Generous Lies

by Robin Patchen

  Suit looked at the Indian. "The problem I'm having is, I think an accountant would be more nervous, don't you?"

  The Indian remained expressionless. If he'd been the other kind of Indian, Garrison might think he belonged in a cigar store.

  He kept that thought to himself.

  The suit looked at Baldie, who also didn't respond.

  "I talk when I'm nervous," Garrison said. "Maybe if you'll just tell me what you want, I can help you get it. Then we can all go on our merry ways."

  Suit shrugged. "Can't hurt. We're looking for a package. Unfortunately, I've never seen it." He turned toward the sofa. "Why don't you describe it, Frank?"

  Frank looked at Garrison. "Just a small box, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It's wrapped in brown paper."

  "Okay." Garrison turned back to the suit. "And why do you think I have it?"

  "Our young friend here"—suit pointed to Matty—"claims he stowed it in your car."

  The pieces started to click into place. Matty had his gaze focused down. Smart. Crazy killers needed to be treated like aggressive dogs—never look them in the eyes.

  Garrison would, though. He needed to keep the suit's attention on himself and off Aiden, Sam, and Matty. Frank? Garrison would bet his life savings Frank had started this whole thing. Frank was on his own. "Matty, can you tell me the story?"

  Matty could barely look at him as he relayed the information. Garrison had been right—the package had come from Frank. Matty's own father had pulled his son into this. What kind of a man would willingly, purposefully, put his kid in danger? If he got the opportunity, Garrison would throttle the guy. Matty continued his story until he talked about the party—the party that had landed Aiden in the ER. Apparently, it had also been the impetus for this.

  When Matty finished, Garrison said, "The package is in the Camry?"

  Matty glanced at Lionel and nodded. "I stuck it in the compartment where the jack goes."

  "Okay." He looked at the suit. "I assume you're wondering where the car is."

  "Naturally." The man pulled something from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "And I'm wondering whose this is."

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Aiden was also focused on the floor. Garrison resisted the urge to look at Sam, who sat on his other side. Surely, she too was focused downward. Only Frank was watching the scene, sitting up straight, as if he weren't terrified. The guy was a good actor.

  Garrison turned back to the man. "That's my son's."

  Aiden looked up, looked at the phone, then looked back down.

  "He's grounded, so I hid it."

  "Unique hiding space."

  "Got the idea from a novel. You read James Patterson?"

  The man slid the phone back into his jacket. "The car?"

  "My son was in an accident." Had it just been the night before? It seemed like an eternity ago. Garrison thought of the day he'd had with his son, the conversation with Samantha. It had been a good day. A great day. Would it be their last day?

  No. Garrison had saved lives before, and he would save these. If he died trying, he would save Sam and Aiden. Matty and his father, too, if he could. He just had to figure out how.

  "An accident?" the suit prompted.

  "Last night. The car was towed to a garage."

  "Where is it?"

  "I have no idea. I had them tow it to the place my insurance company recommended. But I could find out, assuming you didn't demolish my laptop."

  The suit looked at the Indian. "Get it."

  The man went into the kitchen.

  Garrison met Frank's eyes and held them, hoping to see something there. Fight. Anger. Because if they were going to get out of this, they were going to have to take some risks. They were going to have to attack and pray they could keep the armed men busy while the other three escaped. If he could get one of the guns, he could probably subdue a second. But Frank would have to handle the third. All they needed was an opportunity—and a lot of luck. But all Garrison saw in Matty's father's eyes was resignation before the man looked away.

  Great. Garrison was on his own.

  The Indian returned a moment later with Garrison's computer. He set it on the floor in front of the suit, then took out his gun, stepped close, and pressed it against Aiden's head.

  Rage rose at the sight of the weapon pointed at his child. Rage at the men who dared to threaten people he cared about for the sake of a package. Rage that these men didn't care a whit for the lives they threatened, the families they could destroy. It didn't matter what was in the package, it wasn't worth more than the people in this room.

