FALL

by K NILSSON

  Finally, the coach put him on the field at the same time as me. I played middie, but when Donal got the ball, he should have passed it to me. Instead, he tried to run it down the field on his own. My sibling lost the ball to the other team instead of giving it to any one of us middies, who were all in a better position to score. The next time he got the ball, it was an accident or a planned pass from the opposing team. He was going to try to score by himself again, no doubt, to redeem himself. I called to him to pass the ball, but Donal didn’t listen. Another teammate forced him to give up the shot. It would have been forgivable if he’d done it once, but not when he did it twice. The coach took him out of the game, and the team took him out for good. A blow to the head left him too injured to continue the rest of the season. Donal was sent home to recuperate, and I filled in the gap and was named MVP that year. Every time he looked at the scar, he cursed me.

  Father renewed his interest in my future and began to groom me to take over our dynasty. I wasn't the spare to the heir anymore.

  In front of Donal, our Father used to say, “You’re the new prince. Everything you do reflects on our family.”

  That was a burden I hadn’t wanted to take away from Donal. What I wanted was Eileen.

  The evidence was conclusive. The divot on his head indicated a brain injury; the Harvard t-shirt, the same one we wore at practice; his voice on the video, and the accusation of trustworthiness. I didn’t need the results of facial recognition to know it was my brother. Donal has been estranged from us since our father disavowed him and, promptly banished him to Rome to become a priest.

  It’s time to inform my wife the details of Carrie’s perilous situation. Eileen must put on her big girl panties and deal with something outside her little world. I don't want to infect her with guilt that she's somehow responsible for Carrie's kidnapping. It's my fault alone.

  I’ve lived with the secret of my brother's insanity; it feels like a betrayal to reveal it now. Dealing with betrayals have become my sustenance and fuel for revenge and retribution. I call it the Drazen curse. I have this evil, but, Donal is the embodiment of this scourge.

  In my youth, my father taught us about vengeance and retribution. For a man who had shown little emotion, revenge was an emotional response to wrongs, real or imagined, against him, his company, or anything he deemed his. Retribution was the dispensing punishment for that transgression. He ingrained that philosophy in us.

  But I can’t explain this darkness to Eileen. It’s a weakness. She says I’m angry at the world, that I don’t see her or our children, that we aren’t first on my list of priorities. When she gets on my nerves with charges like these, I accuse her of being self-involved, just to get her off my back, but the truth is, I’m the one who’s self-involved.

  My father used to say; it’s human nature to want justice, but, revenge is not justice. I’ve since learned that it was a vicious cycle, but still, there are times I couldn't help myself.

  I have no doubt, Donal kidnapped Carrie for revenge against me. He's taken on the mantle of being the wronged party, forcing the Drazen curse, to an insane extreme. Donal's type of retribution isn’t punishment; it's ruination.

  If something happens to me, if he comes out as a victor in this sibling re-enactment of Cain and Abel, Eileen will be helpless. She has no backbone for revenge. Can I save my family from his scorched-earth plan?

  Chapter Nine

  Eileen Drazen

  Declan summoned me to his office at the end of the day and sent a driver to fetch me.

  I was stopped for a DUI two years ago, and my license was taken away. Margie worked out a plea bargain with the DA so that I wouldn’t lose my license forever.

  Declan stood behind his desk and greeted me with a tumbler of scotch. He pointed to the chair facing him.

  I didn’t take the glass. I sighed. My husband knew I hated scotch, and I knew he hated vodka. “Why did you want to see me, Declan?”

  He led me to the conference table. Photos were all over it. I glanced at the table, then back at the door, trying to decide if I should make a run for it. Were they incriminating photos of uber trips to the or worse, accepting home deliveries of Stoli?

  “These landed in my hands this morning.” He stepped away from the desk and went to look out the window, taking a familiar stance.

  I looked at the first few pictures, clasping my hands to my chest, my mouth wide open. “My beautiful daughter!”

  “Our daughter,” he corrected firmly.

  “What are these?” I was hysterical. There was no way a mother could take seeing such photos calmly. They twisted my gut like a serrated knife, each one creating a new rip.

  Declan told me he'd had Carrie under surveillance, for her protection, ever since she disappeared last week. A PI hired by Margie located her, and she was under his protection until yesterday.

  She was taken."

  “When were you going to tell me?” I asked.

  Declan threw up his hands "I was going to tell you as soon as we knew something ... but we don't know much, just that he is unhinged. This video was sent to my cell phone today."

  He swiped the screen on his phone. I was watching a horror film featuring my baby. I wailed. Declan pulled me to his chest and patted my back. After a few minutes, I settled down enough to ask, "How did he know your name?"

  Declan didn’t respond.

  “You know!” It came out like an accusation because it was. He knew.

  “Who? Tell me!” I demanded.

  “Relax Eileen. I’m not completely certain, but I’ve sent out feelers. I’m going to sit on those until I get a definite answer.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “This person has been in hiding for a very long time. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

  “He knows you Declan!”

