to life, and the car jumped forward, right at us. It was those dark windows. The driver could see us, but we couldn’t see him.
    Ernie yelled something profane and dove sideways just in time. Pink and I threw ourselves behind the Dumpster on the opposite side of the alley.
    I was aware of something stinging sharply, and of hitting my shoulder on the corner of the Dumpster, but I was too scared to give it much thought. I landed sprawled in some garbage that had been spilled outside the container, but I was still alive.
    Pink was scrambling to his feet beside me, muttering his thoughts about the driver.
    Ernie, too, was wiping something off his pants when we rejoined him. The black New Yorker was gone.
    â€œNot much chance of getting a license number when the guy’s trying to squash you flat,” he said in disgust. “Looks like you were right, though, kid, about it being the same car. Why else would he try to kill all three of us?”
    â€œI think he was trying to kill Joe,” Pink said, wiping a hand across his mouth. “We just happened to be in the way, too.”
    I was shaking, and I couldn’t stop. “Twice in only a couple of hours. The time with the taxi wasn’t an accident either, was it?”
    Ernie was scowling. “You mean somebody tried to run over you before?”
    I explained, and his scowl deepened. “I suggest you kids get back inside and stay where there are lots of people. I gotta run,