by R. J. Blain
My reappearance would stoke the fires again, and like it or not, boost his campaign run.
Assuming he’d engineered my disappearance, I’d likely served my purpose. If he hadn’t been involved, he’d wasted no time reaping the rewards of someone else’s scheme. I suspected countless possibilities existed, and I would obsess until I identified as many of them as possible. What I didn’t understand was why me?
Had I just been a convenient tool? Nothing seemed convenient about making me disappear for so many months. Caring for my foot defined what it meant to be inconvenient. Erasing a gunshot wound so I hadn’t even noticed it went beyond merely inconvenient. Why go through so much effort to keep me alive and healthy? Why go through so much work to heal my battered foot?
If killing Senator Westonhaus had been the goal, why not eliminate me permanently for interfering with their plans, whatever those plans might have been?
While time had warped for me, it hadn’t felt like six months, let alone almost nine.
How long had I spent under sedation? How long had it taken my kidnappers to restore functionality to my foot?
Had California been chosen as my prison because of the stable weather? I could believe that. I’d never looked much into California’s climate, but I’d been under the impression they had summer and spring, skipping right over winter and fall entirely. Curiosity got the better of me, and within five minutes, I’d learned my current location did have seasons, but winter was a little cool and rainy, while the rest of the year, the weather stayed a somewhat stable temperature until the peak of summer, where the state tended to catch on fire and burn before winter came and snuffed the fires out.
I gave the illusionist credit: I hadn’t been aware of when it rained at all, and if there had been any earthquakes since the start of my captivity, I’d missed them.
At a loss of how to cope with my status as a long-term missing person, one likely presumed dead by just about everybody, I turned my search to Bradley. The first few articles called him reclusive, a few dubbed him an available bachelor who would need a tender hand to get over the death of his fiancée, and a straggler article indicated he refused to accept my death without a corpse to prove I no longer lived. I liked that article, as it offered me a little hope I could somehow get out of my current situation somewhat intact.
Aware I no longer had a job, as life went on no matter how much I loathed the idea I’d been taken out of the picture, I went to the one place I’d have a way to contact Bradley: my email.
Fortunately for me, I had several, including a personal one I’d used to send Bradley information as needed. As such, I had his phone number, his email address, and other scraps of my life in a place I could access.
My password worked, and I winced at the ridiculous number of unread messages. Bracing for the worst, I skimmed through to discover Bradley, Beatrice, and everyone else in my life had taken to emailing me at least once a week with updates on what they were doing, why they were doing it, things I had missed, pictures of what I’d missed, and everything needed to put the pieces of my life back together as needed.
The latest emails, from yesterday, promised they hadn’t given up on me when everyone else had.
It would take me days to sort through the mess, and I expected I would need several boxes of tissues to work through the nightmare they’d endured.
With Senator Westonhaus having opted to use me as a publicity stunt, I decided against going to a police station to get help, which meant I’d have to try Bradley’s email, hope he checked it, found the library, and figured out where I hid until he could catch a flight over.
While I waited, I’d prowl the beach and find some place to lay low until he could come. I’d also make sure he understood if I didn’t get good Chinese food after a nine-month hiatus, I might actually expire. I also asked for my cane, as I expected after a full day of walking around, my foot would be a miserable mess. As I had some awareness of my current state of mind, I asked him to please ignore any incidents involving tissues, and that I’d only met with the senator because he was donating to the library and needed information on the donation and how to submit it.
The articles on Senator Westonhaus and his campaign had made mention of the donation, which he’d upped by several million dollars after it had become obvious I wouldn’t be found like he’d been found, within hours of having been kidnapped thanks to someone who’d called in a report of someone driving erratically.
Senator Westonhaus hadn’t gone out without a fight, unlike me, who’d slept right through being moved across the country.
I questioned that.
Then again, I questioned everything about my situation.
Then, because my sense of humor had survived, I informed Bradley I was a self-rescuing princess who needed a lot of love from her fluffy goddess, and if something had happened to my precious Ajani since I’d had a bad run in with some goats, I would be inconsolable. I left the address of the library, and that I’d be somewhere around, probably at the beach, attempting to roast myself because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to the beach.
I hit send, closed my email tab so I wouldn’t have to witness any chaos if Bradley was actively checking his email, and resumed researching the lost months of my life.
I left the library half an hour before closing. If Bradley saw my email immediately, if he took a commercial flight, and if he hit no delays or snags, he could arrive in California at a painful three in the morning. Considering the library wouldn’t be open, I would need to find some way to amuse myself until it reopened if he didn’t show and locate me in the small area.
Hiding out would challenge me, as would making certain I didn’t kick the bucket until he arrived. The lack of a wallet or anything of use would make the next day or two of my life a miserable prospect at best. The state beach had water fountains, however, and I’d take advantage of them to make sure I stayed hydrated.
Assuming he showed up, Bradley could solve my hunger problem, although I wouldn’t be getting Chinese food at some obscenely early hour of the morning. I’d take whatever he’d give me, though. By the time he arrived, I would be hungry enough to try to catch a shark and eat it raw.