  “It could be anyone Eileen. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things you’ll never know about, so don’t ask me.”

  “Goddamit Declan.”

  He didn’t sound hopeful. It seemed as if it was a shot- in-the-dark.

  “How about Margie, does she know about the feelers? The detectives, do they?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I’m not sure who it is. IF find out… I’ll tell them.”

  Then, Declan held me at arm's length away and squinted at me. "When was the last time you spoke to her?"

  Inwardly, I cringed because the last time I’d talked to Carrie, the conversation ended in an argument.

  "I forget." I lied. "How about you?"

  “Not since I received these photos." He cocked his head to the side.

  "I have regrets. What if I'm ... responsible?" He said mournfully.

  My chin dipped to my chest, and I slumped a little before turning away. “No. I'm going to call her.”

  I reached for my phone, but Declan put his hand over mine. “Don’t bother. Carrie’s phone is off. There is no signal from it at all. There’s more.”

  I wrapped my arms around my stomach and shook my head in denial. “No! No more!”

  Chapter Ten

  Saint

  When I first met Mrs. Drazen, it was like looking into a crystal ball and seeing what Carrie would look like in twenty-five years. Mrs. Drazen was a tragically beautiful and elegant woman, and her eyes had faint dark shadows that underlined the lower lashes. They had seen tears—too many, I thought.

  Eileen had an undecided non-smile, lips in a tight line and tilted up on one side as if she was trying to hold back a tart remark. She was dressed in a classic black day dress that had cost more than my car’s Blue Book value. You could always find something out about a woman from her shoes. Eileen wore sensible heels, the ones with the red soles, and a delicate floral scarf with red accents. I was far from a fashion consultant, but it was my job to notice those things.

  As a couple, the Drazens fit together like toast and butter, spaghetti, and meatballs, peas, and carrots. And though they weren’t com
plements to each other, both belonged to the same tribe. They were children of privilege; their fathers were titans who’d arranged a merger through their children. Eileen was an only child and the apple of her father’s overprotective eye, and Declan had one sibling whose whereabouts were unknown. Declan’s father was a hard man of bad character, but he had been instrumental in shaping Declan’s future by brokering the marriage to Eileen.

  Margie had arranged for the meeting to be held in the same conference room we used before, although now I thought of it as the Drazen “war room.” Max had slapped together a dossier that included suspicions of a religious connection to Carrie's disappearance, the dissection of the video—such as the Harvard T-shirt—the signals from Carrie’s phone, the disappeared priest, and the findings from the facial recognition report.

  The ridges on Declan’s forehead were more prominent and his normally manicured brows were unruly. Eileen dabbed a wadded and shredded tissue to her reddened eyes, the rims a sharp contrast against her gossamer skin.

  Margie looked over at me and blinked her eyes as a silent signal to begin.

  “Yesterday, we saw a brief resurrection of Carrie’s phone signal coming from inside Christ the Redeemer Church. I believe that’s where you worship, Mrs. Drazen?” Max asked.

  She blinked rapidly, and her hands fluttered up to her neck. “Yes, it is.”

  “I went there and saw you leaving in a hurry.”

  Declan’s head whipped toward his wife, his eyes a silent accusation. She said nothing.

  “In fact, you left as if you saw a ghost,” I added.

  Eileen’s hands were red and ravaged from all the wringing she’d put them through. Then her voice cracked. “The priest who I’ve been to speak with in confession is new. But yesterday, he seemed to know me. When I asked him if we knew each other outside confession, his response disturbed me. In fact, our entire interaction was disturbing.”

  “Why didn’t you say something, woman?” growled Declan.

  “I was trying to figure it out, but now, since the cat’s out of the bag, I admit my skin prickled when he said not to trust you, Declan. He suggested we’d met before.”

  Her eyes wandered all over the room, avoiding her husband’s glare.

  “We’ll go over this field trip of yours at home later,” Declan said.

  If I were him, I wouldn’t want to hear anymore, especially the part where she was told not to trust him.

  “Mr. And Mrs. Drazen, do either of you have any long-lost relatives we should know about?” I asked.

  Eileen bit her lip and smoothed her skirt. Declan ran his hand down his face and cleared his throat.

  Margie crossed her arms on her chest and frowned.

  I repressed the need to roll my eyes.

  How does that facial recognition work?

  “Summarize it, for their sake, Max.” I asked.

  I couldn’t for the life of me summarize the depth and breadth of this technology for the average person at a moment’s notice, but Max lived and breathed technology.

  “The face is like a map with markers made up of bone structure and facial expressions. We have friends at INTERPOL who ran the photos through their databases, and although the suspect’s face didn’t turn up, yours did, Mr. Drazen.”

  Declan exhaled audibly.

  “If you know something, daddy, now’s the time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Carrie

  After I slashed his face with the beer tab, he beat me senseless with his fists and his belt. While I lay on the floor helplessly, he took my camera and set it on the bookshelf; then, he beat me again for the audience. I finally fell asleep on the floor, on my side, hogtied.

