Generous Lies

by Robin Patchen

  "You're not much of a talker, are you?" she asked.

  "I talk."

  "Back at the cabin, you didn't say a word."

  He said nothing.

  She focused on her breathing while she followed the instructions of the mechanical voice of the phone.

  Twenty minutes later, she exited toward Manchester. It was after eleven, and with no restaurants or clubs nearby, this part of town was nearly deserted. There was one car behind her a half mile or so back, a few coming toward her, but little else. As she turned onto a road she hadn't been on in a decade, the man spoke.

  "We get out and get to your boyfriend's car, okay? I break in, you look around, let me know if anybody's coming. If someone does, then you act like it's your boyfriend's car. Tell them you have to get something out of it. Tell 'em they can call your boyfriend, call the cops in your town, whatever. Keep him talking. I need you to keep his attention focused on you. Then I'm gonna take him out."

  "How exactly—?"

  "I'll knock him in the head."

  Samantha could hardly believe she was agreeing to this.

  And if she did all he said, then what? He needed her alive right now, but what about after he got the package? What was to keep him from killing her?

  No, she had to have hope.

  And then the images from September 11, 2001, filled her mind's eye. Three planes turned into weapons while the passengers did nothing. And what had kept them from acting? It wasn't the terrorists' threats. It was the hope. Do as we say, the terrorists had said, and we'll let you live. The passengers on the fourth plane believed it, too, until their phones started ringing. Then they knew they had to act, or they would die—and take a lot of other people with them.

  Hope had killed thousands of lives that day.

  Was hope about to kill her and her friends, too?

  She sucked in a breath, blew it out, felt the hope seep out of her with it.

  No.

  She wouldn't give up. She wouldn't give up. Because she'd been in an impossible situation before, and she'd given up hope, and if not for a voice, she'd have died that night on the side of the road. That night, she'd encountered the voice of hope, and he was still with her now. And if that made her insane...well, she'd known she was on the wrong side of the crazy line for a long time.

  She would continue to hope until her last breath, and after that she'd fall into the arms of hope for eternity.

  Until then, she'd do what the man said.

  They reached the body shop.

  "Pass it slowly," he said. "Don't turn in."

  She studied it as she passed. It was a large white building with empty spaces in front for parking and a chain link fence that extended from each side of the building and wrapped around a large parking lot in back. Floodlights shone from the building. The lot in back was filled with cars.

  She looked in her rearview mirror. In the streetlights above, she saw a silver SUV behind her. He was probably annoyed she was creeping all of a sudden.

  The man pointed at a narrow road right before a gas station a hundred yards ahead on the corner. "Take a left."

  "Why not turn around in the gas station?"

  "There might be cameras."

  Oh. Smart. The kind of thing law-abiding citizens didn't consider.

  "And we're not turning around."

  She turned left. The car that had been following passed and disappeared. They were alone on this dark road. She took a deep breath and crept past a few rundown houses. At the first left twenty-five yards up the road, he said, "Turn here," and she did. When it curved back to the right, he said, "Pull over."

  She parked, and he stepped outside to look around. She knew what he was doing—looking for a back way into the body shop. Its lights were showing between the trees and houses. Though it might be possible to get there, they'd have to cut through a yard and then through dense forest first. And maybe he could do that without freaking out. She couldn't.

  He sat back in the car and swore. "It'd be hard to make a quick getaway through those woods."

  She agreed, especially if she had a panic attack, which she was bound to do. She couldn't walk through woods. She was amazed she was able to sit here.

  But she was sitting here. She was doing this. She'd marvel at the miracle later.

  "The thing is," Sam said, "if we say we're there to get something out of my car or even my boyfriend's, then why would we sneak in? That would make our story seem implausible."

  "Yeah, but if there's no car, prob'ly nobody will even stop, see? We don't want to attract attention."

  That made sense. "How do you plan to get past the fence?"

  "Climb over it."

  He said it like the answer was obvious.

  "It's, what, ten feet tall? You think I can climb it?"

