The Woman Trapped in the Dark

by J. D. Mason

  She was Abigail Rhodes. An engineer. A country girl. She was funny and beautiful and had changed him in ways he’d never thought possible. “You’re looking at my heart and my soul, man,” he desperately explained.

  There was another long pause between the two.

  “And you want her found,” the man stated.

  “I need you to come to me. I need to know who you are, and yes, I need for you to find her.”

  “You don’t need to see my face for me to do that.”

  Was this motha fucka really trying to be coy? “Gatewood,” Jordan abruptly said.

  “I don’t want your name, man,” he snapped.

  “Jordan Gatewood,” he continued unabated. “That’s who you’re dealing with.”

  “Rule number one, no names. Number two, no face-to-face. You just blew it, asshole.”

  Jordan sensed that he was about to hang up.

  “Who do you have?” Jordan blurted out.

  “What?”

  Jordan slowly rose to his feet. “Who do you have? Your woman. A kid? Your mother? Father? Anybody? Somebody you’d kill for or die for? Who the hell is it?”

  Silence.

  “Who would you do anything for? Who is the one that saved you? Maybe you lost her. Maybe she’s still in the picture. I don’t know. But she sparked something inside you that no one else ever did. Would you trust some nameless, faceless sonofabitch to save her and to bring her home to you? Or would you want to look him in his eyes and let him see just what she means to you when he looks back into yours?”

  “The clock’s ticking.” That woman’s words washed over him.

  “Don’t make me ruin you, man,” Jordan said gravely.

  This dude was the ace in the hole for the rich and powerful. His number wasn’t exactly published on a Web site or readily searched for on the Internet under “Killer for Hire.” Affiliation with this dude was exclusive and could be deadly if you weren’t careful with his privacy. As far as Jordan knew, no one had ever met him in person. Jordan would be the first.

  “You don’t want to make me your enemy, man,” he responded to Jordan.

  Jordan was numb to his threats. “If anything happens to her, I won’t give a shit about you or what you think you can do to me.”

  It was a sober revelation but a true one. His life was forfeit without Abby.

  “You get your ass here or take your chances with the next motha fucka who calls this number.”

  Jordan had no idea what the man looked like or where to find him. But he could always find a way to contact him, even if it wasn’t as Jordan Gatewood. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d rewritten a script to suit his needs.

  After a moment of silence, the man on the other end of the phone finally responded. “I can be there in a few hours.”

  Jordan nodded. “Pull up to the parking garage at Gatewood Towers and ring the buzzer,” he said wearily. “Security will let you in.”

  Jordan hung up. By sunrise, he’d have five days to find her. Only five.

  Day 1

  Ashes in Your Ashtray

  PLATO DROVE UP TO Gatewood Industries headquarters, marveling at the nearly thirty-story tower in the heart of downtown Dallas. Plato’s cardinal rule was to never meet his clients in person. His anonymity was his power. The man had threatened that anonymity. Plato wasn’t convinced that Gatewood could really do him any harm, but it was probably in his best interest not to put that cat to the test. After all, he was hurting and he was desperate, and when a man was put in that position, he was liable to do anything.

  And then there was Abby Rhodes. More than even Gatewood’s threats, it was the fact that it was Abby in that picture making the world suddenly as petite as she was. Plato knew the woman, a friend-of-a-friend sort of thing. More specifically, Ms. Rhodes was a friend of the woman who had stolen Plato’s heart, Marlowe Brown. So, yeah. He understood where Gatewood was coming from when he insisted on having this up-close-and-personal meeting. Both women lived in a no-place little town called Blink, Texas. Plato had stumbled upon the place and left his heart in it, and apparently Gatewood had done the same, which left Plato speculating. What the hell kind of magic was hovering over Blink, Texas?

  Love made ya crazy. Love made you desperate. Love made you call up a man like Plato and dare him not to stand in front of you and look you in the eyes to see that he really did mean it when he said, “I’ll do everything in my power to help you find her.”

