Run So Far

by Peggy Nicholson

  She heard the hiss of an indrawn breath. ‘Where is he?’ he barked so suddenly that she jumped.

  ‘I ... can’t tell you that, Mr. McKay, but I do have a message for you...’

  ‘Jolian!’ There was an underlying tension to his voice now that hinted at some emotion under precarious control. ‘Before you say anything you might regret ... you sound rather young. Do you know the penalty for kidnapping?’

  ‘Kidnapp—’

  ‘Do you know that I’m prepared to spend as much money and time as it takes to catch you and your friends?’ The low, smooth voice was a corrosive half whisper now, dropping like acid into her ear. ‘Do you know that when—not if Jolian—but when I get my two hands on you, a life sentence in prison will be the least of your worries?’

  Jolian swallowed hard and found that she was pressed back in her chair, huddling away from this harsh promise. How had she let the conversation take this turn? ‘Wait a minute,’ she tried firmly.

  ‘No, you wait a minute, Jolian. I’ve been waiting all week!’ he rasped back. ‘If, on the other hand, you’ll give up this ugly little plan and give me my son back—today—I’m prepared to pay you ten thousand dollars in unmarked bills and to forget the mistake ... That’s assuming you haven’t hurt him in any way, of course.’

  Jolian sat upright and took a deep breath, thanking her lucky stars that she wasn’t a kidnapper, not a kidnapper unlucky enough to be holding this man’s son anyway.

  ‘Well?’ he bit out. ‘Take it or—’

  ‘Mr. McKay,’ she cut in determinedly, ‘I’m prepared to pay ten thousand dollars in unmarked bills to get a word in edgewise in this conversation! Now take that or leave it!’ She heard him hiss, sounding so much like his son that she had to smile.

  There was a long moment of freezing silence. ‘So go ahead,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘I am not—repeat, not a kidnapper, Mr. McKay, truly, and I’ve never even seen your son. I’m a volunteer in a non-profit-making organisation that mediates between runaways and their parents by phone, and I have a message from Jem for you.’ Jolian gulped air gratefully. There, she’d got it out.

  ‘Runaways!’ McKay breathed harshly. ‘Jem? Why would he ...’ He hissed impatiently again. ‘What’s the message?’

  Jolian smiled sadly, picturing a hard-driving businessman groping to reassess his facts. No doubt he was better prepared to deal with a dozen kidnappers than one lost and lonely teenage son. ‘The message is “Happy Birthday”, Mr. McKay,’ she said gently.

  ‘Happy...’ His low voice trailed away, and then he sighed heavily. When he spoke at last, the voice was gruffer. ‘Anything else, Jolian?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. McKay. Jem says that you’re to be nice to Ralph, if you ever want to see him again.’

  ‘Be nice to Ralph,’ McKay mused wonderingly. ‘What did he think I’d do—dropkick the son of a polecat over the neighbour’s rooftop? And what did you say your organisation is called, Jolian?’

  The change of subject left her flatfooted. ‘Ah—’ But a man who could command the resources to nab kidnappers could certainly trace the whereabouts of the Reachout office if she told him that, she decided quickly. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, will you?’

  ‘No, Mr. McKay.’

  ‘Well, who the hell’s side are you on, you—’ His voice ground suddenly to a halt, and as he took a deep breath, she dropped the answer neatly into the break. ‘Jem’s side.’

  ‘Well, that’s clear enough,’ he snarled. ‘I’m prepared to pay for that information, of course.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Jolian told him sweetly, unable to resist the opening. ‘But I’m not prepared to sell.’ She heard the Mullins shuffle into the outer office. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. McKay ...’

  ‘Jolian, wait!’ he demanded harshly, ‘... please ...’ The hiss following that plea told her what the word had cost him. ‘Will you call me back?’

  ‘Only if Jem has another message for you, sir.’

  ‘Message,’ he repeated softly. ‘He is calling you back, then?’

  ‘Yes. He promised to call me on Friday.’

  ‘Friday? Jolian ...’ He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice had warmed to that tone he’d used in his first few words, ‘Jolian ... would you please call me, whether there’s a message for me or not, after you talk with Jem on Friday?’

