KIDNAP.org

by Peg Herring

  Robin picked her brother up at the airport, setting his travel wheelchair in the trunk of her car after he hefted himself into the passenger seat with powerful upper body muscles. The sight hurt every time, but she was proud too. Chris faced the latest blow life dealt him as he had others, with humor and hard work, making himself as independent as possible. Facing the same obstacles, Robin feared she couldn’t have been as upbeat.

  Once they were in the car, she leaned over to hug him, feeling the scratchiness of the reddish beard he’d let grow to lumberjack length. “Good to see you, Older Brother,” she said.

  “Same here, Baby Sister.”

  A horn sounded behind them to hurry them along. Navigating the maze of airport roads, Robin and Chris caught up, falling into the emotional shorthand those who’ve grown up together often use, where a word or a look tells more than any words can. It would be just the two of them at dinner, since her sister-in-law was a U.S. Navy nurse currently stationed in Bahrain. Though Robin liked Annika, she looked forward to having her brother to herself for a couple of hours. As kids she and Chris had united to protect themselves and their mother from the man neither of them called Dad. Their father had simply been “Mark” or “He” when they spoke of him, which they hadn’t unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Chris and Robin were still close, but their lives had gone in different directions. Though she’d had boyfriends along the way, no one she met inspired Robin to get married. Chris was disabled military, with a wife who adored him despite the fact he’d been blown literally to pieces by an IED and now lived in a wheelchair. Their story was one of those hospital romances paperback readers love, where nurse and patient fall in love despite his terrible injuries.

  Robin’s precarious financial position was due in part to the fact that after their mother died, she’d lied to her brother for the first time in her life. Miranda Parsons, never one to think ahead, had left no money, no arrangements for funeral expenses, and plenty of credit card debt. Believing Chris had all the mental, physical, and financial problems he could handle, Robin had paid the bills herself, assuring him their flighty mother had gotten her act together in her last few years.

  They arrived at the restaurant, and Robin stopped out front and retrieved the chair. Chris maneuvered himself into it and went inside while she parked the car. When they were seated, they consulted the menu and ordered, chatting the whole time about their health, the weather, and people they both knew back in Indiana. Once they’d caught up Robin asked, “How is the work going?”

  After his injury, Chris had created a website meant to expose corruption in business and in government. “Hardly worth mentioning. I can’t get anyone interested in stopping the crap that goes on.”

  “You will.” The waiter set a metal basket of rolls between them, and she peered under the napkin. “Of all the people I know who are capable of spotting cheaters, you’re my number one choice.” She chose a popover, adding, “You stood up to our own personal flim-flam man, and you’ll always be my hero for that.”

  Chris’ smile was tinged with sadness. “He’d have beat me to a pulp if you hadn’t threatened to bean him.”

  She tore the roll in half and buttered it more vigorously than was necessary. “We stuck together, Chris; that’s what sent him on his way.”

  “I’m not sure Mom ever forgave me,” he said, “but it had to be done.”

  Images of what they’d lived through as kids occupied her for a moment. Mark Parsons, a charming con man, had insisted his children assist in his schemes. If they did as he wanted, he told them how clever they were. If they failed to perform to his standards, he smacked them around. “The smartest and strongest are meant to survive, not the nicest,” he’d often told his family. “It’s how the world works.”

  Their mother, a sweet but weak-willed person, accepted her husband’s faults with a shrug and a comment: “At least he provides for us.” Even when he slugged her for not getting his eggs right, she seemed unable to imagine life without him.

  When Robin was thirteen, she’d come home to find her fifteen-year-old brother toe to toe with her father. Their mother sobbed in the background, one eye almost closed from a blow she’d received. Chris ordered Mark to leave and never come back, but he’d only laughed in response. Terrified for Chris, Robin had picked up the nearest weapon—a frying pan—and threatened to smash in her father’s skull if he hit Chris or her mother again. He hadn’t taken her seriously at first, but when she and Chris stood together, he’d stormed out, calling them “ungrateful bastards” and predicting they’d soon beg him to come home. It was the last time any of them ever saw him.

  Her brother’s comment about forgiveness rang true. Though she loved her pretty, clueless mother, Robin knew Min Parsons would have stayed with Mark no matter what he did. When Chris took his stand, she’d had to move away from Indianapolis, get a job, and raise two kids on her own. Somehow she’d blamed her son but not her daughter for her changed life. It was no wonder Chris joined the military as soon as he possibly could.

  Chris’ thoughts were focused on more recent history, and his voice brought her back to the present. “I went to Richmond yesterday to meet with a whistleblower, but the whole trip was a bust.”

  The waiter set drinks before them, and Robin sipped her wine before asking, “Why’s that?”

  Chris tasted his beer, sighed with pleasure, and wiped foam from his lip. “There’s a state senator who seems to be selling his votes to the highest bidder.” He arranged the condiments on the table more neatly as he spoke. “He has an exorbitant life-style and a drug habit. My source was supposed to provide evidence.”

  “The guy was going to help you nail the man he works for?”