  Shit. Gatewood’s penthouse must’ve been next door to God’s, because when those elevator doors opened, Plato felt like he’d stepped into another dimension, with sky-high ceilings, wooden floors polished to look like glass, chandeliers that were probably as long as he was, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the whole state of Texas. Coming here went against everything in his nature. Plato made it a point never to get to “know” the people he worked for, not even their names, if he could help it. But this couldn’t be helped. He apprehensively walked into the expensive decor of the living room and stopped behind Gatewood standing, facing the window with his hands in his pockets.

  Plato had taken a few minutes to do his homework before coming here. He’d done an Internet search on Jordan Gatewood. As soon as he saw his picture, he recognized him. A few years back, Jordan had been one of Plato’s marks. Plato had been asked to keep an eye on the man by a friend to send a warning to Gatewood if he decided not to play fair in that particular game. The fact that he was standing in the same room as Plato, alive and well, pretty much summed up how that whole situation had played out.

  Gatewood turned around and stared quizzically back at Plato. Yeah. Gatewood recognized him, too. Would he mention their brief encounter from back then? And could he possibly know that Plato had become a casual acquaintance of the man’s lady love?

  “We’re down to five days,” Gatewood said stoically, glancing at his watch. It was just after two in the morning. “Five days to find her and bring her home.” He took a deep breath. “The first mistake they made was putting their hands on her,” he continued, angrily. “The second was to let me know it.”

  “How much are they asking?” Plato asked.

  “It’s not just money they want, exactly.”

  Plato looked at him. Gatewood was a tall dude. Almost as tall as Plato, who stood six four. He didn’t have the bulk of Plato, but he had to have weighed in at a good 220. His profile on the Internet said that he was forty-nine.

  “Then what are they asking exactly?”

  “For my investment in a business venture that I have no interest in,” Gatewood explained. “A substantial financial investment.” He shrugged. “The details aren’t important. They’ve demanded that I sign the contract by Friday.”

  In a world where unicorns pranced in flowered meadows, where random people broke out in song and dance, and where fairy godmothers flew around granting wishes, Gatewood would do whatever they wanted him to do just so his lady would be dropped off at his doorstep all nice and shiny, looking better than ever. But in this world … There was an unspoken understanding between them. If Abby Rhodes wasn’t dead already, she soon would be regardless of whether or not he signed his name and handed over a dime.

  “I did not get to where I am in this world by being naïve,” Gatewood continued, as if reading Plato’s mind. “They don’t plan on letting her go and I need her home.”

  The expression in Gatewood’s eyes said it all. From everything Plato had read and seen about the businessman, Gatewood had had his choice of a bevy of beauties. He’d chosen this one. It was a heart and soul thing. Country and cute, Abby was no supermodel or Dallas socialite. She could wield a hammer like a sword and was a monster with power tools. The two were as different and unexpected as … well, Plato and the love of his life, Marlowe.

  “She was living here with me,” he explained. “Had been for about a month. I met her in a town called Blink, Texas.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t even believe that he’d actually been to the place. “Ever h
eard of it?”

  “Maybe,” Plato lied.

  It was instinct that made him do it. Plato had figured out a long time ago that it was best never to stick a pushpin on a map that actually placed him anywhere in particular.

  “She went back there yesterday morning,” he continued. “We’re planning a trip and she went back to get her passport.”

  Irritation shadowed his expression.

  “She was supposed to wait,” he muttered, lowering his head. Gatewood became sullen and contemplative. “Stubborn.” He looked up at Plato. “Hardheaded.”

  Plato knew the type.

  Gatewood visibly swallowed. “She was at her house in Blink when they took her. It was late when I got the call.”

  “A man?”

  “Woman.”

  It was odd for a woman to make the ransom call in an abduction.