  ‘Mr. McKay, I can’t use this line, except to send messages,’ she told him gently. ‘That’s a rule. We have to watch our expenses.’ Speaking of which, she glanced at her watch. They’d been talking for nearly fifteen minutes now.

  ‘But ... wait, I’ve got to know something. Ask Jem ... ask him ... what to feed his miserable tomcat, will you, Jolian? He hasn’t eaten in three days now. Will you do that for me? Please?’

  Jolian smiled, suddenly wondering what this man looked like. He had a nice voice. ‘I’ll ask him,’ she promised. ‘Goodbye, Mr. McKay.’ David was standing in the aisle between the files, one russet eyebrow raised teasingly, and she made a face at him.

  ‘Just till Friday,’ McKay reminded her softly.

  ‘Till Friday,’ she agreed, reaching across to break the connection with a finger. A most persuasive type when he wanted his way ...

  ‘Your latest admirer, Jolian?’ David strolled into the office and set a medical textbook on the desk.

  ‘Hardly!’ Jolian gathered her assortment of needle files and packed them and the silver into her shoulder bag. ‘More like an irate parent.’ Pulling back her thick hair, she twisted it into a loose knot at the back of her neck. She clipped it in place with the forged silver barrette she had made years ago in her first jewellery class and stood up. ‘Now do I look like a kidnapper to you, David?’ she demanded indignantly.

  Grinning, the gangly redhead inspected her from her long, brown legs to the top of her smooth dark head. He nodded solemnly. ‘Wink those big blue peepers just once and you can kidnap anybody you want to, Jolian, provided he’s male and out of diapers.’

  Jolian smiled and looked down again quickly. This was touchy ground. David had never quite understood why she had broken off with him two years ago, why she wouldn’t let their friendship grow into something more, as he had put it. Luckily Tracy had come along a few months after their break-up, and that question had become moot. ‘I mean kidnapping for profit, not pleasure, goon!’ she said lightly.

  ‘Take a business course first,’ he advised, slouching into the swivel chair and reaching for his book.

  She laughed and turned away, slipping between the filing cabinets. Perhaps she’d been crazy to let David go. Friendship, kindness—most women would be happy to settle for that much. Who was she to wish for fireworks as well? Quite probably a fool, that’s who, she told herself sardonically.

  In the outer office, Tracy was underlining passages in another textbook and Katy was still trapped on the phone. She rolled her eyes in despair. Her date with the rugby hunk was in half an hour. ‘Don’t let him ply you with bean sprouts,’ Jolian warned her softly. She collected her ten-speed bike and headed for the stairwell.

  Stopping outside the Greek pizza parlour which occupied the first floor of their building, Jolian pulled a deep breath. The chill air tasted of fennel, red peppers and baking bread, and her mouth watered. ‘Later,’ she said firmly.

  The long, soft September twilight was folding across the city. To the east, the downtown skyline loomed pale, against the darkening sky. Tiny golden rectangles twinkled high up in the velvet blue, marking the windows of the late and the ambitious—people like Jem’s father who placed work before family.

  A light turned to green on the avenue before her and the traffic rumbled into motion. Jolian swung on to her bike. Around her, Kenmore Square was holding back the dark with its evening light show: green lights, red lights, headlights of speeding cars, street lights, and the brightly lit restaurants and shops combined to make a pulsing, electric daylight.

  Within this bright bubble, people sauntered or jogged, wi
ndow-shopped or paused to talk and laugh on the wide sidewalks. It was a young crowd, many of them students from Boston University or the art institute just down the street. Perhaps Jem himself was here, Jolian mused as she eased into the stream of traffic and pedalled away. With its bright lights and youthful, happy throngs, Kenmore Square might well attract a young stranger. Reaching Massachusetts Avenue, she turned left, heading for the Harvard Bridge and Cambridge beyond. But then Boston was a large, a very large city, filled with bright lights and young crowds. The boy could be anywhere. And he can take care of himself, she reminded herself firmly. Her wide mouth twisted in a rueful, sceptical grimace, then she put him out of her mind as she pedalled out on to the bridge.

