by James Hayman
Finally Josh gave up and he dropped his head back on the pillow. It was time to put an end to this stupid fucking game.
“Hey!” he called out. “Get me out of here. You’ve had your fun now get me the hell out of here.”
He waited. There was no response.
“This isn’t fucking funny,” he yelled louder. “Untie these goddamned ropes and get me out of here!”
Still nothing. He wondered if maybe he was alone in the house. He listened for the sound of another human being. Footsteps. A voice. Anything. But all he could hear was the same clanking of the radiator and, very faintly, the same kind of classical music as before.
He lay there thinking about the stupidity and injustice of what Norah had done to him and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He started screaming incoherently, yanking his hands against the restraints. Swinging his body hard. First to the left. Then to the right. He pulled his legs up toward his chest, muscles straining to break the rope.
Finally when it was clear there was no way he’d ever be able to escape this pee-soaked prison on his own, he lost it altogether and an uncontrollable rage took over. “Norah!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Norah! Get me the fuck out of here or I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking bitch!”
When there was no response, Josh yelled louder. “Get me the fuck out of here, you fucking bitch,” he screamed, “or I’ll cut you into fucking dog meat!”
But no matter how hard he struggled, no matter how loudly he yelled and screamed, the restraints held firm and his pleas and threats went unanswered. Finally, exhausted, he fell back, his heart pounding, his lungs sucking in foul-smelling air as fast as they could. The struggle had made the throbbing in his head worse than before. At this point his brain was banging so hard he thought it might literally explode.
That’s when the door opened. “Now, Josh, I’m afraid we can’t have you making so much noise, yelling and screaming like that,” said a voice. Norah’s voice? He was sure it was. “I mean, you’ll wake the whole neighborhood. What will people think?”
Josh forced himself to calm down. He had enough self-discipline to do that. The most important thing right now was to convince Norah to let him go. He’d never be able to do that yelling and screaming like a crazy man.
“Norah,” he said as calmly as he could. “You’ve had your fun and games and now it’s time to cut these ropes and let me go. If you don’t I can promise you’ll live to regret it.”
The only response was the feel of a cold hand taking hold of his bare leg and turning it slightly to one side. And then, unexpectedly, a painful sting as the hand plunged what felt like a needle deep into his thigh.
After a few seconds of growing dizziness, Josh’s head fell back helplessly onto the pillow. Blackness enveloped his world once again.
Chapter 5
RACHEL CHECKED HER phone for messages and e-mails before she left the apartment for the subway and then again after she arrived at school. That was at 7:25 A.M. Still nothing from Josh.
She’d tried repeatedly to reach him last night and added an e-mail when she got up this morning explaining that she wanted him to do her a favor before he left Portland. A bit of a pain for you I’m sure, she wrote, but I’d really appreciate it if you can find the time. If not, I’ll understand (I guess).
The favor she had in mind was for Josh to take the ferry over to Harts Island when he was done with his meetings to check out a possible summer rental she’d found online. She made the request even knowing that for Josh the idea of spending a summer vacation in Maine was only a couple of steps up from spending it in downtown Detroit. Okay. Maybe that was an exaggeration. Still, he’d told her ten times if he’d told her once that he wanted to rent the same cottage in East Hampton they’d taken last year. And the year before that. In fact, he’d been talking about buying the place if they could get it for a decent price. Buy it even though he knew she hated all the summer bullshit you couldn’t avoid in the Hamptons. Of course, the bullshit she hated most of all had nothing to do with the house or the beach or the crowded restaurants. Rather, it was watching the gaggle of rich divorcées and trophy wives fawn and drool over hunky Josh every time they laid eyes on him especially on the beach with his shirt off. Well, too damned bad. They couldn’t have him. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever.
The house Rachel had picked for Josh to look at was pretty damned nice. A gorgeous contemporary sitting all by itself right on the water on the back side of Harts Island a mile and a half across the bay from the city of Portland. The photos in the ad showed large open rooms. Floor-to-ceiling glass on the ocean side. Every conceivable amenity including a heated lap pool.
It seemed, she wrote in her e-mail, like a reasonable request. As a teacher she got the whole summer off. While Josh would never take more than a couple of weeks away from work, he could always fly up weekends. She reiterated that Portland was an easy one-hour hop from LaGuardia or JFK, not much longer and a hell of a lot cheaper than the sea plane service Josh liked taking to East Hampton on summer Fridays to avoid the crush on the Long Island Expressway or the crowds on the LIRR.
Rachel checked her watch. Still twenty-five minutes before her first class. She figured one more e-mail wouldn’t hurt. She poured herself an extra big mug of coffee and started typing, determined to keep the tone light and friendly. Not to reveal the anger she was really feeling.
To: [email protected]
[email protected]
Subject: Next summer
Darling,
She paused, wondering for a minute if “Darling” might not be laying it on a little thick. She decided it wasn’t and started typing again.
