by Steve Berry
“The other problem of the day,” he said, keeping his gaze outward. “Is he coming?”
“On da way. They’ll wait at da trucks until we ready.”
All of the land for kilometers in every direction belonged to him. Most Maroons farmed a few square meters of somebody else’s property, paying a yearly stipend for the privilege. Now he owned tens of thousands of acres and allowed them to work it for free.
The dogs continued to bark in the distance.
He checked his watch.
“Big Nanny is gettin’ close. She rarely lets the bait run more than an hour.”
Fierce, long-legged, and blessed with amazing endurance and strength, his hounds were well trained. They were also skilled climbers, capable of scaling tall trees, as today’s target would shortly discover if he foolishly thought high branches would offer him security.
Cuban bloodhounds had been bred long ago for one purpose.
Hunting black fugitives.
His were more progressive and hunted both black and white. But like their ancestors, they killed only if the prey resisted. Otherwise they confronted, barked, and terrified, holding the target for their master’s arrival.
“We’ll move toward them,” he said.
He led the way back into the forest. No trail existed, just dense and healthy vegetation. One of his men produced a machet and hacked a path. With that word he always reverted to patois and left the e off the end. Funny how with some things he could not help himself.
A wind snarled its way through the branches.
How easy it would be to hide amid these ferns and orchids. No one would ever find you. Which was why the British had finally imported the hounds to hunt their runaways.
Scent knew no boundaries.
They plunged on in the direction of the dogs. His man with the machet advanced, hacking the foliage. Thin slices of bright sunlight found the earth.
“Béne,” his other man called out.
A thick carpet of leaves provided a springy softness to every step, which also allowed songbirds to be heard. Rocks and stones beneath the mulch worked his soles, but he’d worn heavy boots. He fought his way through the low-hanging limbs and found his men at a patch of cleared ground. A rose-colored ibis sprang from one of the far trees, its wings flapping as they grabbed air. Orchids colored the clearing beneath a canopy of high limbs.
He spotted rubble scattered among the ground ferns.
The dogs had started to howl.
Signaling success.
They’d cornered the prey.
He stepped close and bent down, examining the stones, some larger and embedded in the earth, others mere pieces. Lichens and mold infected the surfaces, but the faint outline of what had once been letters could be seen.
He recognized the script.
Hebrew.
“There are more,” his men said, as they’d fanned out.
He stood, knowing what they’d found.
Tombstones.
A cemetery they’d not known existed.
He chuckled and smiled. “Oh, it is a good day, my friends. A good day. We have stumbled upon a treasure.”
He thought of Zachariah Simon, and knew he would be pleased.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZACHARIAH SIMON STEPPED INSIDE THE HOUSE. TOM SAGAN waited, still holding the pistol. Zachariah recalled the background report he’d commissioned, its notation that this man was left-handed.
“Who are you?” Sagan asked.
He introduced himself and offered a handshake, which was refused. Instead he was asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been watching you for several days.” He motioned toward the gun. “Perhaps it is good I came along.”
“That picture. It’s my daughter.”
He held out the image for them both to see. “She is my prisoner.” He watched for a reaction. Seeing none, he asked, “Do you care?”
“Of course I care. And I have a gun.”
Sagan brandished the weapon, and Zachariah took stock of his adversary. Tall, with a boyish, unshaven face hardened by dark eyes that seemed quick and observant. Short black hair that he envied, since his own had long ago betrayed him. Little evidence of physical exertion could be seen in the arms or chest, another detail the report had noted with the concise “doesn’t do laps or crunches.” Still, Tom Sagan was remarkably trim for a sedentary man fifty years old.
“Mr. Sagan, there is something I need you to understand. It is vitally important that you believe me when I say this.” He paused. “I do not care if you kill yourself. It is your life to do with as you please. But I do require something from you before you do that.”
Sagan pointed the gun straight at him. “We’re going to the police.”
He shrugged. “That is your choice. But I must tell you that nothing will happen except your daughter will experience unimaginable agony.” He held the photo of Alle Becket higher for Sagan to see. “You must believe me. If you do not do as I ask, your daughter will suffer.”
Sagan stood silent.
“You doubt me. I see it in your eyes. Perhaps as you once doubted a source telling you something that could make for an incredible story. You had to constantly wonder. Was it true? Embellished? Or outright false? Considering what ultimately happened to you, it is understandable you would now doubt me. Here I am, a total stranger, who shows up at this most inopportune moment, making outlandish claims.”
He slipped the black Tumi travel bag from his shoulder. Sagan continued to aim the gun. He unsnapped the clasps and found his iPad.
“I need to show you something. After watching, if you still want to involve the police, I will not interfere.”
He laid the satchel down on the floor and activated the screen.
———
LIGHT BLINDED ALLE’S EYES. BRIGHT. SINGULAR. FOCUSED ON her as she lay tied to the bed. She squinted and allowed her burning pupils to adjust, finally focusing on the now lit room.