  The exact middle of the long, low Harvard Bridge was one of Jolian’s favourite haunts. She was late tonight, and Yaffa would be yowling the house down, but she stopped for just a minute to lean against the iron railing. Around her, the Charles River stretched away, a wind-ruffled field of silver-blue, and she took a deep, satisfied breath. From here, the dark and rushing streets of the city were just a blur and a murmur. Tilting her head back, Jolian could see the full expanse of sky for the first time that day. The feeling of space and distance, of peace, was lovely. Lovely—and quite suddenly—lonely. The river wind raised goosebumps across her thighs and she shivered. It would be cold tonight. Autumn was coming—slowly, but it was coming.

  Pushing off again, she hoped Jem would find a warm place to sleep tonight, and Suzie ... Jolian shivered again. Good luck tonight, poor Suzie. She would need it. Turning left off the bridge in front of the massive buildings of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Jolian followed the river footpath to the west, cycling slowly past the puffing joggers. No, the best thing she could wish for Suzie was a cold and lonely bed tonight. Like mine, the thought popped into her head. Oh, shut up, she told herself firmly. It’s your own choice, after all. It’s not as if you’ve had no offers. She began pedalling faster, her eyes wide in the deepening twilight.

  It was dark by the time she cut away from the river, across the parkway and into a quiet street lined with tall trees and three-storey Victorian houses. Her neighbourhood was a peaceful backwater tucked between Harvard, M.I.T. and the Charles river—a refuge for young professionals and older grad students, bachelor professors and widows who had lived there all their lives. Coasting around a second corner, she turned into a short dead-end street and then up a driveway beside a dark, angular house with high-peaked roofs and jutting dormers.

  As Jolian climbed the back stairs to the third floor, she heard the phone ringing and the anguished yowls of an abandoned Siamese. Yaffa flowed out through the unlocked door and wove around her legs with piteous cries as Jolian stumbled across the dark kitchen to pick up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ She pulled a deep, laughing breath and then swayed as Yaffa landed on her shoulder with a throaty moan.

  ‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice, puzzled and a bit stiff, very correct.

  ‘George,’ she identified him as she lifted the small cat off her shoulder and dropped it. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. What on earth was that?’

  ‘One small and starving cat. I just walked in the door.’ Stretching the phone cord across the room, Jolian flipped on a light. The long room which was kitchen at one end and living room at the other leaped into view, giving a swift impression of pale woods and large plants.

  ‘So I gathered,’ he said dryly. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where were you?’

  Yaffa bounded on to the large butcher block table that divided the two areas, then leaped off again as Jolian aimed a swat at her. ‘Oh, out and about,’ she said gaily, tiptoeing for a can of cat food on one of the shelves above the counter. One coffee together and one movie-with-dinner date hardly obliged her to report her daily schedule to George, as far as she was concerned. Yaffa darted around her feet with short urgent cries as she dished the food out. ‘I’m feeding her, not killing her, no matter what it sounds like,’ she assured him cheerfully.

  ‘And may I feed you tonight?’ George offered quickly. He sounded just a trifle unsure of himself, or perhaps irritated. Or perhaps one emotion followed the other.

  Jolian hesitated, then tossed the can-opener into the sink. In the window above it, her face was reflected, her deep eyes shadowed by thick lashes. It was a delicately strong, face, self-possessed as a cat’s, and not unlike a cat’s with its high cheekbones and pointed chin. Self-possessed ... Her instincts said no tonight. ‘Oh, perhaps not, George ... I’m pretty tired tonight. And I’ve got a new design I want to finish and give my partner tomorrow ...’ But then her instincts always seemed to say no, where men were concerned. And was it fair to judge someone after one and a half dates? It was not. That conclusion lent an apologetic softness to her excuse which he was quick to seize on.

  ‘Well then, what about Saturday, Jolian? There’s a new French restaurant I want to try. I hear it’s excellent,’ He paused expectantly.

  There was really no reason not to, Jolian thought regretfully. ‘That sounds lovely, George. What time?’ He was really quite nice, and eminently presentable—young lawyer on the way up, attractive, intelligent, family money. Just a little ... stuffy.

  ‘Let’s say six-thirty.’

  ‘All right, George. I’ll see you then.’ Talk of French restaurants had roused her stomach again. Jolian found a carton of raspberry yogurt in the fridge and ate it on her feet as she paced slowly around the living room with its low sofas and its tall potted palm trees edging the cream-coloured walls.’ She stopped before the crammed-full bookcase along the inner wall to study the titles and then turned away again. Odd how restless and ... lonely ... she was tonight. Usually solitude didn’t bother her at all.