Darling,
I’ve tried reaching you a couple of times. Maybe you’re not checking your phone or e-mail or maybe you’re pissed off for reasons that escape me. Either way, would you please get back to me when you get this or any of my other messages? Maybe you’ve just lost your phone but I hope not. That would be a huge pain. Even if you have, I’m pretty sure you’ll be checking e-mail on your computer at some point.
PLEASE do me a favor when you’re done with your meetings and before you fly home. Like I said in the previous messages I saw a great ad online for a summer rental on Harts Island that I’d love to take for July and August. I’m attaching the link (again). Check it out.
Yes, I know you’d rather have East Hampton but frankly spending an entire summer cheek by jowl with the ladies who lunch (especially Melanie Bitchface Harris and Trudy Brumfield) is more than I can handle.
If you TRULY, TRULY object to Maine maybe we can have it both ways. A month here. A month there. I hope you’ll be at least willing to take a look at the house on Harts (only $5,000 a week—would be at least $20K/week in EH, probably more).
Please respond!!!!
Rachel read the e-mail over. Decided the tone was perfect and hit Send. She still had fifteen minutes before she had to head over to her first period class teaching English to seventeen AP seniors at Charlton, a posh private day school for girls over by the river on East 84th Street.
Today her students would be analyzing the narrative structure of Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady. Rachel had never cared for James so she’d never taught his books before, but this year the department head decided as a great American novelist James should be required reading. Rachel was sure half her students, even the most diligent, would sleepwalk their way through the book. It had bored her to tears the first time she read it so she couldn’t imagine the kids sticking with it. She spent the next quarter hour sipping coffee and trying her best to think up interesting discussion points about Isabel Archer’s endless waffling about who she should marry and where she would live and God only knew why so many men seemed to fall head over heels in love with her. Then she got up and headed for her class.
After Henry James, the school day progressed normally until the middle of her third period class with her sophomores. That’s when she felt her silenced cell phone
vibrate on her desk. She glanced down. Caller ID indicated Josh’s direct line at Harris Brumfield.
She was tempted to answer but decided to let the call go to voice mail. Calling back would have to wait until after the period ended. For another twenty minutes Rachel led a discussion about the relationship between King Lear and his three daughters. Having already taught the play a bunch of times she could handle this one on automatic pilot. Finally the buzzer rang and the girls packed up their stuff and walked out.
When the room was empty, Rachel checked voice mail. The call had come from Josh’s assistant, Roseanne Mezzina. “Rachel, this is Roseanne. Could you please call me as soon as you get this message? It’s important.”
She tapped the “call back” number on the screen.
Roseanne picked up immediately. “Rachel?”
“Hi, Roseanne, what is it?”
“Have you heard from Josh this morning?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“What do you mean? He’s in Portland. I mean, he is, isn’t he?”
“That’s what we thought too. But I’ve tried calling and texting half a dozen times and I just can’t find him . . .”
Rachel said nothing.
“Rachel? Are you there?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m here. He didn’t respond to my texts either. I’m just really puzzled.”
“I’m puzzled too, but worried as well. Floyd got a call about forty-five minutes ago from the people Josh was working with at Trident. He was a no-show for this morning’s nine-thirty meeting. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. Just didn’t show up and they’re not sure whether to be worried or pissed off or both. Neither am I. They were supposed to finalize the contracts on financing a major construction project this morning and Joe Bonner, the Trident CEO, wants to know what’s going on. Floyd told him he’d find out. Meanwhile, Floyd’s flying up to Portland himself to make sure the deal gets done. And then to see if he can find out where the hell Josh is.”
Rachel glanced up. The girls from her ninth grade class were filing into the room and taking their seats. She turned her back and lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s crazy, Roseanne. Josh doesn’t just not show up.”
“You know that. I know that. More importantly, Floyd knows that. But I guess the people at Trident don’t.”
“They saw him yesterday, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Bonner told Floyd yesterday’s meeting went according to plan and after the meeting Josh took him and a couple of Trident’s other top people out to dinner at a place called the Port Grill.”
“Josh says it’s his favorite restaurant in Portland. Plus it’s near the hotel. He always goes there.”
“I know. In fact, I made the reservation myself. Bonner said everybody left the restaurant around nine-thirty except Josh. He told them he was going to head into the bar for a quick nightcap. He asked if anyone wanted to join him. The guys from Trident declined. Said they didn’t want to drink anymore since they all had to drive home. Everybody shook hands and said goodnight. That was the last anyone saw of him.”
“Wasn’t Josh staying at the Regency?”
“Yup. I made that rez as well.”
Rachel took in a deep breath. Let it out. Watched her fourth period students taking their seats. “Okay,” she said, “so Josh would only have had a short walk back to the hotel. Or a short stagger if he had more than one nightcap. No big deal since he wouldn’t have been driving.”