  He looked at her, sighed. "I got bolt cutters. We can walk through the fence."

  That must have been what he'd grabbed from the BMW back at the lake.

  "I don't do woods," she said.

  He glared at her. "You'll do what I say."

  "Woods cause panic attacks." She forced a deep breath. Blew it out. "I have no control over them."

  He continued to glare, and she feared he'd decide there and then she wasn't worth the trouble. He wouldn't be the first man to reach that conclusion.

  "Fine," he said. "I'll cut the chain, and we'll drive around back. We'll close the gate behind us. Nobody will be the wiser."

  She pulled to the main road and looked both ways. No headlights or taillights in either direction. She maneuvered onto the road, then into the driveway of the body shop.

  The man jumped out, cut the chain, and opened the gate in less than thirty seconds. She drove through, and he closed the gate behind him. In the rearview, she saw him toss the chain between two parked cars.

  And there it was, in a long line of smashed and dented vehicles, Garrison's black Camry.

  She parked her SUV nearby and stepped out.

  He tossed the bolt cutters back into her SUV, spotted the Camry, and jogged to it. She followed, keeping her gaze on the road. A car drove by, and she peered closely to make sure it wasn't a cop. No blue lights.

  The man studied the Camry. "You stay here, keep watch. Anybody comes, you warn me."

  She nodded, tried to look more confident than she felt, and he disappeared to the front of the car.

  She heard the sound of metal against metal, then a clank.

  Then a muffled snick, like the breaking of a twig. She looked beyond the chain link fence to the forest behind the car, but she didn't see anything there. Her imagination running wild? Maybe.

  Another snick.

  She swallowed. "Did you hear that?"

  "What?" He came around the car. "Somebody coming?"

  She stared into the woods. "I thought I heard something."

  "There's no cops in the woods. Prob'ly an animal or something."

  Why didn't that make her feel better?

  She kept her focus on the gate where they'd come in, but her attention kept shifting to the woods beside them. She couldn't help thinking there was somebody there. Crazy. She was crazy, and she knew it.

  And what was she worried about? They were going to get the package and get back to Garrison and Aiden. Who knew what would happen then, but she had to believe they'd find a way out of this. Maybe the man and his friend would leave them there.

  Maybe not. Garrison would have a plan. He had to have a plan, because she had no idea what to do next.

  "Got it." He appeared beside her and lifted a small brown package.

  A loud boom, and she jumped out of her skin. She turned to the man, but he'd disappeared.

  Fallen.

  On the ground.

  She knelt beside him. In the dim light, she saw blood seeping from a circle on his forehead. His eyes were open.

  She gasped, gasped again. Turned and vomited on the pavement.

  She heard a metallic rattle, the thump of footsteps. Then voices. She should ru
n, but she couldn't make her legs work. She crawled away from Prat's body, from her vomit. Tried to crawl toward her SUV.

  Black, shiny shoes stopped by her head, and she froze.

  A man crouched down beside her. He was hardly visible in the darkness, his skin as black as the night sky overhead. His eyes were huge, a bright contrast to the body that surrounded them. "What is your name?"

  He had an accent, maybe French.

  "Samantha."

  "What is your last name, Samantha?"

  "Messenger."

  "Ah. An interesting name. And you are a smuggler? A thief?"

  She shook her head. "No. No. No. I... They're holding my friends prisoner. I don't know anything about it. I did what they said."

  "I see. Is one of your friends a man named Frank?"

  "Yes. I mean, no, I don't know Frank. He's not my friend. But he is one of the captives."

  The man looked up, past her. "This is very confusing."

  Another voice said, "We must go."

  "Indeed. But what do we do about her?"

  "She is not our problem," the man behind her said. She didn't look, didn't turn. Couldn't take her eyes off the man in front of her.

  "True." The man in front of her grabbed the package out of the dead man's hand. "Today, you will live, Samantha."

  "No! You can't take that. He'll kill them. He'll kill us all if we don't get him that package."