  ‘I thought you wanted to be alone?’ she mocked herself. The branches of the elm outside stroked softly against the room-length bank of windows which faced the back yard and she shivered suddenly. ‘Well, I don’t,’ she told the cat that padded on to the rug at her feet and sat to lick a dark paw. ‘All I really want is someone to love...’ No more than that. And no less. No less, she repeated fiercely, scowling down at the carpet. Her eyes refocused on the cat and she smiled suddenly, shrugged and scooped Yaffa into her arms. Yaffa sniffed her chin and Jolian drew back, her nose wrinkling. ‘Yuk! Let me rephrase that. All I want is someone to love, who doesn’t smell like last year’s tuna fish!’ Cat in arms, she wandered into the jewellery shop she had set up in the front bedroom. Work would cure this. It always did ...

  There was no time to be lonely, little time to think of lost children, still less to worry about anguished parents in the next day and a half of Jolian’s life. She completed the piece, which would be a prototype for a new line of reversible bracelets, and took it over to her partner’s loft in Charlestown. With a few modifications, Al liked it and they worked out the production details over lunch, debating colours of stone to be used, whether the bezels should be gold or silver like the rest of the bracelet, and size of the first production run. She stayed to inspect a shipment of rings of Al’s that two apprentices were finishing for a gallery in Miami, came up with an idea for a new improved version of that design, and spent half the afternoon trying to convince Al that it would be economically feasible to produce. Leaving him finally with threats and promises to construct the prototype herself, Jolian barely made it back to Cambridge in time to teach her night course on beginning jewellery-making at the local high school. Her students—as eager and clumsy a bunch as she’d ever taught—broke an average of five sawblades apiece, and by the end of the evening, her face ached from trying not to laugh.

  Friday started slower and sweeter. Too sweet, Jolian thought ruefully as she brushed in a wash of Payne’s Gray on her rendering of a sterling silver pendant. Al would gag if he saw these saccharine concoctions of hearts and flowers she was creating for a costume jewellery house in Rhode Island. They were a far cry from the elegant, simple, and costly designs with which Quicksilver Designs was making
its name. But then, money was money. Those first two years while Al and she had scrabbled for every penny to keep Quicksilver in soldier and silver were too vivid a memory; it was still hard to turn work down. Perhaps in another year or two, if Quicksilver continued its present comet ride, she could stop hustling, feel secure enough to pick and choose her commissions ... if she need do any outside designing at all. ‘In the meantime, I won’t tell Al, if you won’t,’ she promised Yaffa. Front paws tucked beneath her, Yaffa sat under the desk lamp like a small broody hen. She blinked blue eyes and said nothing.

  Jolian consulted her watch. She was due for her shift at the hotline in an hour and a half. She stood up and stretched.

  ‘So help me, Jolian, he didn’t even put oil in the salad dressing! Just herbs and lemon juice. And no butter with the bread—I thought I’d starve!’ Katy stopped to take a gulp of coffee as if she were still starving. ‘I kissed him goodnight, shut the door, and just bolted for the refrigerator!’

  Jolian laughed and leaned back in her swivel chair, stretching her long denim-clad legs out beneath the desk. The afternoon had turned grey and misty and she had dressed warmly for her bike ride to the office. Her dark blue sweater echoed the colour of her laughing eyes. ‘So will you go out with him again, if he asks, Katy, risking certain starvation in the quest for love?’

  Katy looked guilty. ‘As a matter of fact, Jolian, I have a favour to ask—’

  The phone on Jolian’s desk rang. ‘Don’t tell me, I can guess,’ she groaned as she picked it up. ‘Reachout Hotline. Can I help you?’

  ‘Jolian?’

  ‘Jem,’ she identified the boy warmly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, terrific. Just super! Peachy keen!’ he blurted bitterly, his voice cracking.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She answered his tone, rather than the words, and then they both laughed at how that sounded. ‘Well, you know what I mean! Can I do anything?’

  ‘You’re doing it,’ he answered awkwardly, sounding very young and very gallant.

  ‘Oh.’ What a neat kid! Come back in twenty years, she thought quickly. ‘Well, I did speak with your father, Jem.’