I refused to consider he might not show up. I could only hope he believed I’d accessed my email, asking him to return me to civilization. If he didn’t show, I would find somewhere private to cry before accepting defeat and coming up with a second plan. My second plan might involve hitchhiking across the entirety of the United States without a single penny to my name, showing up at my parents’ place, and indulging in hiding in my old room for the rest of my life. My third plan involved breaking into the Hampton’s residence and taking out my frustrations within their bunker and gun range before somebody stopped me. If neither of those plans worked, I would do the equivalent of sticking my head in the sand and becoming a hermit, living out the rest of my life hiding in some mountain cave somewhere until I starved or froze to death.
My plans needed work, although I tried to convince myself I’d done well emailing for rescue rather than showing up at some police station after having gone missing for almost nine months. Once I added in how Senator Westonhaus used me for his presidential bid, I wanted to dodge the media for as long as possible.
I would spend the time waiting to see if somebody showed up grieving for my lost job. I wouldn’t worry much for my cat.
Bradley would have taken care of my fluffy goddess. Given an opportunity, he’d enjoy taking care of me, too. After having no company for months upon months, I would concoct reasons I needed him to take care of me in some fashion or another.
I would begin with a hug, and I’d do my best not to cry at having contact with someone else. I would brace for the worst, too. I’d disappeared once, and with how upset most had been with me for insisting on attending Senator Maybelle’s memorial, I expected to emerge with fewer friends. I wouldn’t even blame my parents if they distanced themselves from me.
Losing me on
ce had been hard enough on them—and on me. Losing me twice might be the straw that broke their backs. If I went in with the understanding I had lost more than I gained, I would be able to emerge on the other side hurt but ready to keep fighting.
I couldn’t afford to harbor any hope beyond that. I could handle a pleasant surprise. I doubted I’d be able to handle any unexpected rejection, not after so long in solitude.
With nothing left to do, I returned to the beach, took off my sneakers, and kicked at the surf, shivering at the ocean’s cold bite. The temperature helped my feet, both of which were sore from the exertion. My right held up better than I thought possible. When I tired at kicking at the water, I picked a spot where the waves sometimes reached, digging my toes into the sand.
Boredom drove me into collecting tiny shells, which were few and far between. As the sun set, I found a piece of blue sea glass, which I pocketed as a souvenir. I lingered on the beach until most had cleared off before wandering in the general direction of the library, searching for a place to hole up and wait. I found a grove of trees with shrubs, which created a small niche within, visible during the day but invisible at night, assuming I didn’t draw attention to myself. Once certain nobody watched me, I ducked behind one of the palms, crouched, and pushed aside the larger fronds.
The gravel and rocks within would make an uncomfortable seat, but I’d make it work until either the sun rose or Bradley came—if he came.
I could only hope.
TEN
You got a reason to be hiding back there?
Time dragged, but I was grateful I’d wandered to a quiet place, one with no nightlife. The rare car drove by along the street, but the trees and the foliage defended me from the headlights. Every rare now and again, birds called to each other, and some animal or another rustled through the bushes. To my relief, they left me alone. It’d been so long since I’d attempted to use my magic offensively I doubted I’d have the control needed to deal with a mouse let alone a person.
Long after the temperature dropped to frigid and I questioned my idiotic decision to hide in bushes rather than seek out somewhere warm, a car turned on the street heading in the general direction of the library. It stopped, its taillights casting a red glow on the sidewalk, and after a few moments, everything fell dark and a door closed. A second door opened and closed, although I couldn’t tell if the vehicle had multiple people in it or the driver had gotten something out of the backseat.
A backseat would make a comfortable enough place to nap. As it was, I would struggle to extract myself from my rock-infested hiding place. When I did get up, I expected to hurt from head to toe, to go along with my serious case of hungry.
With the help of one of the palms, which jabbed into my hands, I staggered to my feet. My right foot lodged various complaints, but the pain remained on the ‘sore from use’ spectrum rather than ‘broken and possibly scheduled for amputation’ side of things. As such, I ignored its whining, hid behind one of the larger trees nearby, and peeked around the trunk to see who had come calling to the small area in the dead of night.
A few minutes went by before two silhouettes came down the street from the direction of the library, and as they drew closer I recognized Bradley and his father. That he’d brought his father along relieved me.
Bradley’s father could handle most anything—including pursuing older clues in case they came upon a dead end rather than a live me. They talked in hushed tones and headed for the beach’s parking lot, which wasn’t all that far from my hiding spot.
Bradley’s father tensed, and he eased his stride. Then, he said in a tone loud enough for me to hear, “You check the beach, and I’ll check up here.”
Rather than reply, Bradley waved and hurried on his mission to check out the beach.
Bradley’s father waited for his son to disappear from view down the slight hill leading down to the ocean before turning in my direction, crossing his arms, and without a doubt, raising a brow. “Are you just skittish, or you got a reason to be hiding back there?”
“Can it be both?” I replied, and I grimaced at the hoarseness of my voice.
