Ryan's Rescue

by Karen Leabo

  Why couldn’t she remember that he was a reporter? He seemed so easy to talk to.

  “Why are you thinking of getting a job?” he asked her.

  “Because it’s time. I’m not a little girl anymore. My father’s had my undivided attention for ten years now. It’s time for me to live my own life.”

  “Amen,” he murmured. Then he studied her anew. “You might make a pretty good reporter at that,” he said, twirling a pencil between his thumb and finger, as if it were a cigar. “You’ve certainly gotten me talking about things I usually keep to myself. You could even do TV. You’re pretty enough.”

  “Hmm.” She tried on a television voice. “‘This is Christine Greenlow, reporting for CNN.’ How was that?”

  “Could use some work, but it’s got potential.”

  Christine laughed at the idea of being a TV reporter. It wasn’t what she wanted—not in the least. Hot lights and lots of makeup, rushing from disaster to disaster. Not for her.

  All at once, her laughter died in her throat, as her gaze became riveted to the television screen. “Oh, my God. It’s my father.”

  “So it is,” Ryan said, not sounding very surprised. “Could you turn it up a notch?”

  She was already reaching for the remote.

  “We understand your daughter’s whereabouts are unknown at this time,” the woman reporter said. “Can you confirm or deny this?”

  The two were standing in front of the Greenlows’ Capitol Heights home. The ostentation of it suddenly repulsed Christine. Couldn’t her father think of more worthwhile things to spend his money on than statues and fountains?

  Lord, she was starting to think like a Democrat!

  “I heard from my daughter this morning. She claimed at that time to be free of her kidnappers. But I have not been able to locate her or verify her whereabouts.” There was a catch in his voice. Purely calculated, Christine was sure.

  “Do you know the identity of the kidnappers?” the reporter asked, leaning in, practically ready to devour the senator, she was so hungry for a scoop.

  “I’m not altogether certain there were actually any kidnappers,” the senator said. “Christine has been under a great deal of stress lately—my fault, all my fault. When I campaign, she takes it very seriously, works herself to a frazzle—”

  “So now I’m delusional!” Christine shrieked.

  “Shh!” Ryan hissed. “I need to hear this.” He was typing furiously while he watched and listened.

  “Are you saying, Senator Greenlow, that you think the kidnapping was a hoax?”

  “No, not at all. I don’t believe my daughter was aware of the problems she left behind when she...when she disappeared. Christine would never deliberately manipulate me or the police or the press. I’m sure she’s just tired and confused, and I hope that, wherever she is tonight, that she’s safe, and that she knows I love her and that she can come home anytime, no questions asked.”

  “Oh—oh!” Christine cried, shaking her fist impotently at the TV screen. Her father wasn’t there any longer. Some sportscaster had taken over the screen. “How could he say those things? He knows damn well the kidnapping was real. Why is he pretending like I made the whole thing up?”

  she looked over at Ryan, who had stopped typing and was staring at her, his mouth gaping open.

  For heaven’s sake, was she making that big a spectacle of herself? Her robe was gaping, she realized. She tugged it closed self-consciously. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever believe me now,” she said, her temper tantrum deserting her as quickly as it had come upon her.

  Ryan found his voice. “On the contrary. I do believe you, Christine. I believe you were kidnapped and held captive by these NATURE creeps. I’ll do my best to convince my readers, even without hard evidence, that you were a victim, not the perpetrator of a hoax.”

  Now it was her turn to gape. Hope welled in her heart for the first time in days. “Really? You believe me?” Then it occurred to her to ask, “Why?”

  “I wish I could say it was blind faith, but I’d be lying.” He leaned back against the pillows and began untying his running shoes as he explained. “A number of small details had me doubting my own theory, pretty though it was.”

  “It was beastly and totally incorrect,” she said petulantly, flopping on her own bed. She was careful this time to keep the robe properly wrapped.

  “I made a few phone calls while you were in the tub. Turns out this terrorist group you mentioned really does exist, and this wouldn’t be the first time they’d resorted to violence. Plus, this jerk who keeps trying to grab you couldn’t possibly be with the Pit Bulls, like I thought, nor is he your pusher—”

  “Pusher! You mean, as in drugs?”

  “You haven’t had any type of drug in the past twenty-four hours, unless you and Lieutenant Brich snorted a few lines.”

  “Very funny.”

  “And you’re obviously not in withdrawal. So you’re not an addict.”

  “Glad we have that little misconception cleared up,” she said dryly.

  “Ergo, your friend Denny, who, by the way, has Save the Whatever bumper stickers pasted to his car, could quite logically be an environmental terrorist.”

  “He could be,” Christine said, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. “But I’m sure your feverish little brain could come up with another alternative. That’s still not proof.”

  “No, I don’t have proof. But I believe you anyway. I guess there’s a smidgen of blind faith involved.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m tired of trying to convince myself you’re a self-serving liar. You just...couldn’t be.”

  Christine felt a rush of warmth so powerful it stole her breath away. He believed her! He would tell her side of the story. She would be vindicated. And her father...

  Her father.

