Out of Control

by Sarah Alderson

  Jay turns to me then, and I notice that he looks older too. His face is drawn with tiredness, but even though his eyes are dark-ringed they blaze bright and I can read every one of his thoughts as they pass across his face: the disbelief and the disgust and the tiredness and, when he looks at me, the empathy and the hurt and the sorrow too. But most of all when I look at him I see the resilience that’s part of who he is. Despite all we’ve been through, despite all I’ve told him and despite all that awaits him, there’s no sign of resignation or of quitting. It’s not in him to give up on anything, including me.

  I stare at him in wonder, still trying to get my head around the fact that in a city the size of New York he found me. But not only that, he escaped custody for a second time to do it. Well, practically. The cops were banging on Marisa’s door, so he took a leaf out of the Olivia Harvey escape manual, he told me proudly, and climbed out the window and up on to the roof.

  He told me the story grinning like he’d just won the lotto, even though fleeing arrest could potentially earn him more time behind bars. In return, I told him everything Agent Kassel had told me, about his mother being safe and all about the trafficking ring my father’s involved in. I described the photographs and the witness statements in detail. I didn’t leave anything out. And he hasn’t said a word since.

  But now finally he does. He turns to me, his elbows still resting on his knees, and stares at me for a long beat. ‘You have to do it,’ he says.

  I turn away from him and stare at the bridge. To think I almost climbed that. Maybe one day I’ll come back and try it for real. Though even as I consider the idea, it loses its appeal.

  Jay puts his hand on my shoulder and gently strokes a strand of hair behind my ear. At his touch I close my eyes and let out a sigh. I wish I could stay here with him. I wish we could lie down in the grass and sleep and let the world spin on without us.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ I say.

  ‘Liva,’ Jay says, ‘remember when I first met you? I told you you had heart?’

  I nod.

  ‘It was the first thing I saw when I looked at you,’ he says. ‘Actually the second. First thing was your legs.’

  I sneak a look at him. He pulls a face at me as if to say hey, I’m a guy, cut me a break.

  ‘I seem to remember you thinking I was an uptight rich chick.’

  ‘With heart,’ he says, smiling and flashing his dimples. ‘You were sitting in that chair in the homicide department,’ he continues, ‘and you were staring at the board – the one with all the murder cases on it. And the look on your face . . . It was like you knew every single one of those people personally.’

  I frown at him, not understanding.

  ‘That’s why I know you’ll do the right thing now,’ he says, holding my gaze with those bewilderingly green eyes. ‘Because you got heart.’

  I turn my head back to the horizon but all I see in my mind’s eye is the chalkboard. And the policeman carefully writing the Goldmans’ names in block letters along the bottom. I think of the space beside it left blank for the words case closed.

  I know Jay is right. There was never any other option. Not from the moment Agent Kassel left me in the room with that folder. Not since I saw the photograph of my father shaking hands with the man who killed the Goldmans and all the people in that police station. Not since I read those girls’ witness statements.

  Jay stuck by me from the start, because he believed he was doing the right thing. And sometimes that’s all you can try to do, I guess, the right thing. Sometimes it’s simple. Sometimes it’s not. But either way, you should never have to think about what the right thing is. You just have to listen to your heart. The difficulty is in then acting on it.

  I stand up. ‘Come on,’ I say to Jay. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  The Staten Island ferry terminal sits beside Battery Park. At six-thirty it’s swarmed with commuters piling off the ferry, heading to work in the city. Jay and I approach on foot from two blocks away. I have dug the binoculars out of the go-bag. Jay has the Glock he took off the dead cop, which is good as Agent Kassel never gave me back the Smith & Wesson. But it’s my father, I remind myself, what am I going to need a gun for?

  The binoculars are to make sure he’s not being followed. The fact that my dad had no idea he was under surveillance by the FBI for the last six weeks makes me wonder at his skill in shaking off a tail.