  I poked the bear and got caught. I wasn’t thinking. I should have paid attention to the services. He returned before I finished cutting myself loose. We fought. I slit him. He cut off the t-shirt with a kitchen knife and nicked my arm; then he went-all-Rocky on me. After that, I didn't remember anything.

  As the drugs slowly left my body, lucidity took its place. Father Don had hidden me beneath a church. I knew when Mass was being said because he wasn’t here to torment me. Choir practices were the most peaceful moments of captivity. My mind sang along with prayers of hope and thoughts of basking in God’s glory someday. I feared I’d see him sooner than expected, though.

  It was the ass-crack of dawn when I heard Father Don saying Mass. I wasn’t sure he was going to feed me today. I didn’t deserve to eat. I bit the hand that fed me. If only I could have a drink of water, I could deal with the hunger.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, the demon priest appeared before me. Mass was over. He smiled coldly. A smiling Father Don was scarier than the demon priest of last night. His nice was not nice at all.

  He wasn't nice when he put the leather collar around my neck. It was broad it spanned from the collarbone to my jawline. It had two metal fasteners in the back and a big D ring in the front. The leather was thick and hard, the edges rough. I’ve seen collars like this before; they’re called posture collars and are used to keep the neck erect. He attached a chain from the D-ring on the collar to a catch high up on the wall. He had a lot of hooks along the concrete wall, several of them were closer to the floor, some were near the ceiling.

  Don studied my face, caressed my cheek, and said, “I should have put an ice pack on your black eye last night.”

  Then without warning, he hit me, alternately slapping my breasts and then my pussy. It was savage and unrelenting. He hit me until my nerve endings numbed. I was a mass of muted sensations. My tears were uncontrollable. I was crying so hard I didn’t feel him stop. But I did hear the SNAP of the camera.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dr. Jane

  Margie Drazen came to my office and produced legal papers giving her the right to talk to Carrie’s medical providers about any information they have on her. In my case, it meant sharing session notes and recounting private conversations. I had a problem with sharing the personal interactions because my recollections of them were undocumented. So, I had Margie, and the detectives sign my own non-disclosure agreement, an NDA.

  Carrie and I had a deep connection, more than the typical therapist and patient, because of the circumstances under which we met. Carrie was in the hospital, where I was doing a psych rotation at the time she passed out at school. She’d stabbed her inner thigh with a pencil.

  As I sat in my office with Margie and the men she’d identified as Carrie’s bodyguards, she explained why they were there and that the police weren’t involved yet. There was no demand for ransom, only revenge, and they’d received proof of life. But I knew there was more. As a psychologist, I can tell when someone’s not telling the whole story; their eyes wander, they shift in their seat, and lips are a straight line.

  Max cleared his throat. “We have a surveillance video to show you. It is a video clip of Carrie accosted by a stranger in the hallway of a restaurant.”

  He handed me his cell phone, the screen open to a grainy black and white video clip. Carrie was visible and a man bent to speak to her. I felt the color drain from my face. “Who is he?”

  “We don’t know for sure.” Said the other man, Saint.

  He continued, “This man said something and her demeanor changed, Carrie hobbled toward the dining room with a dazed look in her eyes.”

  “What can you tell us, Dr. MacCallum?” asked Margie.

  She sounded like a lawyer, not a sister. She must think I’ll resist helping find Carrie.

  “Dr. MacCallum, we will keep everything you tell us in confidence,” said Saint.

  I nodded, my lips still in a straight line.

  Then, Margie handed me some papers, non-disclosure agreements. They were signed by Carrie and witnessed by her dad.

  “I will do what I can to help Carrie.”

  “The video is indeed troubling. Looking at her posture, it appears she snapped into a trance.” I agreed.

  “Do you have any notes of your s
essions? Did Carrie have a diary?” Asked Margie again.

  “I have some notes.”

  I handed her a summary of talking points for my next session with Carrie. After Max called, I read her journal and couldn’t put it down. It was finished by morning. Now, it sits freshly dog-eared on my nightstand.

  Margie quickly perused my notes and passed them to Saint, who passed them on to Max, who took a little longer to review.

  “No journal?” asked Max.

  “It’s not in my possession,” I lied.

  He nodded, as if he knew I was protecting Carrie.

  I didn’t know why, but I liked him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saint

  Dr. Jane was a meticulously neat woman. Everything about her was studied, her makeup conservative—neutral lipstick, just a bit of mascara—and dressed in a business suit. I liked how she spoke and could see how she’d put a troubled soul at ease. Hell, I’d bet even Max would be open to a couple of sessions with the good doctor.

  She was invested in Carrie’s well-being. I had no doubt she would be helpful in the field if necessary.

  “What did you plan on discussing with Carrie?” I asked.

  “She brought her journal a few times,” Dr. Jane looked away. “There are things in it she obviously didn’t want to verbalize.”

  “And what are those things?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know… she read the entries aloud to me. I’m unsure if she shared them all. The dreams were the most disturbing. They plagued her. Apparently, she felt strong enough to share her recollections with me.”