  “Maybe,” Ryan continued, “you’ve picked up on the fact that, if you’re telling the truth about the ransom phone calls, your father’s behavior becomes increasingly odd. So you’d better start applying your energy to figuring out why he’s lying. What does he have to protect by denying the kidnapping ever happened?”

  Ryan watched the play of emotions on Chrissy’s face—elation, gratitude, then puzzlement, and finally, a profound sadness. What, he wondered, did she have to feel so sad about?

  That was his story. He would get to the bottom of Chrissy’s melancholia if it was the last thing he did.

  “My father has many things to protect, many secrets,” Chrissy said. “And you can stop licking your lips, I won’t tell you what they are. But doesn’t everyone have a skeleton or two rattling around in the closet?”

  “Some skeletons rattle louder than others,” he said offhandedly, as if her words weren’t driving him crazy with curiosity, According to his research, although Stan Greenlow was often flamboyant, fond of grandstanding, always claiming to be the person who came up with a good idea, he wasn’t known to be sleazy.

  Reporters had tried before, and failed, to dig up dirt on the man. He had been an excellent student, had always attended church, hadn’t ever smoked pot, had served his country admirably in the Air Force, then the reserves. He’d been a devoted husband when his wife was alive, and staunchly loyal to her after her death. As far as anyone could tell, Stan Greenlow hadn’t even dated since becoming a widower.

  He was known to run a hard-hitting campaign, and had made a serious run for the Republican presidential nomination in the last election, though he’d been squeezed out pretty early in the process. Rumor had it he was planning to try again, and darker horses had certainly won before.

  So what did the man have to hide?

  A thought occurred to him. “Chrissy, where exactly did you want me to take you tomorrow?”

  “To a...friend’s house in Raleigh,” she answered warily.

  Did Ryan imagine that guilty flush gracing Chrissy’s cheeks? Was it merely from her anger with her father, or the warmth of her bath?


  He already knew she was a facile liar. And something about her reticence made him suspicious. And now she wouldn’t look at him, pretending rapt interest in a baseball story on TV.

  He was about to question her further when all at once she turned to stare at him. “No, that was a lie. Michelle is my half sister, my father’s illegitimate child from a youthful indiscretion.” The spontaneous confession came pouring out of her. “But Ryan, please, you can’t put that in your story, really, you can’t. It has absolutely nothing to do with what’s happened the last few days. Please. Promise me you won’t tell anyone,”

  Ryan was dumbfounded—first that she’d handed him the juiciest tidbit of his career, second that she expected him to sit on it. “This is the truth, now?” he asked, just to be sure. “You’re not jerking my chain?”

  “I wish you’d just forget about the whole thing,” she said miserably. She stood and began pacing the small room. With each jerky step she took, the white terry robe flapped open, revealing her ridiculously long legs. “I wouldn’t have told you, but you already knew Michelle existed because I told you about her before I knew you knew who I was. And I could have stuck with the lie that she was just a friend, but lying is what got me into so much trouble in the first place—the story about the abusive boyfriend and all.”

  She stopped pacing aimlessly and walked purposefully toward him, until she was standing right in front of him. “Ryan, I know you don’t owe me this. But please don’t tell anyone. It was a youthful indiscretion with unfortunate consequences, something that happens to all kinds of people all the time.”

  “People who are careless,” Ryan said, though he couldn’t help thinking about Josette. His sister had made a mistake—a big one—in choosing the wrong friends, trusting the wrong people. She’d paid, first with the rape, then with the pregnancy, then with putting the child she’d grown to love, despite everything, up for adoption.

  How would he feel now, if some reporter chose to splash that sordid story across the newspapers? Pretty hostile. With Stan Greenlow, the story was a common one. What made it interesting was the man it was attached to.

  “Almost everybody is careless at one time or another,” Chrissy continued. “Haven’t you ever had unprotected sex?”

  “Well, um...” How had they started talking about his sex life? “I never fathered any babies,” he said defensively.

  “Because you’re lucky. Or there might even be babies you don’t know about. In my dad’s case, he and Michelle’s mother weren’t even dating. They’d gotten together at some frat party, and she’d been drinking. When she came to him a couple of months later, he was prepared to marry her. But it wasn’t what either of them wanted. Both families had money. They got together, decided on a fair amount of child support, which my grandfather paid in a lump sum—eighteen years’ worth, plus money for college.”

  “So he paid her off, made the girl and her baby disappear.”

  “That was the intention. But Dad has had contact with Michelle and her mother over the years. He couldn’t bear the idea that his daughter would grow up not knowing anything about him. I’ve known about Michelle since I was old enough to understand, and we’ve spent a lot of time together. Sometimes she would come and stay with us for a few days—my ‘cousin Michelle.’ And we always did wish we could be real sisters, live in the same household.”

  Ryan said nothing. If this was all true, then Stan Greenlow had been a more responsible and caring unwed father than most. Chrissy was right—a lot of people were careless, especially when they were young. He hated to admit it, but he’d had unprotected sex at least twice that he could think of. But only a relative few paid the price. Like her father. Like Josette.

  “You’re not saying anything,” Chrissy said, perching on the end of his bed.

