Black Diamond

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “True, but it also says in your résumé that you are a highly motivated individual who goes above and beyond the call of duty to ensure the job is a success.”

  “And my job is keeping you safe.”

  “You remember that part where I gave you your job back?”

  Reed sighs, exasperated.

  “Arrange a discreet visit, please.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  WHEN OLIVER WALKS out of the company complex and across the parking lot where a plaque with his name reserves his spot, an overzealous woman reporter asks him how he feels about acting CEO Gordon Flynn’s performance. “I mean, you’re the largest shareholder,” she says. “Surely you have a big interest.”

  She holds her tape recorder up to capture his voice. “I can only expect that such an experienced mind will stabilize the ship,” he says, with sincere and direct attention. He frankly doesn’t mind the question, but he already addressed the press. “Gordon is not unfamiliar with the business end of things, which is good news. I made it clear from the start how I felt about all this.”

  “Do you trust Gordon?”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  “Wasn’t he fired a few months back?”

  “Demoted.”

  “Oliver, the company has been in hot water following your involvement with Sophie, then her disappearance and return. You were CEO for five years, do you think the board made the right choice in replacing you with Gordon Flynn?”

  “Breaks are good. Maybe I needed one.” It’s an honest answer, even though Oliver doesn’t like it. “As for Gordon, we’ll see. The board has either solved a problem or created a much larger one.”

  “Mr. Black, I don’t think you really have a problem with this one. In the unlikely scenario that the company closes its doors overnight and all its nuts and bolts are sold off, you’d still wind up with possibly more money than the rest of the board combined.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t spend money I don’t have, can I? It defies logic.”

  “But you stepped down from chairmanship of the board with an eight-figure severance deal.”

  “Maybe I’ll give it away.” His eyes widen in mockery and a semblance of a smile forms at his mouth.

  She laughs. “Give it away? No one is at battle with their own money, Mr. Black.”

  “What’s your name?” He levels her with a look that says he would rather not explain his work or his motives.

  “Irene Withers.”

  “Miss Withers, it’s public knowledge that my annual base salary as chair was equivalent to one dollar. Base salary, not overall pay. I’m all in as far as the company’s profit margins are concerned. With that in mind, if I’m the largest shareholder, then stock is generally expected to lose value if the company loses money.”

  She’s a reporter, not a businesswoman. “Are you saying it’s bad news that you were laid off with a generous payout?”

  “If business is bad, then our capital is bad. The company is facing a challenging financial period, what do you think I’m saying?”

  “Oliver, New Yorkers cannot wait for the much-anticipated Hudson River dome. When is the grand opening?”

  “Big official opening, as you call it, will take place December first.”

  “What can we expect? Give us the inside juice.”

  “Let’s just say you’re not going to want to miss it,” he says gaily, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Have a good one, Miss Withers.” And with that, he jumps into the back of the SUV.

  Oliver keeps his wits about him until the day’s arduous work is over. There was a time when his brain was chaotic, when thinking and solving and creating was all it could do. Shooting himself up with small doses of cocaine and morphine to quell his mind made everything better for a while. He wouldn’t think much. He just stood there, like a cow in the middle of the road, in a state of pure nothing. To get where he wanted to be, to have any chance at making a name for himself—Oliver knew he had to be a different man, so he became just that. He cleaned up his act, though it wasn’t easy. Throughout the years, he learned enough social skills to appear like a typical person. To this day, one can never tell looking at him that he belongs in the autism spectrum. He’s like an iceberg: one-tenth of his identity is above the surface.

  After a kerfuffle of a day, even the sharpest mind has to rest. Oliver wants nothing more than to go home, where things are safe and orderly. But when the elevator doors to the penthouse ding open, rock music is blasting from the den-library area of his safety zone.

  “Sophie?” he calls.

  He loosens his tie as he walks across the foyer. He locates Sophie near the many built in bookcases, dancing and singing along to a vinyl record of Queen with a Stella Artois in hand. He becomes transfixed, not by her choice of a spaghetti strap top and underwear, but by her spirited movements. She seems so jolly.

  She smiles and entices with her eyes, her mouth, and her body.

  “Dance with me!”

  “What?”

  “Dance, Oliver!”

  “Now?”

  “Yes! Now! No time like the present.” She keeps sashaying back and forth, moving to the beat and waving her hands from side to side above her head.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off her. “I would rather just watch.”

  “Come on. Dance!” she yells, pulling him to her lively swaying.

  “Sophie, I don’t want to dance,” he says over “Another One Bites the Dust.” “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.” He watches as she dances, spinning and rocking to the music without restraint or worry. “What’s gotten into you?” he says, his eyebrows lifting.

  “I love Queen, did you know that?”

  “You’re listening to a 1978 Bohemian Rhapsody record.”

  “Shut up,” she says happily. “Are you serious? I wasn’t even born yet. Hah! This record is older than me!” She laughs more care freely than Oliver has ever seen in her before.

  “And in better condition, it seems.” He smiles at her. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, I’m not. I only grabbed one refrigerator from the beer.”

  “Really? I guess one is like ten for you then.”