  Garrison wanted nothing more than to rise, to attack, to fight. But with the gun at Aiden's temple, he would sit still, obedient. Impotent.

  Beyond the Indian and Aiden, the suit set his gun on the floor, grabbed the laptop, and opened it. "Password?"

  Garrison considered keeping the information to himself, but only for a moment. He had no cards, no leverage as long as these guys had prisoners. He told him the password, and the suit typed it in.

  Garrison could tell by the glow from the computer that the password had worked. The man looked up. "And where would I find the information?"

  "In the notes. Should be on the bottom. Looks like a notepad."

  "Ah. There it is." He read the information, then looked up. "Excellent. The only question that remains is who's going to get it?"

  The suit stared at Frank. Frank stared back but said nothing.

  The suit shifted to Matty, who had no idea he was being studied as he kept his gaze on his knees. The teen had not stopped crying. A normal reaction, especially for a kid, especially if the kid thought this was his fault. But all Matty had done was trust his father.

  The suit shifted his gaze to Aiden.

  Garrison looked, too. His son's too-long hair was hanging like a curtain beside his cheeks as he stared at the floor. But Garrison saw no signs of tears, no sobbing, no trembling. His son was handling this well. Hiding his fear. But not showing bravado. Smart kid. He had more in common with his old man than he knew.

  The suit turned to Garrison, who stared into the man's hazel eyes and wondered what lay behind them. Was there compassion there? Was there kindness? Most bad guys Garrison had put away had been decent people at one point, decent people who'd made poor choices. They weren't cold-blooded killers. They weren't pure evil. Surely, in this man's soul, Garrison would be able to find some humanity. But he didn't see a trace of sympathy or decency or mercy.

  Garrison remained silent. Eventually, the suit moved on to Sam.

  Her head was down, her long hair sheltering her face. Her breathing was steady. He'd been listening all along for signs of anxiety. In the back of his mind, even as he'd tried to process everything else, he'd known it was possible. And maybe that would be a good way to distract the suit. But the Indian guy and Baldie—they didn't seem easily distracted. And, somehow, Sam seemed to be doing all right. Made no sense to Garrison how being surrounded by cops on a quiet street could possibly have been scarier than this, but Sam seemed to be holding it together.

  The sound of footsteps had Garrison turning. The Indian crossed the room and stood behind the sofa, his gun trained on Matty's head.

  The suit stood, walked inches from Garrison's knees, and stopped in front of Sam.

  Whenever the suit moved, the Indian pointed his gun at one of the boys' heads. How could Garrison possibly fight them without losing one of the boys?

  There had to be a way.

  The suit crouched down and lifted Sam's chin with his hand.

  Garrison studied her face. Her eyes were red, her skin pale, but otherwise, she looked like she was managing the fear.

  "What's your name?"

  "Samantha."

  "What do you do, Samantha?"

  She swallowed, held his gaze. "I'm a real estate investor."

  "Interesting. What kind of real estate?"

  "Places like this."

  He looked around. "Yo
u own this cabin?"

  "I do."

  He nodded like he was impressed. "You're awfully young to be a real estate mogul."

  Sam's gaze darted to Garrison, who said, "She's a regular Donald Trump. You in the market?"

  The suit ignored Garrison, kept staring at Sam. He still held her chin, kept her from looking away.

  A fresh wave of rage filled Garrison. He could take the man down right now, tackle him...and then what?

  Get shot in the head.

  He clenched his hands behind his back and willed himself to be still and silent.

  The man looked at him, smiled. "I don't see a ring on her finger, but you seem bothered. Are you and Samantha dating?"

  "We're friends," Garrison said. "And you're making her nervous. Why don't you back off?"

  Garrison had hoped antagonizing the suit would get him to let go of her chin and focus on Garrison again. But the suit wasn't easily distracted. He turned back to Sam, leaned forward, and kissed her temple.

  Sam closed her eyes but didn't move.

  Rage filled Garrison's mouth with bile. He struggled against the restraints, tried to free his hands.