  “I’m thinking. And you’re right, a hundred percent right. The fact that your father had an illegitimate daughter has nothing to do with his ability as a lawmaker, his effectiveness as a leader.”

  “But...”

  “Damn it, Chrissy, I’m a reporter! I would be crazy to keep a secret like that. It’s what we live for, what we dream of our whole careers—breaking that big story.”

  “What is so big about an illegitimate child? If you broke the story, it would be big news for a couple of days, then forgotten, right along with my father’s whole career.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “You can, if you want to,” she said softly. “I know a lot about you, just from spending one day with you. You’re not a totally self-serving jerk, despite your profession. I know you’ll do what’s right.”

  She got up then, came to him, leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Um, what’s that for?”

  “I’m laying a guilt trip on you. It’s something else I’m good at.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should look for a job in the guilt-tripping field, because you’re damn good at it.”

  She smiled. “I know. I’m going to bed now.”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t you owe me an interview?”

  “I never specified when the interview would take place, did I? Don’t worry, I’ll answer all your questions.”

  “When you’re good and ready,” Ryan mumbled.

  She turned away and, without a backward glance, pulled back the covers on her bed and climbed underneath. Ryan could only stare at her back, totally befuddled, and watch her fall asleep. His forehead burned where her lips had touched it.

  He ought to be thinking about his story. His deadline wasn’t for a couple more days, so he could afford a few delays. But how could he possibly keep mum about Greenlow’s bastard? If he didn’t promise Chrissy he’d keep mum, how much cooperation could he realistically expect from her? And if he did promise... He didn’t break promises.

  All these thoughts were swirling around his brain like lazy bumblebees in the background. They should have been his primary concern right now. But all he could concentrate on was how much he wanted to turn off his computer and climb under the covers beside Chrissy.

  Christine pretended sleep, the blankets pulled protectively up to her neck, her back turned toward Ryan, who continued to tap at his computer keys. What the heck was he writing, anyway? He hadn’t even interviewed her properly. If he used all the bits and pieces he’d collected so far to write his story, there was no telling what the end product would be.

  She ought to let him question her. But she was afraid. Look how much she’d already revealed to him! She still couldn’t believe she’d spontaneously confessed the secret of “Cousin Michelle’s” identity. But she couldn’t bear for there to be any more lies between herself and Ryan. There had been too many already. She sensed a need for trust between them, if he was to write the most accurate story possible. And he would never trust her again if he caught her in another lie. But meanwhile, what other secrets would he pull from her? And how would he choose to reveal them to the public?

  She didn’t fool herself that he really would keep her secret about Michelle. No reporter could sit on that for long. She almost didn’t blame him for blabbing it to the world, but she wished he could be the kind of man who, out of consideration for her, wouldn’t betray her confidence.

  A man like that... She could love a man like that.

  She lay there for at least another hour, staring wide-eyed at the wall, before sleep overcame her.

  The next thing she knew, she was in a life-and-death battle with the bedcovers. They were trying to strangle her. No, she was wrong, it was a man’s strong arms pinning her down, shaking her.

  “Let me go!” she bellowed. At once she was free of both the man and the covers. It took her a few moments to remember where she was, and with whom. “Ryan?” she asked in a trembling voice, though she already knew it was him. In the dark, she recognized his scent.

  “Chrissy?” he asked back. “You okay? You were having a nightmare. I was trying to wake you up, but apparently I only scared you more. Sorry.” He was sitting next to
her on the mattress. She could sense, without seeing him, that he was naked, or very nearly so.

  “A nightmare?” she repeated. “How Victorian of me. I haven’t done that since the night terrors I had as a child.”

  “I had them, too,” he said softly. “Monsters?”

  “When I was a kid, I used to dream that my mother and father left me, and I would wake up screaming and screaming. I think it scared my parents more than it did me.”

  “And what were you dreaming about just now?” he inquired.

  She sighed. “I don’t remember, only that it was very scary. Was I screaming, or what?”

  “Thrashing around, shouting. Something about... needles?”

  All at once she remembered, and she shuddered so hard she shook the bed. “I know, now. I was dreaming about the terrorists. They drugged me through a needle. The last time, I tried to fight them, because I knew then what the drug did to me, but I couldn’t—” The fear caught up with her again, tightening her throat, making her want to hide under the bed.

  “It’s okay, Chrissy. They won’t get you again, not while I’m around.”

  Which would be exactly until sometime tomorrow, she thought glumly. “I won’t be safe until they’re behind bars, every last one of them,” she said.

  “How many were there?”

  “At least a dozen. Mostly men, a few women. The women had some power within the group—and some decency, too. They wouldn’t let the men hurt me unnecessarily. But right before I jumped out the window, there were only two guys watching me, Denny, and another named Pete. They weren’t decent at all.” She shivered again.

  An angry noise rumbled in Ryan’s throat.

  “Listen, you can turn on the light if you want, take notes. I won’t be going back to sleep for a while.”

  “Mmm...” He didn’t seem very interested in her suggestion.

  “Or not,” she added in a small voice. She was very aware of him next to her in the darkness, and she decided she didn’t really want the light on. Warmth emanated from his body, and she was cold, despite the thick robe still wrapped around her.