Dancing with Fire

by Susan Kearney

  No one came to investigate. Likely no one heard.

  They’d apparently brought her to the middle of nowhere. She could be on the back acres of a huge strawberry farm, or out by the phosphate mines, or stuck in a cow pasture. Or a junk yard. She suspected that they’d brought her someplace so remote that no one would find her by accident.

  She had only herself.

  God. What would Kaylin do?

  Lia ached to sleep. It would be so easy to give in to the weariness, to close her eyes and rest.

  Her eyelids weighed a ton, and if she slept, she could forget for a little while. No. She had to stay awake. Find a way out. But she didn’t know what to do, and she hated feeling helpless and vulnerable.

  Lia shivered. Leaning her back against the metal wall chilled her, but what would happen when the sun hit this prison? Would she dehydrate? Die from lack of water?

  Already she wanted a drink. Needed some water to ease her parched and raw throat.

  Think. How could she free herself? She needed something sharp.

  Lia spent the next few hours scooting around her prison, trying to find a sharp edge. She succeeded only in wearing herself out, making her muscles scream in agony.

  And when she returned to the spot where she’d started, scraping her elbow on the headset, she started to laugh. What an idiot. The headset had sharp metal. She smashed off the ear piece with her foot, then ignored the pain in her heel as she grabbed the metal and dug with the sharp edge at the duct tape.

  Working efficiently with her hands behind her back was almost impossible. Especially with her numb fingers. But eventually, she ripped off enough tape to free her hands. Quickly, she removed the tape at her feet.

  Exhausted, yet elated, she stretched out her fingers in an attempt to restore the circulation. Shoving to her feet, she explored the boundaries of her prison. She walked slowly with her arms outstretched in the darkness, but felt nothing. Heard nothing beyond the slide of her feet against metal and her harsh breathing.

  Rectangular in shape, about eight feet wide and maybe thirty feet long, the metal container caged her. And for all the good it did her, she could have been still tied up. Because no way could she break down the steel door, which must be locked and barred from the other side.

  All that wriggling and struggling had been for nothing. She wasn’t breaking out. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  With the metal headset pieces, she began tapping against the floor. Maybe someone would come by and hear the noise.

  As hours passed, she dozed, tapped, and dozed some more. The heat sapped the rest of her energy.

  And as more time passed, just as she’d feared, the rising temperature outside baked her in the metal prison. Moisture seeped from her skin until she could think of nothing but water. Pools of water. Rivers of water.

  The very air seemed to suck the fluid out of her pores.

  Lia prayed that Kaylin would find her soon. Because Lia’s time was running out.

  When it finally cooled again, she dizzily calculated that twenty-four hours had passed. Lia knew one thing for certain. Without water, she wouldn’t live through another day.

  33

  BILLY HAD SO much anger in him that he wanted to hit someone. Instead, he’d yelled at his mom. But damn, the woman was smothering him, acting like she hadn’t seen him in years when he’d only been gone one night and part of a day.

  And with Lia missing, Billy had no patience for his mother’s clinging. When she’d asked where he’d been, her eyes full of accusation, he’d shouted at her to mind her own business, then run to the sun porch. He crashed on the couch, and Randy jumped onto the mattress and curled beside him.

  Absently, Billy petted the dog. “You miss Lia, too. Don’t you, little guy?”

  All of Billy’s life people kept leaving him. First his dad. Then Henry. Now Lia. In his head, he knew Lia wanted to come back. She hadn’t left on purpose. But he felt so empty. Lia was his best friend, the person who liked him even when he screwed up.

  And he was scared for her. Scared for himself. Scared that nothing would ever be the same. Billy shook a few buds out of the last ounce of weed, placed it onto a screen, and rolled the pot to sift out the seeds. Careful not to spill, he took out his bong, placed the pot in the bowl, and lit up.

  Smoke filled his lungs, and he held it in tight. He needed this hit. My God. Lia had been kidnapped.