  “You know, Oliver…for a math genius, you don’t really know how to count.”

  The song changes to “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

  “Oh man, this is my jam,” Sophie says, breaking it down. “Now dance.”

  “Sophie.”

  “Shh! I don’t want to hear it. For once, don’t think, Oliver. Just dance with me.”

  “You want to dance? Fine. Let’s dance.” He takes a few steps to the modern sofa and drapes his suit jacket over it. Then he goes to her, dexterously unbuttoning his shirt with one hand as he goes. With the other, he takes the beer from her and sets it on a shelf. He spins her around so that her back is against his chest, and puts his hands over her stomach. Slowly and synchronized, their hips begin moving to and fro together.

  When the tempo is about to speed up, Oliver grabs her hand and turns her around again to meet her gaze. Sophie is a bit startled at his sudden vigor, but soon recovers. The song hits the pre-chorus. They let the music take over, dancing each in their own way, both managing to look like a couple of crazy teenagers. Oliver doesn’t feel like himself. He feels silly, and more than that, it’s odd for him to be so careless. Sophie has never felt more comfortable, more at ease with another person, let alone a man. So this is how it feels, she thinks, laughing and twirling. When he spins her out and before he can pull her back, she jumps to him as if they are recreating the lift in Dirty Dancing. She’s light as a cloud to pick up. He swings round and round. Their energy is infectious. The difficulties of the day, the worries of tomorrow, all get lost in the music.

  They just. Dance. There. Around the house. Alone. Until they find their way into the bedroom. Their love-making is not like most times before. Not tonight. It was a deep, meaningful thing between them that felt urgent, saturating. There was only now; she and him, and now.r />
  Lying on the bed, gasping for air from the tremendous, hot energy she gave to the act, Sophie groans, “Ow.”

  He glances at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I sprained something.”

  A small laugh escapes his lips. “You okay there, Grandma?”

  She turns to look at him, so flawless and so inviting. “Who you calling ‘Grandma’? I’m perfect. You?”

  “Never been better.” He puts his hands behind his head.

  “Good. Let’s do it again.”

  T W E L V E

  * * *

  Cat and Mouse

  SOPHIE’S ALWAYS BEEN a night owl, and Oliver an early bird. Neither knows why one loves the other because they are almost opposite. He’s logical and scientific, a read-instructions-first kind of guy. She’s practical, opens beer bottles with her teeth. He’s neat and organized, likes his hangers facing the same direction. She has thousands of unread emails and little red notification circles all over her cell phone. Staying up past midnight is a major achievement for Oliver. On most days, he’s in bed by ten and asleep in less than thirty seconds. Discipline and practice will take you places. Sophie sleeps until late in the morning and hits snooze every ten minutes for an hour before she really needs to get up, claiming she gets out of bed easier that way.

  Oliver is already up before the first buzz, as usual, sitting quietly in his home office. He reads emails, catches up on the popular newspapers, and gets important work done before the mess of the day gets in the way. When the sun makes its presence known, he goes back into the bedroom. The alarm clock is blaring for Sophie to get out of bed and he watches her roll over, flop out her arm, and smack the snooze button.

  “You have to stop sleeping in ten-minute increments,” he tells her. “It’s madness.”

  The first rays of sunrise have reached the bare windows and already the blaze stings her eyes. She groans and rolls away from the sunlight. “We need curtains,” she mumbles into a pillow.

  “What?”

  “There is not a single curtain in this house.”

  “We don’t need curtains. We have triple-pane windows that we do need for insulation.”

  “But the whole point of curtains is to keep light out…”

  “No, sweetheart, the point of windows is to let light in. The point of curtains is privacy.”

  “The neighbors must love you. You walk around naked all the time.”

  “No one can see in from the outside. Not this high.”

  She pulls a spare pillow over her head. That should muffle the sound of him. It doesn’t.

  “Why do you keep waking up and falling asleep?”

  “I’ve told you like a billion times. It’s the only way my body can process that it’s time to get up.”

  “Sophie, your body naturally reboots itself an hour before you open your eyes to prepare you to wake up. Setting the alarm clock earlier than needed is like saying ‘PIN number’ when everyone knows the N stands for number. It’s tautological. You’re confusing your body.”

  Her eyes squint as she looks up at him. “What?” It’s too early to be hearing words she doesn’t understand. It’s too early to be talking about curtains and insulated windows and sleep cycles.

  “There’s no need to say Personal Identification Number Number. It is of its very nature, a number. It makes one sound dumb.”

  Technically speaking, he’s right. But if Sophie has to listen to another word of this hokum, her head might just explode. “You know most heart attacks happen in the morning?”

  He tilts his head to the side and considers her words.

  “I’m so sleepy,” she complains, rubbing her eyes.

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “That we can get curtains,” she says nicely.

  He sighs and the alarm starts ringing. She hits snooze again.

  “Okay, fine, you want curtains? I’ll get you curtains. I’ll get you a hundred curtains. I’ll mount them myself. Will that make you happy?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Great. Then it’s settled. And don’t hit that snooze button again.”