  “The clock’s ticking,” Gatewood said, unmoved. “She—the woman on the phone—kept telling me that, and now I’m telling you. My world will be a much darker place without her in it. I’ve lived in that abyss my whole life and I won’t go back to it.”

  His passion for her was real. That might’ve been the only thing about him that Plato was convinced was real. Dudes like Gatewood were hard to read. They spent most of their lives caught up in corporate and political games of cat and mouse, so Plato never could tell where the authenticity began and bullshit ended. Still, it was the passion that he obviously had for the woman that Plato could readily relate to, and the more he realized that, the more it pissed him off. Loving Marlowe had done something to him, something that left an uneasy feeling deep in his gut. Most of the time he tried to ignore it, but standing here now, empathizing and shit, it set off a silent alarm in him.

  “What’s my payment?”

  Gatewood paused as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him that he couldn’t just snap his fingers and make Plato jump like he was probably used to other people doing when he made his demands known. “What do you want?”

  Odd. His clients never offered him a blank check. But that’s exactly what this dude was putting on the table. Money? Plato had money. He had plenty of it. He didn’t have Gatewood money, though, but did he need it? This man sat perched on top of the world. A black emperor ruling a big-ass empire. In Plato’s line of work, sometimes money wasn’t the prize. A debt owed and paid at the most crucial time could mean the difference between his life and death. To have Gatewood indebted to him, something like that could be worth a fortune.

  “I want a get-out-of-jail-free card,” Plato told him. “I want a guarantee that should I ever need something, anything, you will come through for me like we’re homies,” he said, finding it difficult to hide his amusement at the analogy.

  “No matter what it is?”

  “No matter what or when or why.”

  Gatewood nodded and gave it a momentary thought. “All right. But only if you get her back home to me alive.” Gatewood fought back his emotions. “If anything happens to her, though”—he visibly swallowed—“if she dies, then you don’t get shit.”

  Plato shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said, turning and leaving.

  “Hey,” Gatewood called after him.

  Plato stopped and turned.

  “What’s your name?”

  Plato thought against telling him because it was against his rules, but hell, those damn rules had all been broken in a matter of hours. So, why not break one more?

  “Wells,” he said before turning and leaving.

  Coincidence freaked him the hell out, and this one was huge. He’d never sat and held a real conversation with Ms. Rhodes, but she’d come by Marlowe’s a few times when he was there. Abby always made it a point to speak when she saw him, but she never pressed. He doubted that Gatewood knew of the connection between Plato and Abby. It was important to keep the secret. And somehow, he’d have to find Abby in time to be sure that she kept it, too. The last thing a man like Plato needed in his line of work was too many lines connecting him to too many dots. Of course, he’d have to keep all of this from Marlowe. Complications. Love was riddled with them.

  Working Too Hard

  DJ WASHINGTON DROVE A TRUCK for a living, which kept him on the road for days at a time.

  “Hey, baby,” his girl Nia said, giving him a quick peck on the lips as he was coming inside and she was leaving.

  “Hi, Daddy,” his five-year-old son, Darius, said, giving him a hug.

  “Hey, lil man.”

  DJ leaned in and kissed his one-year-old daughter, Tamia, perched on Nia’s hip, on the cheek. “Hey, baby girl.”

  She managed to smile without letting that pacifier fall out of her mouth.

  “Momma asked if you could pick them up by five?” Nia asked. “She’s got choir practice tonight.”

  He looked at his woman and smiled. “Yeah. I’ll get ’em before that. I just need a few hours of sleep.”

  Nia had been his high school sweetheart and not once had the thought ever crossed his mind that he should be with anybody else. Pretty sandy brown hair hung down to her shoulders, redbone, with freckles, and pretty lips. Their daughter looked just like her, and Darius was the spitting image of DJ.

  “Okay, we gotta go before I’m late again. You know my boss throws a fit when I walk in thirty seconds after nine.”

  “Yeah, you get outta here,” he said warmly. “I’ll see y’all later,” he said to the kids. “Love y’all.”