  And none of the adults seemed to be doing anything to get her back. Or if they were, they weren’t talking to him about it.

  Becca and Shadee had disappeared. So had Kaylin and Sawyer. His mother had drunk herself into another stupor. She really should watch the booze. Sometimes Billy speculated that Mitzy had run his dad off with her drinking, that it was her fault they had to manage on their own. But all too often, he blamed himself. His father hadn’t wanted him. And that hurt, so deeply it was like a wound that oozed daily doses of pain.

  When Billy couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he released the smoke, blowing it into Randy’s face. The dog didn’t appreciate his efforts. He whined, jumped off the bed, and hid under a chair.

  “It’s okay. The smoke will make the hurt go away, buddy.”

  Randy snorted but didn’t come out.

  Billy put away the bong, hiding it behind a drawer, and placed the last ounce in his front jeans pocket. He had one more sale to make, and he’d once again be debt free. He’d worked his ass off, but he finally had the cash. Except he didn’t feel good about it. How could he, with Lia in trouble? Lia gone.

  Billy closed his eyes, embarrassed when a tear leaked out. The pot usually mellowed him out, but it had barely taken off the edge. He dragged out the bong, took a second hit, then a third. The room smoked up, and he opened a window to air out the place.

  He wished he could call Lia. Tell her she’d be okay. But guilt ate at him.

  Billy had it good here. He had plenty to eat. They’d been with the Danners three years, but that wasn’t long enough for him to feel safe. He still dreamed about being hungry and feared being homeless. Nightmares often awakened him. He remembered the string of motels and cheap apartments, not knowing how long it would be before Mom lost her job and they had to move again. It was a lifetime ago. It was like yesterday.

  Sometimes he wished they hadn’t landed in such a good place. Because every day he feared losing this home. This family. Lia. Stability was a huge concern. Billy liked going to bed with a full belly. He liked having food in the fridge. He liked knowing the lights wouldn’t go out because his mother couldn’t pay the electric bill.

  He never forgot that if he screwed up big time, he’d end up back where he’d been—at the bottom of the food chain—or worse. But bad men had murdered Henry, robbed the Danner house, and kidnapped Lia. Maybe no place was safe.

  Billy dropped his head into his hands. The dope hadn’t done the job. His stomach hurt. His mother had told him that the men who’d taken Lia had wanted Henry’s formula, the formula that might be on Henry’s laptop.

  No matter what he did next, Billy was in a shitload of trouble. Still, he had to come clean. Had to help Lia get home. And fear had him shaking.

  Lia’s kidnapping might be all his fault. And even if it wasn’t, Billy had to make things right. Tonight he would pay off his debt. And then he’d go to Kaylin, tell her the truth.

  If he’d waited too long, if those men hurt Lia, Billy would never forgive himself. No matter what time he came back, he’d wake Kaylin up. Tell her what he knew before something else happened.

  34

  KAYLIN HAD LEFT her car parked at Kmart. She’d used their restroom to change into her costume, donned a caftan to cover herself, and then jumped into a cab. Following the directions the other dancer had given her, Kaylin entered Pasha’s Restaurant through the back. She headed straight down a hall and turned right into an
empty office where the dancers changed their costumes between file cabinets, an old desk, and faded wall posters frayed and yellowed at the edges. Even here she could appreciate the scent of delicious food wafting from the kitchen, tickling her nostrils and teasing her appetite.

  She removed her caftan and examined her costume and veil in a mirror behind the door. Unlike traditional belly dancers, tribal fusion dancers often wore their hair up. She pinned flowers in her hair and attached long braids of multicolored yarn to hang from her flower-covered bun. The rest of her costume consisted of dull bronze coins sewn into a black bra and rimmed with white shells, and hip-hugging pants that began a few inches below her navel and flared wide at the knees. Over the pants, she wore a hip belt with chains that dangled from Turkish silver pieces.