“Sure.” He headed over, and he pulled a small water bottle out of his pocket, which he held out.
The lure of having something to drink drew me out of hiding, and I grabbed it, muttered a thanks, and guzzled it down. “Mostly, that spot is just a bunch of rocks, and after sitting on a bunch of rocks, I wasn’t in a hurry to fall on my face.”
“That’s a good and fair enough reason. We’ve got your cane in the car, but you look stable enough.” Bradley’s father stared at my shoes. “You’re not wearing a boot.”
I leaned against the tree, ignored the scrape of the bark, and wiggled off my sneaker to show him my sandy foot and its myriad of scars. “I spent most of the last however many months sedated, I think, with a few respites here and there. But when I finally really woke up, I got a working foot as compensation.”
“And that explains why you didn’t find a way to come home sooner. You couldn’t, not when sedated and under the knife.” Bradley’s father took hold of my ankle and brushed the sand off, poking, prodding, and rubbing at my foot. “Minimal swelling, and everything feels like it’s in place. I feel a few screws, probably a pin or two replacing some missing bone, but that’s much closer to what your foot should feel like.” Once satisfied I had a foot, he put my shoe back on.
“When did you take over my doctor’s job?”
“We all went in for schooling to keep busy while looking for you. As I told my boy I’d drag you back kicking and screaming if needed, you’re getting tossed over my shoulder and delivered.”
I took off my glasses and handed them over. “I’m ready for basic humiliation as long as it means you’ll feed me.”
He took my glasses so I wouldn’t break them. “Honestly, I’m preventing him from grabbing you, swinging you around until you get sick on him, and otherwise making a damned fool of himself.”
“I could hide behind you. That would also prevent the grabbing and being swung around.” Being grabbed and swung around sounded so much better than the various rejections I’d conjured during the wait. “Did he do anything horribly embarrassing when I emailed him?”
“He has a notice set up for your email address, so when your email arrived, his phone told him. Within ten minutes, he’d booked us a flight, then he showed up at my house, dragged me out by my ear, shoved me in my own damned car, and shoved his phone at me to go over your email while he took us to the airport. He didn’t want to leave his car at the airport.”
Bradley never failed to amaze me. “How did his mother handle your kidnapping?”
“He said I would be returned in a day or two, so she’s fine with it. We’ve gotten used to him dragging one of us off if he has found a lead on you. We made him promise he would take one of us with him. He’s trying not to drag Ren all over the planet.”
“Ren thinks I ran away on purpose?” I guessed, bracing for the beginning of my living nightmare.
“No. Why would you think that?”
I pointed at myself. “I’ve done it before?” I frowned and regarded the older man, trying to figure out how my expectations, which involved everyone being angry at me, hadn’t manifested.
“No, you were shot and kidnapped. That is not a foundation for someone to run away. It was clear you’d been shot, and then you were dragged off by someone in a gas mask after they bombed the area. Most have accepted you’d probably gotten killed after you’d been taken, but I’d raised Bradley to be stubborn from his first breath, and he was never the quitting kind. Your parents are quietly holding onto hope for the same reason. The rest are realists and are trying to come up with ways to help Bradley get over your loss.”
“Was that before or after they had a rage-fueled fit over meeting with a senator about a library donation?”
“There was no rage-fueled fit. You met with a donor about a donation, and as there was evidence of the donation going through a
t the time of the meeting, with an additional donation being made shortly after, it’s generally been accepted you were doing your job for the library. Investigators confirmed Senator Westonhaus had inquired to make a donation for your library, so while everyone was on edge about who you were meeting with, no one could fault you for doing your job. We all underestimated your relentless drive to help people, however.”
“I don’t remember anything about it,” I warned him. “Honestly, I hadn’t even realized I’d been shot until I checked the news in the library. The scar isn’t in a place I usually look.”
“You took a pretty hard knock to the head after you’d gotten hit in the arm. You’d shoved the senator out of the way and took the round, so we think you may have spotted the shooter somehow. You hit him as hard as you could on a lame foot, got shot, and went down in a heap.”
“What did I hit my head against?”
“Asphalt.”
I grimaced. “That sounds like a good reason to have no memory of the incident.”
“You do not have a good track record when it comes to hitting your head against things.” Bradley’s father sighed. “We have your purse, your tablet, and your laptop. Your things had been left on the street or in the senator’s vehicle, and they were given to us shortly after the police audited the scene. It was determined you were only taken due to your interference with the murder attempt. The kidnapping seemed to be fairly haphazard, as it was fairly easy for Senator Westonhaus to be recovered. According to the senator, he was taken to a different vehicle, and he wasn’t sure if you’d survived. There was a great deal of blood, so he was under the impression you’d been shot in the head rather than the arm, thus leading police to abandon the search for you, instead looking for a corpse rather than a living woman.”
I pointed in the general direction of the house I’d been held in. “I was held over there somewhere in a nice family home. Three stories. They used a lot of illusions on where I was held. I was cuffed, but they had some form of guilty conscience, so the cuff was padded.”