  “It’s a woman,” Chris corrected. “She claims he’ll be paid to torpedo an upcoming bill in committee.” His brows descended. “The proposal is to build a new veterans’ center in the western part of the state, so you can guess it interested me.”

  “What happened to change your whistleblower’s mind?”

  He shrugged. “She won’t take my calls, so I can’t even ask her.”

  Robin felt a familiar sense of outrage. “What do you have on him without her help?”

  “Just old allegations. Nothing I can prove.” Chris folded his arms at his chest. “This was a chance to actually catch him with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  “How can one guy kill a bill?”

  Chris made yapping motions with his fingers as he parodied politician-speak. “‘It’s fiscally irresponsible to begin new projects in tough economic times.’” He bit into a breadstick with more than necessary ferocity. “They send guys like me to get blown up in foreign countries but claim the support we need afterward is too expensive for overburdened taxpayers. Apparently we can afford fancy planes and lots of bombs, but not wheelchairs and prostheses.”

  “Sounds like a great representative for the people of his district.”

  The waiter brought their salads, and when he’d set them down and moved away, Chris returned his silverware to exactly ninety degrees from the table edge. “I can’t prove what I know, so there’s no sense talking about it.”

  Robin took up her fork. “He’ll slip up someday, and you’ll be there to catch him.”

  “Who’ll even notice?” Chris asked. “People are sick of all the mud elected officials throw at each other for political gain. They stop listening—stop caring.”

  “Can you blame them? Lies get picked up by the media and tossed around for days or even years because they’re supposedly ‘news.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers.

  Chris brushed a few breadcrumbs from his beard. “This guy—Buckram—will look sad and tell how his conscience dictated his vote, but it will all be a lie.”

  Robin leaned her elbows on the table, suddenly tired. “Is our government really that terrible?”

  “No. There have always been people who get away with stuff they shouldn’t, Rob. You know that.”

 
She frowned. “Who bribes a senator to stop a veterans’ center from being built?”

  “Well, fiscally conservative groups don’t support any new spending, but beyond that, you’d be surprised.”

  Her mouth full of salad, Robin made a rolling hand gesture to indicate, Explain.

  After a sip of beer, Chris obliged. “If the government has decent, well-administered programs for vets, there’s no incentive for donors, big and small, to support private organizations.”

  “Those groups that make TV ads showing disabled vets that break your heart?”

  “Exactly. Some are legitimate, but others spend way too much on ‘administrative costs,’ huge salaries for their top people and big bucks for celebrities who make more of those heart-tugging commercials.”

  “Using veterans to make money. Yuck.” She deepened her voice to approximate Mark Parsons’ tone. “Life isn’t fair, kiddies; never has been, never will be. Grow up and deal with it.”

  Chris smiled ruefully. “We can’t fix the world, Rob, so let’s just enjoy our meal.”

  As if on cue, the waiter arrived with their entrees. Shifting his wheelchair closer to the table, Chris said, “Steak. Can’t beat it.”

  “Pasta,” Robin replied in a familiar refrain. “Better than dead cow.” Her meal smelled divine, and she took a moment to savor it.

  As they ate, she told Chris about losing her job, admitting she’d given in to rage and said things she shouldn’t have. “I ruined any chance I had of getting a decent reference. It was dumb, but I couldn’t believe what they’d done.”

  His eyes had turned hard. “They let one worker go so they can hire someone else. Can they do that?”

  She shrugged, trying to keep her voice light. “They did.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear it, Rob, but that job wasn’t for you anyway—making nice with people who’ve got more money than humanity. Take it as an opportunity to find what you really want to do with your life.”

  “Yeah. The Greens did seem to believe I wasn’t quite human, being female and lacking a law degree.” She washed down some noodles with wine. “It’s still not fair to screw someone over like that though.”

  Chris salted his carrots as he talked, and she winced at how many shakes that required. “People shouldn’t be able to use their position to hurt others.” Setting down the salt, he took up the pepper. “I hate that the bad guys win way more than they should.”

  Robin was tempted to tell Chris about the blow she’d struck for justice, but she didn’t. He’d worry if he knew she’d committed a crime—actually several crimes. And besides, she had to protect Cameron.

  A thought tickled the back of her mind, but she brushed it away. It was dumb.

  The thought fluttered back. You did it once. You could do it again.

  No.

  Chris’ hard work would achieve results.

  No!

  Chris is here, eager to share what he knows. It can’t hurt to talk about it.

  Setting her wineglass gently on the tablecloth, Robin smiled innocently at her brother. “Tell me more about the senator with the drug problem.”

  ***

  After a semi-restful night in the motel, Robin returned home to a crisis. At first things seemed normal enough. TV gunshots rang out as she unlocked the door, and she guessed Cameron was watching a cop show. When she entered, however, she found him perched nervously on the edge of the sofa, turned away from the screen. Facing him, her back perfectly straight in Robin’s saggy old recliner, was their neighbor, Ms. Kane.

  “Good morning, Miss Parsons.” The old woman’s voice approximated the sound of a talking crow. “Carter and I have been waiting for you.”

  Robin began explaining, mostly to give herself time to think. “I drove to Atlanta to meet my brother then spent the night at the Hampton Inn. The traffic this morning was brutal.”