  Sophie grumbles mutinously.

  THE CLOUDS are wispy and angry-looking, like black cotton candy over the sky line view from the penthouse windows. It was uncomfortably sunny when Sophie woke, but the sky is now awash with a coming storm.

  Is the weather mocking me, or what? Sophie wonders.

  Her destination is Ironport. It’s a cutting-edge remand facility run by a private company in Oswego County, New York, where high-value lawbreakers are confined. Rumored to have been a black site once under military control, Ironport was sold off by the state to a wealthy investor looking to gather the reins of power into his hands.

  Why sell? Prisons are filled beyond capacity.

  Why buy? The private prison industry brings in billions of dollars a year, encouraging incarceration for the sake of profit. It’s a hotbed of corruption, serving to prove that crime really does pay.

  Ironport is a cage of concrete, heavily barred windows, iron walls, doors of stainless steel, and motion detectors. Its latest inmate: John Henry Bridges.

  Reed navigates the Mercedes toward the front of the prison. Sophie looks out the back window and sees it sitting dead-eyed amid weeds, overgrown trees, and bushes.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” Sophie says. “Do I need to know how you pulled this off?”

  Reed doesn’t answer, which is his usual response.

  He leads her out of the car and pads behind her, looking alert and ready for action. Her needle-like heels dig into the gravel path. It’s an almost acrobatic feat. She wore high heels, not to show off her Barbie feet, but to walk more purposefully. That, and a pair of stilettos can easily double as a weapon.

  A tough-looking gent in a suit greets her. “Miss Cavall. I’m Number One. I run the show around here.” The place is so cloak-and-dagger they don’t have names, just numbers.

  “How do you do?” She offers her hand. “Thank you for making this happen.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Officially, you’re not here. Officially, this visit didn’t take place. Officially, we’ve never met. Off the record. Understand?”

  She’s bewildered and largely suspicious, but nods anyway. “Yes, I understand. It’s very important that I get in contact with him.”

  “Everything is always very important when it comes to him,” he says, his face like a brick. “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes. Just me and my security detail.”

  He eyes Reed. “You can stay here. Run a sweep.”

  “I already did.”

  “It’s okay, Reed. I won’t take long,” Sophie assures.

  Number One furthers the interrogation. “Does anyone know your whereabouts?”

  “No one knows.” Her mouth opens before her conscience kicks in. Oliver. She doesn’t want to go behind his back, but she knows it’s the only way. She needs answers. Desperately.

  “Follow me.”

  They go into the prison compound through a series of high-tech security doors. A group of men in tactical uniforms join them.

  Sophie treads slow, silent, wary. Her knees quiver, not so much from the stilettos as from the rigid ache around her legs. Waves of memories flood back to her like a tsunami hitting the beach. They keep coming and coming, just moving on up the shore. She’s scared witless. Sophie doesn’t know how many times she’s tried to push John Henry Bridges out of her thoughts, bury him in some ruinous place inside her mind, unknown even to herself. But it’s no use; a part of him is always with her. Always will be. And to see her captor, speak to him for the first time since her disappearance—it’s weakening her bones to their most decrepit state.

  Hold it together, she mutters under her breath.

  Sophie tangles with her own mind as Number One explains the mechanics of the prison. “Guards at every turn. All eyes are on him 24/7. The way you come in is
the way you come out.”

  “He’s your only prisoner?”

  He almost says client. “Detainee. Yes.”

  “And why is that?”

  He chuckles like she’s some ignorant fly. It’s condescending.

  “Your naivety comes off a little too sweet. I appreciate it. Don’t see much sweet around here.”

  This ruffles her, but only for a second. Sweet. He thinks I’m sweet?

  “You really have no idea, do you?”

  Sophie’s only reply is a glare at the back of Number One’s head as they continue at a steady pace through the prison corridors. Number One explains standard operating procedure.

  “He’s allowed to manage the small garden for an hour each day…free to come and go within the building at specified hours; write letters; watch TV; read the newspaper, magazines, a few books; hit the weight room…eat broth, porridge, meat twice a week and soft beverages; a visit from his lawyer; things within reason. That’s it.”

  It seems like heaven. “That’s it? This is a pretty big place for one man to revel in, if you ask me.” She looks at more guards moving toward the door, ready to cover position.

  “He’s got more than he needs, but accommodations are no extravagance I can assure you.”

  “Bridges is responsible for God knows how many murders, and you gave him his own holiday resort? What about justice?”

  He tries not to snort at that comment. “You walk into any courtroom, you’re going to come across a statue of Lady Justice. She wears a blindfold for a reason. We are all equal under the law. Supposedly. That’s the ideal. Lady Justice might be blind, but not deaf. And she likes the sound of money.”

  “So what, it all comes down to politics and money?”

  “It always does,” he says dourly. “Bridges needs watching all day. He’s high risk. No remand facility consented to house him. Until the prosecution proves otherwise, he’s innocent.”

  “Oh, yeah, okay. Let’s wait. Let’s all wait. Meanwhile, he gets to do pushups, become violent, and think about his next crime.”

  It’s his turn to stay quiet.