Ransom

Because it's good for the imagination to alternate fiction with reality, here's a bit of a shift from the last few posts...

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The ransom note didn't look anything like the ones she's seen on TV.  No crookedly cut out letters from a newspaper, no carefully typed, nondescript text to disguise the author, just a few hastily scribbled lines, clearly written by someone who doesn't resort to pen and paper often.  If the letter's origin was murky, the contents were quite straightforward.  Rachel was to bring five hundred dollars in small denomination bills to the address given in the note or she'll never see Clementine again.

Rachel reread the note a few times, idly wondering if she should be touching it at all.  What about fingerprint analysis? Of course, that concern was secondary to the main problem at hand.  She had no idea who Clementine was.  She turned the note every which way, hoping she missed something that would negate the obvious answer - the note was intended for someone else.  But it was under my door, Rachel argued silently with herself, suddenly furious at the incompetent kidnapper. 

She put the note on the kitchen table, carefully smoothing it out and sat down before it, trying to gather her thoughts.  First things first, maybe it was a joke?  It could be, but was she willing to take that chance?  What would happen to Clementine, whoever she was, if Rachel disregarded the note? Assuming for a moment that it was real, what now?  Call the police?  And say what?

Rachel reread the note again and realized that there was no deadline given to deliver the money.  Clearly the kidnapper expected the ransom to be paid as soon as the note was found, but what if Rachel had been traveling?  The lack of clear expectations annoyed her further and she found herself composing a "proper" ransom note in her mind while her hands worried the one on the table in front of her.

Michael was slightly taken aback when the normally soft-spoken Ms. Moore rushed to his bank window ten minutes before closing and breathlessly demanded five hundred dollars in small bills.  No larger than $20, she gasped as she tried to catch her breath.  Michael glanced at his screen and confirmed what he already knew; this was well out of Ms. Moore's normal withdrawal pattern.  He opened his mouth but got nowhere before Rachel raised her palm to stop him.  In the torrent of words that followed, he caught snatches of "mistake", "Clementine", "have to do it", "way more than normal", and finally, "please, please, just help me."  Sighing, he opened the drawer and started counting out bills.

Clutching her purse in one hand and her phone in the other, Rachel cautiously approached the dingy storefront that bore the address from the ransom note.  The sign on the front was flipped to "Closed" and Rachel's heart sank, was she too late?  But now that she was here...  Rachel took a deep breath and knocked loudly on the glass door.

Clementine came home with Rachel that evening; the large orange tabby none the worse for wear.