  The man stood and brushed off his pants. "That is also not our problem." He slid the package into his pocket. "Since you are a messenger, you can tell Frank and his buyers that Congolese diamonds belong to the Congolese people."

  With that, the man and his partner strode across the lot, jumped the fence, and disappeared in the woods.

  Chapter 45

  Garrison hadn't felt the cut on his hand. He'd been too worried about Aiden doing something stupid when he'd slid closer to the boy and grabbed him. He'd scraped the fireplace in the process.

  Now, he could feel a tiny drop of blood sliding off his fingertip. He shifted so it would land on the floor, not on Aiden. His son was too keyed up. Garrison feared he'd jump, maybe alert Lionel that something was wrong. And they couldn't have that. Not when they'd finally gotten a smidgen of good luck.

  He looked up to see the bald man staring at him. The man had been motionless all this time. Pretty impressive. Garrison focused on the floor, watched the man's feet, which shifted often. He was getting tired. Odd that he didn't sit or at least move.

  Garrison squeezed Aiden's hand, spoke softly but loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Promise me you won't do something stupid."

  Aiden sighed. Garrison couldn't see him, of course. In order to hold onto him, Garrison had had to turn his back to him. But he could hear the agitation in the breath.

  "I'm going to let you go now," Garrison said. "Promise me."

  "Fine."

  There was that teenage attitude he was accustomed to. It made him feel better.

  Garrison shifted, acted like he was trying to move away. Aiden turned, and Garrison mouthed, I have a plan.

  Aiden's eyebrows lifted, and he lowered his gaze to the floor so Lionel and Baldie wouldn't see the reaction.

  Maybe it wasn't a full-fledged plan. It was a start, though.

  Garrison scooted back and leaned against the stacked stone fireplace. If he could find the place where he'd cut his hand—or any spot sharp enough—he could try to cut through the tie. How to do it without Lionel noticing?

  "This is your fault." Aiden leaned forward, pushed his shoulder into Matty's.

  Was Aiden trying to distract Lionel? Smart kid. A distraction would be good. But they probably didn't need to argue.

  Matty's shoulder's slumped. "I didn't know any of this would happen."

  Lionel was focused on the teens. "Let's not fight, boys."

  Baldie shifted on his feet, watched the scene silently.

  Garrison ran his hand along the fireplace. That sharp spot had to be here somewhere.

  "I'm not fighting," Aiden said. "I'm stating the obvious. If not for Matty, none of this would have happened."

  Lionel looked at Garrison. "What are you doing?"

  "I have an itch." He scraped his back along the rough stones.

  Lionel shook his head.

  Frank turned and glared at Aiden. "Ain't his fault, kid. He did what I told him."

  Garrison shifted closer to his son. Maybe the sharp spot...

  "You're right." Aiden glared at Frank. "This is what he gets for trusting you. What kind of father are you, anyway? It's one thing to abandon your son, but then you come back to use him? Get your kid to do your dirty work?"

  Garrison resisted the urge to silence his son. The noise was good. Kept the gunmen's focus off of him.

  "I didn't know anybody was gonna get hurt," Frank said. "And anyway, if you weren't such a friggin' loser drug addict—"

  "Hey!" Garrison said. "Watch your mouth about my son."

  "Your son is my son's biggest customer." Frank tossed the remark at him like a grenade. "Did you know that?"

  Garrison looked at Matty's back. The boy slumped until his face nearly touched his knees. So Matty was the dealer who'd been supplying Aiden all this time?

  Aiden turned to look at Garrison, eyes wide.

  Garrison blew out a long breath. "I did not."

  Lionel chuckled and gazed at Baldie. "Looks like there's trouble in this little father-son paradise."

  Baldie's expression didn't change. Where did these expressionless goons come from? Lionel had probably coached them in the fine art of intimidation.

  Frank turned to Matty. "Sorry, kid. I figured he knew."

  "Don't call me kid."

  Frank didn't say a word, and the room remained silent. But Garrison needed the fight to continue. Or at least the conversation.

