The Moneychangers

Beside the chest was what looked like a dining-room sideboard cut in the same peculiar way, except that half the sideboard was being carried out of another doorway by two men, one shielded by the door, the other with his back to her.

Lou opened a rear door of the Ford. "Get in," he ordered. In his hands were two thick dark cloths the blindfolds. Juanita entered first.

Doing so, she tripped intentionally and fell forward, supporting herself by grabbing the back of the car's front seat. It gave her the opportunity she wanted to look toward the front on the driver's side and read the odometer mileage. She had a second only to take in the figures: 25714.8. She dosed her eyes, committing them she hoped to memory.

Estela followed Juanita. Lou came in after them, fastened the blindfolds and sat on the rear seat. lIe pushed Juanita's shoulder.

"Down on the floor, botha ye. Make no trouble, ya won't get hurt."

Squatting on the floor with Estela close beside her, Juanita curled her legs and managed to keep facing forward.

She heard someone else get in the car, the motor start, the garage doors rumble open.

Then they were moving.

From the instant the car moved, Juanita concentrated as she had never done before.

Her intention was to memorize time and direction if she could.

She began to count seconds as a photographer friend had once taught her. A thousand and ONE; a thousand and TWO; a thousand and THREE; a thousand and FOUR… She felt the car reverse and turn, then counted eight seconds while it moved in a straight line forward. Then it slowed almost to a stop. Had it been a driveway? Probably. A longish one? The car was again moving slowly, most likely easing out into a street

… Turning left. Now faster forward. She recommenced counting. Ten seconds. Slowing. Turnrng right

… A thousand and ONE; a thousand and TWO; a thousand and THREE… Turning left… Speed faster.. . A longer stretch… A thousand PORTY-NINE; a thousand FIFTY… No sign of slowing… Yes, slowing now. A four-second wait, then straight on. It could have been a traffic light… A thousand and EIGHT… Dear God! For Miles's sake help me to remember!

… A thousand and NINE; a thousand and TEN. Turning right.. .

Banish other thoughts. React to every movement of the car. Count the time hoping, praying that the same strong memory which helped her keep track of money at the bank… which once saved her from Miles's duplicity… would now save hire.

… A thousand TWENTY; One thousand aruf twenty dollars. Nol. .. Mother of Godl Keep my thoughts from wandering… A long straight stretch, smooth road, high speed…

She felt her body sway… The road was curving to the left; a long curve, gentle. .. Stopping, stopping. It had been sixty-eight seconds… Turning right. Begin again. A thousand and ONE; a thousand and TWO…

On and on. As time went by, the likelihood of remembering, of reconstructing, seemed increasingly less likely. 'This's Sergeant Gladstone, Central Communications Bureau, City Police," the flat, nasal voice on the phone announced.

"Says here to immediately notify you people if Juanita NCnez or child Estela Nunez located."

Special Agent Innes sat up taut and straight. Instinctively he moved the phone closer.

"What do you have, Sergeant?"

"Car radio report just in.

Woman and child answering description and names found wandering near junction of Cheviot Township and Shawnee Lake Road.

Taken into protective custody. Officers bringing 'em to 12th Precinct now." Innes covered the mouthpiece with his hand. To Nolan Wainwright, seated across the desk at FBI Headquarters, lie said softly,

"City Police. They've got Nunez and the kid." Wainwright gripped the desk edge tightly. "Ask what condition they're in." "Sergeant," Innes said, "are they okay"

"Told you all we know, chief. Want more dope, you better call the 12th." Innes took down the 12th Precinct number and dialed it.

He was connected with a Lieutenant Faiackerly. "Sure, we got the word," Fazackerly acknowledged crisply. "Hold it. Follow-up phone report just coming in." The FBI man waited. .~

"According to our guys, the woman's been beaten up some," Fazackerly said.

"Face bruised and cut. Child has a bad burn on one hand.

Officers have given first aid. No other injuries reported." - Innes relayed the news to Wainwright who covered his face with a hand as if in prayer.

The lieutenant was speaking again. "Something kind of queer here." "What is it?" "Officers in the car say the Nunez woman won’t talk`. All she wants is pencil and paper.

They've given it to her. She's scribbling like mad. Said something about things being in her memory she has to get out." Special Agent Innes breathed, "Jesus Christ!" He remembered the bank cash loss, the story behind it, the incredible accuracy of Juanita Nunez's circus freak memory.

"Listen," he said. "Please take this from me, I'll explain it later, and we're coming out to you. But radio your car right now.

Tell your officers not to talk to Nunez, not to disturb her, help her in any way she wants.

And when she gets to the precinct house, the same thing goes. Humor her. Let her go on writing if she wants.

Handle her like she was something special." He stopped, then added,

"Which she is."

Short reverse. Prom garage. Forward. 8 sees. Almost stop. (Driveway.7) Turn left. 10 sees. Med. speed. Turn right. 3 sees. Turn left. 55 sees. Smooth, fast. Stop. 4 sees. (Traffic light?) Straight on. 10 sees. Med. speed. Turn right. Rough road (short dist.) then smooth. 18 sees Slowing. Stop. Start immed. Curve to right. Stop-start. 25 sees. Turn left. Straight, smooth. 47secs. Slow. Turn right… Juanita's finished summation ran to seven handwritten pages. , . -.

***

They worked intensively for an hour in a rear room at the precinct house, using large-scale maps, but the result was inconclusive. Juanita's scribbled notes had amazed them all Innes and Dalrymple, Jordan and Quimby of the U. S. Secret Service who had joined the others after a hurry-up call, and Nolan Wainwright.

The notes were incredibly complete and, Juanita maintained, entirely accurate.

She explained she was never confident that whatever her mind stored away could be recalled until the moment came to do so.

But once the effort had been made, she knew with certainty if her recollections had been correct.

She was convinced they were now.

Besides the notes, they had something else to go on. Mileage. The gags and blindfolds had been removed from Juanita and Estela moments before they were pushed from the car on a lonely suburban road. By contrived clumsiness and luck, Juanita had managed to catch a second glimpse of the odometer. 25738.5. They had traveled 23.7 miles. But was it a consistent direction, or had the car donbled back, making the journey seem longer than it was, merely to confuse? Even with Juanita's summary, it was impossible to be certain.

They did the best they could, working painstakingly backwards, estimating that the car might have come this way or that, turned here or there, traveled thus far on this road.

Everyone, though, knew how inexact it was since speeds could only be guessed at and Juanita's senses while she was blindfolded might have deceived her so that error could be piled on error, making their present exercise futile, a waste of time.

But there was a chance they could trace the route back to where she had been captive, or come close. And, significantly, a general consistency existed between the various possibilities worked out so far. It was Secret Service Agent Jordan who made an assessment for them all.

On an area map he drew a series of lines representing the most likely directions in which the car carrying Juanita and Estela would have traveled.

Then, around the origins of the lines, he drew a circle. "In there." He prodded with a finger. "Somewhere in there."

In the ensuing silence, Wainwright heard Jordan's stomach rumble, as on all the occasions they had met before.

Wainwright wondered how Jordan made out on assignments where he had to stay concealed and silent. Or did his noisy stomach preclude him from that kind of work?

"That area," Dalrymple pointed out, "is at least five square miles." "Then let's comb it," Jordan answered. "In teams, in cars.

Our shop and yours, and we'll ask help from the city police." Lieutenant Pazackerly, who had joined them asked, "

And what will we all be looking for, gentlemen?" "If you want the truth," Jordan said, "damned if I know."