  She donned wide silver cuffs over her wrists, then slid more silver bracelets up both arms. Her fingers required rings to emphasize the dance. And she strapped flat sandals onto her feet—a necessity in a restaurant where the public brought in dirt on their shoes from outside. Last, she added the silver ornaments that would hold candles on the tops of her hands for the fire dance. But she wouldn’t light the candles until just before her performance, so she tucked matches into her bra.

  When Kaylin finished, she checked her eye makeup. Satisfied with her appearance, she began to warm up her muscles and stretch. She used yoga poses first, then graduated to a more specific warm-up for the hips, ribcage, and pelvis. Last, she stretched her calves and hamstrings. Finally loosened up, she was ready to work.

  With ten minutes before her first set, she slipped down the hall. On the way in she’d seen two closed doors. One room was open, and she glanced inside. Empty. The second door was closed. She didn’t knock but walked right in as if she belonged, praying Lia might be inside.

  A man sat at a desk, his back to her. Lia wasn’t there. He looked up, questions in his eyes.

  “Excuse me.” Heart racing, she stepped back into the hall and closed the door. With no other rooms to explore from this hallway, she went out front to check the sound system. She hadn’t taken two steps when the bartender, a man with friendly brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses, dark hair, a broad mustache, and swarthy skin shot her a warm grin.

  He spoke with a thick French accent. “You are new to Pasha’s. Yes?”

  “Yes.” She held up her music CD and took in the bar. Lined with glasses, slivers of lemons and limes, plus assorted liquor bottles on shelves, it looked no different from any other bar—except perhaps the smoke was thicker. Men spoke in English, Arabic, and French, maybe Turkish, or at least that was her best guess. While a few men drank hot tea, many drank alcohol, even those wearing Arab headdress. She’d always thought alcohol was against the Islamic religion. Apparently these Arab-Americans had taken up U.S. customs. For all she knew, maybe they were Christian. Frankly, she didn’t care about their religion or country of origin. She just wanted to find her sister.

  She smiled at the bartender. “Can you show me the sound system?”

  “Over here.” He gestured to an area behind the cash register where waitresses rang up the bills. As she followed him, she glanced over the restaurant’s interior layout. The place was already filling up with the five o’clock after-work crowd. A few couples sat at tables, but the majority of customers were men. They sat at the bar, and the only thing that struck her as unusual was there wasn’t one blond among them.

  “Where are you from?” she asked to make conversation.

  “Algeria.”

  “Perhaps when I dance, you could hold my cell phone? I’m expecting an important call from the hospital,” she lied.

  “No problem. If it rings—”

  “Signal me, and I’ll cut the set short.”

  She’d hoped the restaurant wouldn’t be large enough to have a separate dance floor or stage. And she had lucked out. The aisles were wide and she had a space to work in within easy viewing of most patrons. Pleased that she’d have the freedom to move between tables and customers, where she could watch the comings and goings of the clientele and get a feel for the place, she searched for the management.

  She saw a man, possibly a manager, conferring with one of the waitresses, but the dancer Kaylin had replaced had told her the owner, Ali Asad, was tall and thin in stature and wore traditional Arab robes. If Mr. Asad was here tonight, he had yet to appear. Waitresses in long skirts served the tables with quiet efficiency. The lighting was dim, the thick carpet beneath Kaylin’s feet a deep red. The chairs and placemats, also a deep red, set off the shiny silver but reminded Kaylin of blood.

  She shook off the image and noted that the restaurant had several dark booths of deep red leather with pristine cream-colored curtains that could close for privacy. Currently all the curtains were tied open, the booths empty. A hostess greeted customers at the front door and seated them. No one yet had food on the table, but from the aromas emanating from the kitchen, it wouldn’t be long before the waitresses served the meals.

  Several customers arrived, and she recognized Quinn at once. Apparently the man not only dined here with her father, but frequented the restaurant for dinner, too. He entered with another man, whom she didn’t recognize, and two women. She doubted Quinn would recognize her behind her veil and vowed to take a good look at his friends when she danced by his table.