  Beside the terminal is a Wells Fargo bank. Jay and I hide in the shadow of one of its massive marble pillars and I pick up the binoculars and scan the people heading into the terminal. Most people are heading out, into the city for work, so it’s easy to keep track of those heading in. It’s just a smattering of tourists catching the outbound ferry to enjoy the views it offers back over Manhattan and towards the Statue of Liberty. I check the time on the phone. It’s twenty minutes to seven.

  At five minutes to seven my stomach is twisted into several knots and I’m holding my breath. What if my father didn’t get the note I left for him in the safe? What if he didn’t understand it? What if he doesn’t remember where we bought the Statue of Liberty statuette? I refocus the binoculars on the terminal doors and then I catch sight of someone moving fast against the flow, purposefully, striding as though he’s late for an urgent meeting. A half foot taller than everyone else, my father stands out in any crowd, but among all the tourists wearing shorts and brightly-coloured T-shirts he stands out even more. He has his back to me so I can’t get a look at his face, but everything about his body language shrieks dread – panic barely contained.

  ‘That’s him,’ I tell Jay, pointing him out as he pushes through the doors and enters the building. ‘The tall one with the dark hair, wearing the grey suit.’

  ‘OK,’ Jay says. He squeezes my hand and kisses me quickly on the cheek. And then he disappears, jogging towards the terminal. I take out my phone and hit send on the message I already programmed, telling my dad to meet me on the ferry. He might not buy it. He won’t recognise the number and he’ll naturally be suspicious, but hopefully his need to find me will outweigh any suspicions.

  I switch out the SIM card and place a new one in the phone, crushing the first one under my heel. As soon as I turn the phone back on it vibrates in my hand. I answer on the first ring.

  ‘He bought it. He’s getting on the ferry,’ Jay says. ‘Hurry.’

  I run up the steps to the terminal building. A blast of ice-cold air hits me as I walk through the doors. I spy Jay waiting at the top of the escalator and I start sprinting up it, hitting dial on the phone as I go. The operator picks up instantly and I ask for Agent Kassel. The operator puts me right through to her cell phone. When she answers I cut straight in.

  ‘It’s Olivia.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she demands.

  ‘Staten Island ferry. Meet us at the Staten Island end at seven-thirty a.m. You wanted my father? Come get him,’ I tell her.

  She covers the mouthpiece and I hear her murmuring something to someone else in the background, giving orders.

  ‘And Agent Kassel,’ I say. ‘Keep the line open. You want proof? I’ll get you what you need.’

  40

  Jay falls into stride a few paces behind me and we join the last stragglers boarding the ferry. I slide the phone into the side pocket of the bag and toss it over my shoulder. As we step on board the engines start to thrum and, before we even make it up the first flight of stairs, the ferry is pushing off from the pier and speeding out across the water. Jay splits off at the top of the first staircase. He takes a seat in the centre of a row of empty chairs and I walk out on to the narrow outside viewing deck. It’s empty on this side of the ferry. Most people are over the other side of the boat, admiring the view of the Statue of Liberty and downtown. I also chose the furthest and lowest deck, knowing that most people would head for the higher levels. Just to make sure we’re not disturbed, once my dad follows me out on to the deck, Jay is going to borrow a plastic no entry sign from somewhere and place i
t in front of the door to ward off interruptions.

  I wait, gripping the railing. My heart flutters in my throat. I gaze down at the churning water below, the white tips of the waves spewing up in our wake, and wonder if I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Liva!’

  I jerk around. My father stands in the doorway. His shoulders drop when he sees me, relief washing across his face. My first thought is that in the space of a week he has aged fifty years, His face is grey and pouchy, the lines across his forehead gouged knife-deep. Grey stubble speckles his jaw and cheeks and it makes me pause – I’ve never seen my dad unshaven.

  ‘Liva,’ he says again, my name a sob on his lips, and he’s suddenly moving towards me, arms outstretched. He draws in a deep breath that wracks his whole body and then he pulls me into his arms and crushes me to his chest. I smell his familiar scent – expensive cologne, coffee, dry cleaning starch. ‘Oh my God, I’ve been worried out of my mind,’ he murmurs, still clutching me tight, his lips pressed to my hair.