She spotted the camera. Just to the right of the flood lamp, supported on a tripod, the lens pointed at her. A tiny red indicator signaled that it was capturing her image. She’d been told that when that happened her father would be watching. She tugged at her restraints with her arms and legs, raising her neck, angling her head toward the lens.
She hated the feeling of confinement. The loss of freedom. A total dependency on someone else. If her nose itched, there’d be no way to scratch it. If her shirt came askew, no way to adjust it. If bad people tried to do bad things to her, no way to stop them.
Two men approached the bed, from beyond the lamp’s glow.
One was tall, thick through the waist, with a thin nose and equally thin lips. He appeared to be Italian or Spanish, his oily hair dark and curly. She’d learned that his name was Rócha. The other man was the blackest she’d ever seen. He had a bulbous nose and yellowed teeth, and eyes like drops of crude oil. He never spoke and she only knew him by the nickname Rócha used.
Midnight.
Both men approached the bed, one on either side, the camera and her between them. Rócha bent close, a few inches from her face, and gently caressed her cheek. His fingers smelled of citrus. She shook her head in protest, but he only smiled and continued his stroking. Midnight, too, climbed onto the bed, his right hand cupping her breast through her shirt.
She reacted to the violation, her eyes alight with fear and anger.
Rócha shoved her head back onto the mattress.
A knife appeared in his hand, glistening in the flood lamp.
The camera continued to record every moment of their assault, the red dot signaling that her father could see. Two years they hadn’t spoken. For her, she had no father. Her stepfather had always been there for her. She called him Dad and he called her daughter.
An illusion?
Sure.
But one that worked.
Rócha shifted to the foot of the bed and grasped her left shoe. He slipped the knife inside her pant leg and slit the cloth up to her
waist.
Midnight chuckled.
She raised her head and glanced down.
The cut ended at her waist.
Bare skin lay exposed.
Rócha plunged a hand into the tear and made his way toward her crotch. She protested, yanking on the restraints, shaking her head. He tossed the knife to Midnight, who brought the blade to her throat and ordered her to lie still.
She decided to comply.
But before doing so, she locked her gaze on the camera, the meaning in her wild eyes unmistakable.
For once in your sorry life, help your daughter.
CHAPTER FIVE
TOM STARED AT THE IPAD, ALLE’S PANICKED GAZE FROM THE FEED piercing his soul.
He aimed the gun at Zachariah Simon.
“All that will do,” his visitor said, “is speed the rape of your daughter. They will ravage her, and you will be responsible.”
He watched on the screen as the black man slit Alle’s other pant leg up to the waist.
“You are a troubled man,” Simon said to him. “Once a respected journalist, a premier international reporter. Then, total disgrace. A story you fabricated. Nonexistent sources, imaginary documentation. Not a word could be substantiated, and you were revealed to be a fraud.”
The muscles in his throat knotted. “Anybody can surf the Internet.”
Simon chuckled. “Is that what you think? That I am so shallow? I assure you, Mr. Sagan, I have spent a great deal of energy looking into you. Now you are a purveyor of fiction. You ghostwrite novels for others. Several of which have become bestsellers. How does it feel for someone else to claim your success as their own?”
On the screen both men were taunting Alle. He could see their lips moving though no sound came from the muted speaker.
He trained the gun on Simon, who gestured with the iPad.
“You can shoot me. But what of her?”
“What do you want?”
“First, I need you to believe me when I say that I will harm your daughter. Do you?”
His left hand kept the gun leveled, but his gaze darted back to the screen. Both men were exploring areas that the slits in Alle’s pants had made readily accessible.
It had to stop.
“Second,” Simon said. “I require a task from you. After that, your daughter will be released and you may finish what I interrupted here this afternoon.”
“What task?” he demanded.
“I need your father’s body exhumed.”
———
THE FLOOD LAMP EXTINGUISHED, AS DID THE RED LIGHT ON THE camera. Alle lay back on the bed, freed from the cocoon of illumination.
Another light came on. Less bright, but enough to expose the room.
Rócha sat beside her.
Sweat soaked her brow.
The first communication with her father in two years had ended.
Rócha stared down at her, the knife now back in his hand. Midnight stood beside the camera. Both of her legs could be seen from the slits, but at least their hands were not on her.
“Shall we continue?” Rócha asked, a touch of Portuguese in his voice.
She bore her gaze into him and fought the urge not to shake from fear.
“I guess not,” he said, adding a smile.
He cut away the restraints on her arms, then the ones for her legs. She sat up and stripped the tape from her mouth, telling herself to handle these men carefully. “Was all that necessary?”
“You like?” Rócha asked, clearly proud of himself.
She’d told them to be convincing, even suggested using a knife. But she’d never mentioned anything about slitting her clothes and groping her body.
But what did she expect?
These men were undisciplined opportunists, and she’d presented them with a golden opportunity.
She stood and stripped the bindings from her wrists and ankles. She just wanted to leave. “You made the point. We’re done.”