  The front door opened again, a bell lightly chiming, and another customer entered. Kaylin caught sight of the man out of her peripheral vision. She was busy changing the track of her CD to find her song and adjusting the volume. But the way the man moved caught her attention. He seemed familiar.

  But when she turned back toward the restaurant to look at him more closely, he’d slipped into a dark booth. Although the curtains remained open, she couldn’t see his face at all.

  She planned to dance in that direction first. She took a deep breath, cued her music, lit the candles on her hand ornaments, then sauntered slowly to the beat. Conversations stopped. Male and female heads turned toward her, expectation and curiosity on their faces. The music began with an up-tempo beat. When she reached a location where all the customers could see her, Kaylin held perfectly still and fluttered one hand, drawing the eyes to her fingers and the flame. A good dancer knew how to begin, how to pace herself, how to grab an audience.

  From the first unusual chord, she had their attention. Tension filled the room, an air of expectancy amid the sudden hush.

  Ever so slowly, Kaylin let her hand movement connect with and roll into her elbow, her shoulder, her ribcage. Until her upper half undulated, slowly, sensuously, like silk spinning from a cocoon. As she began to circle her ribcage in a horizontal pattern, she kept her hips and feet still, giving the audience time to take in her face, her costume, her flow.

  On a crash of drums, she changed the pattern, holding her upper body still. She slid her feet forward and moved her hips, alternating up and down and back and forth. As she advanced her feet, she used a series of vertical hip circles, first right, then left. Her style was grounded, flowing, earthy. As the music streamed into her blood, Kaylin interpreted the beat with her body. Sometimes she allowed the cadence of the drums to set the rhythm, other times she floated with the melody.

  She danced her way through the restaurant, taking her time, the candlelight on her hands leading the way. Quinn sat next to one of the women, but Kaylin paid more attention to his male dinner partner. The man looked Middle Eastern with his dark hair and eyes. He wore a business suit and otherwise possessed nondescript features. If she saw him again, she might not recognize him.

  Next, she headed toward the rear booth. A customer tossed money onto the floor, a tip the waitresses would collect for Kaylin. This type of dance didn’t permit touching. Customers showed their appreciation by clapping in time to the music and tipping her with coins and cash thrown into the air.

  Swaying with timed precision, Kaylin advanced, h
er steps smooth, sliding. Always emoting what she felt, she showed her fear through the dance, using it to give her the edge that kept her performance different from all others. Dance was nothing without emotion. When she reached the back booth, she might have stopped dead in her dance sandals if she hadn’t been a professional. No wonder that customer had looked familiar.

  Sawyer sat in the booth, his eyes narrowed and intent. With his lips tight, his jaw clenched, he obviously disapproved and still hadn’t gotten past their former argument.

  Damn, he was angry. Well, he wasn’t the only one. Just seeing him caused her blood to slam her into a fury of hip drops and shimmies.

  He’d followed her.

  And now she had a complication she hadn’t anticipated. Annoyance fought relief. On the one hand, she wanted to shout at him that she could handle this herself. On the other, she wasn’t so angry that she wouldn’t appreciate his backing her up if it became necessary. She didn’t like Quinn being there. The man gave her the willies.

  Besides, Kaylin wasn’t too proud to accept help. Not when Lia’s life hung in the balance.

  But if she needed Sawyer’s help, it might be to their advantage if no one knew he was there for any reason other than a meal. She just hoped Quinn didn’t see Sawyer.

  Unwilling to draw attention to Sawyer, she didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t talk to him. Didn’t reveal she knew him. She had a job to do, and she was not about to break her cover by talking to him. Altering her plan would be foolish. During her next break, she needed to hang near the bar, the cash register, and the phone. Scope out the place as well as she could.

  Maybe she’d have a chance to drop by Quinn’s table and eavesdrop, or at least see the bill, and if his friend paid by credit card, learn his name. She might find nothing though, and she was prepared for disappointment. But she wouldn’t know until she’d tried. She couldn’t sit home and do nothing.