  I freeze, my muscles locking in total paralysis. But I don’t want him to get suspicious, so I force my arms up and around his waist and give him a feeble hug back, the whole time thinking Who is this man?

  ‘Dad,’ I say, the word sticking like a barb in my throat.

  He takes me by the top of my arms and holds me at a distance so he can look me in the face. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Did anyone hurt you?’ The terror flashes once more over his face, as though he’s picturing the worst. And I guess he knows exactly what that would look like.

  I shake my head, hoping it hides my shudder. ‘I’m OK,’ I stammer. I study him. His blue-grey eyes, the exact same shade as mine. The familiar knot of worry between his eyes, the relief and gratitude in his gaze as the realisation that I’m unharmed sinks in. How can he not be who I thought he was? It’s as if I’ve just discovered an actor has been playing the part of my father for the last seventeen years. He’s searching my face and I realise that now the relief has passed he’s becoming suspicious.

  ‘Why’d you tell me to meet you on the ferry?’ he asks. He glances over his shoulder then reaches for me as though to pull me inside. ‘I need to get you somewhere safe.’

  ‘I thought it was safer to meet here than in the terminal,’ I answer, pressing back against the railing. ‘I was in a hurry. It was the first place I thought of.’

  ‘They broke into the apartment. I thought they must have found you . . .’ His voice cracks; he draws a deep wracking breath.

  ‘No. We escaped,’ I tell him, my mind replaying the images of the girls from the containers. The girls who also escaped.

  ‘We?’ my dad asks, his head flying up.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I escaped with someone from the police station.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ my dad asks, glancing around, suddenly wary.

  ‘He’s not here,’ I say quickly. I need to wrestle control of the conversation back before he gets too suspicious. ‘Why am I being chased?’ I blurt.

  My dad considers me carefully, slipping on his authoritative face, the one he uses to chair meetings and give orders to staff. ‘I don’t know. But we’re going to find out. And now I’m here no one is going to hurt you. No one’s going to get near you.’ There’s an edge to his voice. A cold shiver runs up my spine. Because despite everything, I hear the love in his voice. The barely disguised anger that someone has tried to hurt me.

  ‘Who’s Vladimir Demitri Bezrukov?’ I ask before I can allow myself to feel anything more for him than the hatred he deserves.

  My dad blanches. For just a split second. His face goes slack, panic flares brightly in his eyes, but then the shutters fall and the mask is back in place. He looks at me half quizzically, bemused. But behind his sharp blue eyes I can almost see the cogs spinning as he tries to figure out what exactly I know and how exactly I know it. ‘How did you find out his name?’ my dad asks, his voice even.

  ‘Who is he?’ I press.

  ‘He’s a very bad man.’

  I give him a look. ‘I’m not six years old. Don’t patronise me.’

  My dad nods, licks his lips. He decides to give me more. ‘He’s the right-hand man of a man called Andrei Radchanka, who runs a Belarusian crime syndicate. He gets the dirty work done. Now are you going to tell me how you know his name?’

  ‘Are you involved in trafficking?’ I ask.

  My dad blinks once, but otherwise his face reminds completely composed. ‘Yes. I’m working on the GRATS task force.’

  ‘No,’ I say, clutching hold of the railing to stop my hands from shaking. ‘Are you involved in trafficking human beings into the USA?’

  My dad straightens up. He studies me as an interrogator would, eyes drilling right through me, calculating his next move, his next question, yet at the same time revealing nothing. ‘Did the police put you up to this?’ he asks after a stone-cold beat of silence. ‘The FBI?’

  I keep my face poker blank, as Felix taught me.

  ‘Where have you been for the last twenty-four hours?’ my dad asks.

  ‘You didn’t answer the question,’ I say.