  His son's quiet, "Don't" had Garrison freezing. He looked at Aiden. Of course he was right. Garrison took a deep breath and focused on the floor.

  The suit chuckled, but Garrison kept his eyes on his crossed legs. He had to stay alert, and anger would only keep him from thinking straight.

  "You're as cool as they come, aren't you, honey?"

  The suit's words had Garrison looking up.

  Sam actually smiled. "Not even close."

  The man let go of her chin and stood. He turned to the Indian. "Samantha will go with you. She'll be perfect."

  Chapter 42

  Sam processed the words one at a time. Samantha...will...go.

  "No!"

  Garrison's shout came before she could formulate a reply.

  "She can't."

  The man in the suit stared at Garrison, a quizzical look on his face. "What do you mean, she can't?"

  "She has agoraphobia."

  He looked back at Sam, smiled. "Is that true?"

  Garrison said, "It is, she can't—"

  His words were cut off when the man pointed his gun at Garrison's head. "Stop talking."

  Garrison glanced at her, and she willed him to be quiet. She would have to answer for herself, have to do whatever they asked of her. She didn't know how to do it, didn't know what he'd require, but she would have to find a way.

  "I thought agoraphobics couldn't leave their houses," the man said. "But I didn't see anything that led me to believe a woman lived here." He looked at the scary guy. "Did you?"

  The guy didn't respond, which apparently the suit took as a no.

  The suit turned back to her, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "If you don't live here, but you are here, then you can't be agoraphobic."

  Garrison inhaled like he was about to speak.

  "I think I told you to be quiet." The man didn't break Sam's eye contact when he spoke to Garrison.

  Garrison remained silent.

  "I used to be like that." Just answer honestly. It was all she could do right now. She probably should have shown more fear by this point, but she'd been all right. It didn't make sense, really, but somehow, she'd managed the fear. She even felt calm. Sort of crazy calm. Crazy, obviously. Because for some reason, even in this, she had to have an element of the insane. "I used to stay mostly at home. There were a few places I'd go, but just a few, and none very far from my condo. But then, I got a little better. Now, I can go all over Nutfield."

  "And these cabins you own?" he asked.

  "They're all around the lake."

  "I see. The car is in Manchester. That's not far. You can make it to Manchester."

  She hadn't been in years. Not since her panic attack at the mall. And the thought of that had her inhaling deeply, then blowing out the breath. Garrison scooted closer and rested his shoulder against hers, his arm against hers. His strength, his warmth, his comfort. She took another deep breath, blew it out.

  "It's been a long time since I've been to Manchester. Years."

  "I see." The suit backed up, looked around the room, and sighed. He addressed the dark-skinned guy. "We can't send Frank. Knowing him, he'll bolt at the first sign of trouble, leave everybody else to fend for themselves."

  "I would never do that!" Frank's voice was vehement as he looked at the suit, then at his son. "This is my son. I would never... I can go, do whatever you want me to do, and come back. I would never abandon my son." He looked across the room, seemed to remember there were others there, and added, "Or any of these people."

  The suit shrugged. "That may be true. But I think you'd say whatever you have to say to get out of here." He looked at Matty. "Young Matthew is a wildcard. His explanation for all of this might be true. It might not. I'm not convinced he isn't talking out of both sides of his mouth. And teenagers these days...one can never be sure." The suit shifted, tapped Aiden's knee with his toe.

  No. She didn't want Aiden to do it. He needed to stay with his father. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic squeak.

  Garrison pressed into her shoulder.

  "What's your name?" the man asked.

  Garrison shifted to watch the scene while his son looked up and shook his hair out of his face. "Aiden."

  "You look like your father."

  Aiden glanced at Garrison, then back at the man. "I'll do it. I won't cause any trouble. All I want is for my father and my friends to be safe. I'll do exactly as I'm told."