Midnight said nothing, nor did he act particularly interested. He never did. He was a quiet sort that seemed to do only what he was told.
Rócha was the one in charge.
At least while Zachariah was gone.
She wondered about what was happening in Florida, at her grandfather’s house in Mount Dora. The call had come less than an hour ago from Zachariah, saying that her father had driven there from Orlando, a thirty-minute trek east on Interstate 4, one she’d made many times.
Then, another call.
Her father had a gun and seemed about to kill himself. For an instant that had bothered her. No matter what had happened between them, he was still her father. But showing that man compassion was what had gotten her heart broken time after time.
Better to leave the wall up.
She rubbed her sore wrists.
Her nerves were frayed.
She caught both men admiring her bare legs, which protruded from the mutilated pants.
“Why not stay?” Rócha asked. “We can finish the performance. Without the camera.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve had enough acting for one day.”
CHAPTER SIX
TOM WAS PERPLEXED. “WHY WOULD YOU WANT THAT BODY EXHUMED?”
The video feed from the iPad had stopped, the screen once again black.
“My associates are awaiting a call from me. If that is not received in the next few minutes, then the suffering of your daughter will begin. The video was to make clear the situation.” Simon motioned at the gun. “May I have that.”
He wondered, what would happen if he just let the police handle this?
About as much as what happened eight years ago, when he’d needed them to do their job.
Not a damn thing.
He handed over the weapon.
Interesting how defeatism worked. Back in the days when he roamed the world for the next big story, he never would have been cowed by someone like this. Confidence and audacity had been his trademarks.
But they’d also been his downfall.
He’d been a moment away from ending his life, lying on the floor with a hole in his head. Instead he was staring at a man, neat as a bird, who seemed about fifty years old, his hair a mixture of silver and black. The face contained hints of East European, confirmed by high cheekbones, a ruddy tone, full beard, and deep-set eyes. He knew the look. He’d seen it many times in that part of the world. One trait he’d mastered as a reporter had been the rapid assessment of people. Their looks. Habits. Mannerisms.
This one smiled a lot.
Not to convey amusement, more to help make his point.
He was pleased that some of the skills acquired in his former profession had bubbled back to the surface.
They hadn’t appeared in a long while.
“Your father died three years ago,” Simon said. “He lived here, in this house, until that day. Did you know that your father was an important man?”
“He was a music teacher.”
“And that is not important?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Your father taught for most of his adult life. Your grandfather, though, on your mother’s side, was a most interesting personality. He was an archaeologist, involved with some of the great digs in Palestine during the early 20th century. I read about him.”
So had Tom. Marc Eden Cross, whom he’d called Saki, had worked many digs. He recalled, as a child, listening to stories of those exploits. Not all that exciting, really. Archaeology was nothing like what George Lucas and Steven Spielberg made it out to be. In fact, it was a lot like journalism, where the vast majority of the work was done alone at a desk.
Simon surveyed the parlor, walking around admiring the dusty furnishings. “Why did you preserve this house?”
“Who said I did?”
Simon faced him. “Come now, Mr. Sagan. Is this not a time to be honest? Your father deeded this property to you. In fact, it was all he left you. Everything else he owned went to your daughter. Which was not much. W
hat? A hundred thousand dollars, a car, a few stocks, some life insurance.”
“I see you visited the probate court.”
Simon smiled again. “There are inventories the law requires to be filed. Your daughter was named the estate’s administrator.”
Like he wanted to be reminded of that insult. He’d been expressly excluded from the will, all legal responsibility passing a generation. He’d attended the funeral but stayed out of the way, doing nothing expected of a Jewish son. He and Alle had not spoken.
“Your father,” Simon said, “transferred title to this house to you five weeks before he died. You and he had not spoken in a long time. Why do you think he did that?”
“Maybe he just wanted me to have it.”
“I doubt that.”
He wondered how much this stranger actually did know.
“Your father was a devout Jew. He cared for his religion and his heritage.”
“How would you know?”
“I have spoken to people who knew him. He was a follower of the Torah, a friend of his synagogue, a supporter of Israel, though he himself never visited the Holy Land. You, on the other hand, are quite familiar with the region.”
Yes, he was. The final three years of his career had been spent there. He’d filed hundreds of stories. One of the last exposed a rape committed by a former Israeli president that made headlines around the world and ultimately led to the man’s imprisonment. He recalled how, when all of the bad things happened later, the pundits wondered how much of that story had been fabricated.
Pundits. People who made a living finding fault. Didn’t matter what, they had an opinion, which was never good. Pundits had reveled in his downfall, condemning him as a journalist who decided that the news itself wasn’t good enough.
Better to make up your own.
He wished it had been that simple.
“Why does my family interest you so much?”
Simon pointed a finger his way. He noticed the perfect cuticles and manicured nails. “Probing like a journalist again? Hoping to learn something? Not today. All you need to know, Mr. Sagan, is that your daughter is in grave danger.”
“What if I don’t care?” He thought some bravado might be good for them both.