  He smiles tightly, almost a wince. The muscle by his eye twitches. He’s nervous. Wrong-footed. ‘I can’t believe they tried to use my own daughter against me,’ he says, taking a small step back from me and shaking his head ruefully. His eyes dart to the side, lighting on the doorway behind us. He’s already calculating his escape routes and that more than anything he could have said or done sticks like a dagger in my gut.

  ‘They haven’t,’ I say. ‘I’m here of my own accord. My choice. There are no FBI agents around.’

  He scans the deck, the water, the roof of the ferry.

  ‘Did they make you wear a wire?’ my dad asks.

  I hold out my arms horizontal like I’m on a cross, inviting him to pat me down. I can’t believe it when he actually does. His hands move fast, methodically and I have to fight to stay still and not push him away. These are not the actions of an innocent man. The knife in my gut twists another turn. I realise I was still clinging to a fragile hope that maybe it was all a mistake, that Agent Kassel had it wrong. But as my dad’s gaze drops to the go-bag, propped at my feet, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he is guilty. My dad moves for the bag, just as I remember the phone in the side pocket. I snatch it just before he can reach it and start unzipping it.

  ‘They have the proof, Dad,’ I say, hoping that my words will be enough to distract him. ‘They showed it to me. Photographs, witness statements, bank accounts.’

  ‘Liva,’ my dad says, and it sounds like my name could be a million things to him – a prayer, a curse, an admonition, an apology or even a goodbye, and I have no idea which it is. Or which I want it to be.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask, pulling out the sheet of paper from the go-bag with the numbers on it.

  His face turns deathly white.

  ‘Why keep that in your go-bag?’ I demand. ‘Everything else in there is an essential. What’s this for?’ I wave it in his face. ‘Bank details in case you ever had to flee the country?’

  ‘Liva,’ he says, half pleading. But pleading for me to what? To stop? To understand? To give him the bag?

  ‘Why?’ I ask him.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he says.

  ‘Then why are they chasing me? Why me? You’re not that important. Unless of course,’ I tip my head to one side and smile sadly, ‘you are.’

  ‘Liva,’ he says, through gritted teeth. Now there’s no mistaking his tone.

  ‘The truth,’ I spit, ignoring him. ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  ‘Because I deserve it.’ I glare at him. Hatred is as sudden as regret. You don’t fall into hatred slowly like you do with love, it doesn’t give you a new lens through which to see the world, it overcomes you in a riptide of anger and violence, blinding you with its force, then scarring your vision for evermore.

  The hatred I feel in that second towards my father makes
me want to throw myself on him and start pummelling him to the ground. It makes me want to shred him into a million pieces. It’s like a death. His and mine. And it doesn’t just destroy the present it destroys the past. And it makes me wonder whether there can ever be a future. Every memory I have of him and of my past is now tainted.

  My dad flinches as he sees the expressions passing across my face but through the savage rage I’m feeling I keep sight of the fact that I still remain his one weakness. He’s trying to work out how to hold on to me, how to deflect the hatred. He doesn’t want to lose me. And that’s the only way I am going to get him to tell me the truth.

  ‘If you lie to me I swear to God I will never speak to you again for the rest of your life,’ I spit.

  My dad searches my face and I see him acknowledge the truth that I’m not bluffing and a small light goes out in his eyes, his muscles slacken.

  ‘Liva, it’s just a business deal,’ he says quietly. ‘The trafficking was always going to happen. I don’t create the demand.’

  I stare at him unblinking, too stunned to say a word. That’s his reasoning? That’s his excuse?

  ‘I’m just a businessman who saw an opportunity,’ he explains as though we’re in some college enterprise class.

  I shake my head at him, astonished. ‘Are you really standing here trying to justify to me why you’re involved in a human trafficking syndicate? You’re selling people. PEOPLE!’ I yell.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Why did you leave me here alone?’ I ask him, pushing on. It’s been preying on my mind this whole time. If he knew he was about to double-cross his business partner, a business partner who also happens to be a stone-cold murdering psychopath, why’d he leave me here unprotected?

  ‘I didn’t leave you unprotected. There were two people watching over the Goldmans’ house.’