  "Perhaps. How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "I see." The man looked at the Indian guy, who shook his head slightly. "I tend to agree." He let his gaze roam the room. "The problem is that we need somebody who looks innocent, somebody who, if a guard or a cop approaches as we're retrieving the package, can seem legitimate. No offense, but it's the teenager thing again. What cop will believe a long-haired greasy teenager isn't up to no good? And then, my friend over there would have to kill the cop. And we'd prefer not to go that route."

  Kill the cop. The man's words ricocheted like bullets in Sam's mind. She gasped, tried to blow the breath out, but it felt stuck there. She gasped again.

  "It's okay," Garrison said. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. She had to relax, had to get her breathing under control. She listened to Garrison breathing, matched his breaths again and again until she felt normal.

  She leaned toward him, pressed against him. "Thank you."

  "You're okay." He kept his shoulder pressed against hers. The feel of his breath in her hair calmed her.

  She looked up, saw the suit watching them. "Are you two done?"

  "She has an anxiety disorder," Garrison said. "I'm guessing your talk of killing people frightened her."

  The man studied her, and she tried to hold his gaze. Maybe ten seconds passed before she looked at the floor again.

  Amazing, really, that she was doing this. Some part of her wanted to stop, to analyze it. What was different now from the night before? She was very aware of the danger of a panic attack, had nearly had one. But she hadn't. With Garrison's help, she'd controlled it.

  She sent up a quick prayer, just one more among the constant stream she'd prayed since she'd seen the scary guy and his big black gun approach from the house. That moment, the world had seemed to stop. She'd thought at first she was hallucinating, thought it until the man had grabbed her arm, propelled her forward. She'd stumbled, fallen on the gravel driveway. The man had just stood there with his scary gun and waited.

  She'd stood, gone inside, and seen Garrison and Aiden. She'd seen the other two prisoners, a man and a teenager. She'd known then that a panic attack would make everything worse. All she could do was pray.

  She still prayed. Surely, this wasn't how God intended for any of them to die.

  And if he did, she wasn't going to go like this, cowering on the floor. She gazed up, saw the
man studying Garrison.

  "No, you won't do," he said. "You may be a forensic accountant, but you carry yourself like a cowboy. Or a soldier. Or a cop. Spend some time in the service, did you?"

  She felt his shoulders rise and fall. "A few years. Mostly clerical work."

  "Right. You look like the typical secretary."

  "You should see my shorthand."

  How could Garrison make jokes? The man was nuts.

  The suit smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, but I'm not buying it. You're staying right there where we can keep our eyes on you. Where we can keep our guns aimed at your son, keep you in line." He shifted to look again at Sam. "And I'm back to you, sweetheart."

  She held his gaze.

  "She can't," Garrison said.

  "Let me do it," Aiden said. "I can be convincing. Ask my dad—I'm a great liar."

  Matty said, "No. I'll go. I swear I'm not up to anything. I just want to make all this right."

  Frank said, "Send me. You know I won't double-cross you, man. We've worked together enough. You should trust me."

  Garrison repeated, "She can't. Any of the rest of us can do it."

  Through it all, the suit stared at her. And she at him.

  "I can do it," she said.

  The suit nodded. "If you care about these people, you'll have to." He returned to his seat, pulled a small notebook and pen from an inside pocket, and peered at the computer screen. He wrote something down, tore the sheet off, and handed it to the scary guy. Then he picked up his gun and aimed it at Aiden again.

  Garrison tensed.

  Aiden looked down.

  Sam prayed and watched the scary guy type on a cell phone, then slip the phone into his jeans' pocket and pull his gun out again.

  The suit aimed at Matty. "Stand up and sit in front of your friend over there."

  Matty pushed himself up, crossed the debris, and settled beside Aiden.

  "Do you not comprehend the words, 'in front'?"

  Matty shifted until he was directly in front of Aiden, facing the sofa where his father still sat.

  "Your turn, Frank. Right in front of the accountant-slash-secretary."

  Frank obeyed, settling in front of Garrison. Probably a human shield to keep Garrison from moving.