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Bette Davis?…Kidnapped?
Wiklund got out and closed
his door. Jeffers stepped out and motioned me to follow him.
Inez stepped out too. She didn’t have keys in her hand.
Wiklund had his hand on the door next to Bette Davis.
”Lock that door,”
I whispered to Davis as I started to slide toward Jeffers who,
gun in hand, was waiting for me to get out.
I didn’t get out. I reached
forward, slammed the door shut, pushed down the lock button,
and reached over the front seat to lock the driver’s door.
I thought I caught a glimpse of the key in the ignition on my
right and a look of horror in Inez’s face out the window
on my left, but I didn’t have time to think about it.
”Drive,” I shouted
to Davis—I twisted back and locked the rear door as Wiklund
reached for it.
Wikland’s face was against
the window. He was no longer amused by me.
They were screaming at each
other outside the car, and Jeffers did what to me seemed reasonable.
He shot a hole through the rear window of the car and almost
killed me. The bullet squealed and hit metal. The car lurched
forward as Bette Davis hit the gas. I went down on the floor
and a second shot took out the front window.
With the windows now open,
I could hear their voices as a third shot thudded through the
trunk of the Graham. I sat up and looked back. Davis had put
some distance between the three of them and us, but we were continuing
down the driveway toward a garage.
Help was on the way. Not for
us. For the bad guys. The front door of the house opened and
Hans and Fritz, who had obviously heard the noise, stepped out,
armed.
The Graham stopped.
”There’s no place
to go,” shouted Davis.
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