  "You know, Frank," Garrison said. "Despite his recent choices, your son's a great guy. You might try getting to know him."

  Frank glanced at Matty, who kept his gaze on the floor. "Yeah. You are a great kid...young man. And you have a heckuva right hook."

  "You did that?" Lionel laughed. "You punched your own father? I'd love to hear that story."

  Frank turned to the man on the sofa. "I'm trying to have a moment here."

  "Oh, right. Sorry." The man's smile and rapt attention showed he wasn't a bit sorry.

  Garrison continued his search for the sharp rock in the fireplace. There! It was higher than he'd thought, and closer to Aiden. This would be awkward, but he'd have to sell it, make it look natural. He adjusted his legs, kicked Frank. "Sorry. Trying to get comfortable."

  Frank said, "I hear you. I'm too old for this."

  Garrison shifted like he was miserable. He looked at Lionel. "My butt is killing me."

  "Seems an accountant's butt would be used to it."

  "I have one of those standing desks. Extra-tall, of course. Haven't you heard? Sitting is the new smoking."

  Lionel shook his head. "I hate health nuts."

  "I'm a big cashew fan, myself." Garrison pushed up against the fireplace, his palm pressed to the sharp spot. He shifted until one of the plastic zip ties was against it, then stopped.

  "You good now?" Lionel asked.

  "Yes, thank you. Seriously, they don't call it hardwood for nothing."

  Aiden shook his head. "Sheesh, Dad. You're not funny."

  "I'm a little funny." He chuckled, scraped the plastic against the rock, and heard a click. They'd need to keep talking.

  "Matty, have you told your father about when you used to play baseball?"

  The boy shrugged. Very helpful.

  "Frank, Matty was a catcher. Best catcher in the league one year."

  "Just little league, though," Aiden added.

  "Same league you were in," Garrison said, "and you weren't the best catcher."

  "That's 'cause I played shortstop."

  Garrison tapped Frank with his foot, scraped the plastic against the stone again. "You ever play baseball,
Frank?" Click.

  "I played catcher." Frank looked at his son. "I didn't know you played the same position as me."

  Matty shrugged. "Mom told me. I was good at it."

  "Good hitter, too," Garrison added. "Like Aiden." He turned to his son, scraped the plastic again. Click. "Remember that home run you hit over the fence against...who was it?"

  "Chargers," Aiden said. "Won the game."

  "Walk-off homer," Garrison said. "I was all puffed up with pride. All the other ten-year olds' dads were jealous."

  "Big moment for you, I guess," Frank said.

  Garrison chuckled, scraped the plastic again. Snap.

  He coughed to cover the sound, felt the plastic fall away. Thank God.

  "Why are we talking about baseball?" Lionel asked.

  "You're right," Garrison said. "Baseball's not worth talking about, not right now." He gripped his hands together to keep himself from letting on that he was free. He met Lionel's eyes. "I can't speak for your mother, but I'm betting your father didn't know you existed. Because what father could do that? Could leave his kid behind?"

  "Let's leave my nonexistent parents out of this," Lionel said.

  Garrison shifted his gaze. "And you, Frank. I bet even you, when you left your family, had their best interests at heart."

  "I did." Frank nodded, looked at Matty. "Your mother kicked me out. I swore I was gonna make good, get her to take me back. But...I don't know. I could never do it. She said I was no good for you boys." He looked at Lionel, shrugged. "Guess she was right."

  Lionel blew out a long breath. "Let's go back to baseball."

  "No, no." Garrison shook his head. He was tempted to bump his son on the shoulder, but he didn't dare move, didn't dare risk Lionel or Baldie seeing the sliced zip tie behind him, or the drops of blood. He'd have to figure a way to hide those. "I want to use these minutes well. Because, you know, we might not get any more."

  Garrison wouldn't think about what would come next. He concentrated on Samantha, on how brave she'd been as she'd walked out the door with the other man. How determined, despite her anxiety disorder, despite the gun pointed at her back. Remarkable, that's what she was. Brave and beautiful and stronger than she knew.