  Nia and Darius said that they loved him, too. Tamia waved.

  * * *

  The night had been too damn long, and DJ was exhausted. He was thirty-two but felt more like eighty-two right now. Trucking was good in the beginning, before Darius was born, but more and more it was beginning to keep him away from home too long, away from his kids and his queen.

  They were saving up to buy a house, their own house, because he’d promised her one before Tamia was born, but even in Clark City, the housing market had gotten tough for folks who didn’t have a lot. But DJ was determined to get his family into a home of their own. It was a promise he reminded himself of each and every day.

  He made some bacon and eggs, ate, and then jumped into the shower. His eyes burned from exhaustion. That bed felt so damn good when he stretched out in it that he moaned, turned over to Nia’s side, pulled her pillow to his face, and inhaled. Yes. The scent of his baby was all over that thing. DJ hugged it to his chest, and gradually dozed off.

  The abrupt sound of his phone ringing startled him from the heavy restlessness he’d had the nerve to call sleep.

  “Yeah,” DJ answered, feeling disoriented and weighted down.

  “Let me in, man.”

  It was his brother, James, on the phone and pounding on the front door.

  “Hold on, J,” DJ said irritably.

  James came in carrying a take-out box and large soda from the Yellow Dragon Chinese restaurant a block from DJ’s place.

  “You ’sleep?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I was ’sleep,” he snapped. “Like you give a damn,” DJ said, closing the door.

  The two ended up in his living room. James made himself at home, spreading his meal out on the coffee table and damn near swallowing that shit whole.

  “Ever heard of chewing?”

  “Ever heard of kiss my ass?”

  DJ was the younger of the two, but he’d always been the responsible brother, the one who stayed out of trouble and always tried to do the right thing. James was James. There wasn’t anything else to say about him.

  “What the fuck you doing here, man?”

  DJ’s eyes were still burning and he felt like shit.

  James finished swallowing a piece of orange chicken the size of a man’s fist and then looked at him. “Where’d you find that white woman?” he asked abruptly.

  “What does it matter?” DJ responded reservedly.

  He loved his brother, but he was never comfortable bringing him in on this. DJ needed help, though. If nothing else, James knew how to keep h
is mouth shut, and he needed money as much as DJ did.

  “She looked too nervous, D. Too damn nervous. We can’t afford no weak link.”

  “I told you she was cool.”

  James, the biggest fuckup in the history of fuckups, always had the nerve to question DJ’s choices on everything, and it pissed him off. But he was too tired to argue.

  “So, she’s gonna be watching her?” James asked for clarification.

  “I told you that. She’s gonna check on her during the day, take her food.”

  “She’s keeping the key.”

  DJ nodded. “Yeah. Ain’t no reason for either one of us to have to go to that place until it’s time to cut her loose.”

  James smirked, grunted, stuffed his mouth, and shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, man.”

  DJ didn’t really want to press James for what that look on his face meant. See, doubt was DJ’s biggest enemy right now. He’d been straight-arming it since he’d agreed to do this. All they had to do was take her. That was it. Hide her and keep her safe until the call came to let her go. DJ and James had been careful. They’d worn knitted face caps when they took her so she couldn’t identify either of them. And she was kept in a safe place. They’d keep her fed and watered, and she’d be cool until the end of the week.

  “What’d you do with her truck?”

  They couldn’t have left the woman’s truck parked in front of her house. People who knew her might believe she was home and go snooping around.

  “I parked it behind an old abandoned barn off Lee Road on the edge of town,” he said indifferently. “Can’t even see it from the street. Ain’t nobody gonna notice nothing.”

  James had gotten out of hand with her. And DJ was pissed about it at first, but James had actually done what needed to be done. She was small but tough, tough enough to nearly fight off the two of them and get away. He’d hit her, though. DJ could never reconcile with hitting a woman. James, obviously, had no problem with it.

  “We need to stop talking about it,” DJ said curtly.