  “I see.”

  Emily Kane reminded Robin of a teacher she’d had in middle school who could make the most innocuous comment seem like an accusation. With iron-gray hair and a chin that suggested silliness would not be tolerated, Ms. Kane wore glasses a decade out of style and spotted with what was possibly white paint. She hobbled around the building, speaking to other residents in homey clichés about rain coming down in buckets or sun so hot one could fry an egg on the sidewalk.

  Ms. Kane smelled of arthritis cream and wore polyester everything: pants that bulged at the waist but drooped in the seat and pullover shirts in solid colors, always with a collar and two-button placket. She was seldom seen without a cardigan sweater, and today’s was navy blue. Sometimes she wore the garment; other times it draped over her shoulders. Today it lay folded over the arm of the chair. Apparently her body temperature was subject to frequent, violent changes.

  There was a moment of silence as Robin considered her options. Carter/Cameron seemed frozen in place. Emily Kane waited, her mouth a straight line above her long chin.

  Finally Robin chose her course of action. “Well, Carter, I want to thank you for checking on the apartment for me.” Turning to Ms. Kane she confided, “I’m kind of a baby about coming home after a trip. I always imagine someone has broken in while I was gone and—”

  “He’s been living here.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh-oh.

  “You’re not a couple.” She nodded at the blankets Cameron slept in, neatly folded at one end of the sofa. “He told the landlord he’d moved to California.”

  “Colorado,” Cameron supplied, but a glance from Ms. Kane caused him to clamp his lips together and look down at his lap.

  “My hearing is excellent, and your television has played for days, all day, even when you’re out. I saw him leaving here late last night.” One gray brow lifted slightly. “I get up several times at night to pee.”

  Cameron turned to Robin, his expression guilty. “I needed to get outside for a while. I didn’t think—”

  “It’s okay.” Turning a resolute face to Ms. Kane she said, “What he and I do, where we sleep, and how much TV we watch is none of your business.”

  Surprisingly, the old woman nodded agreement. “That’s correct, except for two things. First, a man has come around asking about Carter.”

  “Cameron,” he said helpfully. “I changed my name.”

  Don’t tell her that!

  Before Robin could decide how to react, Ms. Kane said, “It isn’t what they call you that matters, I suppose. It’s what you answer to. All right then, Cameron. The other reason for my concern is your welfare.” She adjusted her glasses, though when she finished they still sat crookedly on her ultra-thin nose. “When I moved in here, your mother was good to me.”

  Cam nodded. “She said you were odd as two sticks but nice enough. I-I think that means she liked you.”

  Ms. Kane accepted the comment with no apparent rancor. “She was a little drifty, your mother, but she had a good heart.” Turning back to Robin she said, “I won’t have Doreen Halkias’ only son used for some purpose of yours that will break his heart or his bank account.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Ms. Kane.”

  “From what I understand, it’s worse.” Her cane thumped sharply on the floor. “Carter tells me you’re hiding him here so he won’t be taken to jail.”

  Feeling trapped, Robin gave the briefest possible explanation. “Cameron had an argument with someone—a misunderstanding really—and things got a little rough. The other party is kind of a big shot, and he’s liable to press charges. Since jail wouldn’t be a good place for Cameron, I decided to let him stay here for a while.”

  “That’s why the private detective is looking for him? To charge him with assault?”

  “I guess so.”

  Ms. Kane studied Robin with faded-blue eyes. From the way her lips twitched, it seemed she was thinking.

  Robin was thinking too, wondering how fast Andy could make her a new identity. We’ll take a train to D.C. and lose ourselves there. Or maybe we’ll take a bus west, to—“You ha
ven’t done badly for amateurs,” Emily Kane said, “but you still need my help.”

  What?

  “Help? Um—”

  A bony hand stopped her protest. “Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck?”

  “No, but Ms. Kane—”

  “Then don’t try to string me along. And call me Em, like the aunt in The Wizard of Oz.” She squinted toward Robin’s tiny kitchen. “You’d better make a pot of coffee. My life story takes some telling.”

  Having no idea what else to do, Robin rose to obey. Digging her almost unused coffeemaker out from under the sink, she located a packet of Hawaiian coffee she’d received as a Christmas gift from her Secret Santa. As the aroma of the brew filled the apartment, she put sugar into one plastic storage container and poured a half cup of milk into another, creating an impromptu condiment set. As Robin worked, Emily Kane talked.

  “I retired from the FBI in 2006, after thirty years on the job. I spent most of my career in the Midwest, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Ohio.” She glanced at the snowless expanse outside the window. “I moved here so I’d never see another winter.” Her lips tightened. “Snow is pretty, but I miss that bitter cold about as much as I’d miss a chapped hind end.”

  Robin was trying desperately to decide if Em Kane’s background hurt or helped the situation. If she’d spent years enforcing the law, her sense of duty might overcome any fondness she felt for her neighbor’s son. Hoping to generate amity, Robin said, “You must have had some interesting times.”

  Em chuckled. “I certainly did. Female agents had to prove we could cut the mustard every single day.”