Rachel looked back at the class. The girls were all in their seats, watching her and, no doubt, trying to eavesdrop as well. “Hold on a second,” she said to Roseanne. She held the phone against her leg and told the class she had some personal business to attend to and would be gone for a few minutes. “In the meantime, I want you all to start writing a short essay, three hundred words, on the meaning of Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. I want you to prove to me that you not only read the poem but that you understood what it was about. If you don’t finish your essays before I get back you can finish them tonight.”
The class moaned at the unexpected assignment. Rachel ignored the collective moan, went out into the hall and closed the door behind her. “I’m back,” Rachel said into the phone. “Is there anything else?”
“No. Just that Floyd asked me—I guess, ordered me is more accurate—to track down Josh ‘fucking now’ as he put it and to find out what’s going on.”
Rachel let a few seconds pass before responding. “What do you mean ‘what’s going on’?”
“Rachel, I’m sorry. Like I said I’m worried. Now I’ve got you worried as well. But I think we ought to be worried. When I call, his cell goes straight to voice mail. He hasn’t returned any of my texts or e-mails. I asked the people at the Regency to check his room. They said his suitcase and briefcase were there but the bed hadn’t been slept in. I’m sorry to have to tell you that. The manager asked if they should check him out of the hotel. I told them no. Told them just to hold the room for him until they heard otherwise from me and charge the company credit card.”
“Jesus. Maybe he was in an accident?” said Rachel. “Hit by a car? Had a heart attack? Or a stroke? Or maybe got mugged or God knows what. Did you call the hospitals?”
“Not yet,” said Roseanne. “I thought it’d be better if you did that. Hospitals are happier providing medical information to wives than to executive assistants. There are two of them in Portland. Mercy and Cumberland Medical Center. I can get you the numbers if you like.”
Rachel ignored the offer. “What about the police?” she asked. “Did you call them?”
“I tried them. Woman who answered the phone said no serious accidents were reported in Portland last night.”
“And no murders or muggings?”
“Oh my God, Rachel. No. They didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Well, something’s happened,” said Rachel. “And I’m damned well going to find out what. If you hear anything in the meantime, anything at all, please phone me right away.”
Rachel Thorne broke the connection and walked to Karen Abernathy’s office. Karen was the head of school and one of Rachel’s biggest supporters. A close friend, though she was twenty years older. She didn’t want to tell Karen too much but she could tell her that she needed some personal time off from school. Maybe just a day or two. Maybe longer. And that it was a very important but very personal matter she couldn’t talk about. She hoped Karen would understand. If she didn’t, well, too bad. Josh came first.
Chapter 6
AT A LITTLE after two o’clock on a cold, overcast Wednesday afternoon in Portland, Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe’s phone buzzed. Dispatcher Kelly Haddon was on the line.
“What do you need, Kelly?”
“I’m not really sure. Some lawyer from New York says he needs to talk to you. Name’s Mark Christensen. Says he thinks a violent crime might have been committed in Portland last night.”
“Oh yeah? News to me. Unless he’s talking about that little dust-up on Riverside?” The dust-up in question involved a couple of local drunks who had words in the parking lot of a topless “gentlemen’s club” called Diamonds after enjoying their respective lap dances. For reasons as yet unknown, one of the “gentlemen” pulled a knife and stabbed the other. The victim was currently recovering in the ICU at Cumberland Med and the knife wielder was under arrest and awaiting arraignment in the county jail. Carl Sturgis, one of McCabe’s senior detectives, was handling the details. No reason for a New York lawyer to be interested in that.
“I don’t think that’s what he was talking about,” said Kelly.
“All right, then. What was he talking about?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Wouldn’t give you any specifics at all?”
“Nope. Just said it was urgent.”
McCabe sighed. This so-called lawyer could be some kind of nutcase. On the other hand, all McCabe had on his plate
at the moment was another day of trying to keep from dozing off while catching up on a desk full of paperwork. He was thinking about requesting a transfer to Narcotics. The detectives there were always busy chasing down one scumbag or another.
“Okay if I put him through?”
McCabe generally disliked calls from lawyers, especially New York lawyers who tended to be even bigger pains in the butt than the locals. The primary exception being his brother Bobby, who practiced personal injury law in the city, and if McCabe was honest, there were times he wasn’t so happy about hearing from Bobby. It was usually bad news about their mother’s rapidly progressing Alzheimer’s. He’d been telling himself he should put in a visit while she still recognized him. If she still recognized him.
McCabe finally said, “Sure, that’s fine. Put him through.” He picked up the other line. “This is McCabe.”
“Sergeant McCabe?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Mark Christensen. I’m an attorney practicing in Manhattan.”
“Criminal law?”
“No. General practice. Mostly personal injury. I got your name from your brother Bob.”
“Really? And how do you know my brother?”
“He used to be my boss. Hired me out of law school. Now he’s just a friend. Back when I worked for his firm he mentioned you a couple of times. Said you were a detective in Portland. I spoke to him this morning and when I told him what it was about he suggested I give you a call.”
“Okay, you told our dispatcher you thought a violent crime might have taken place. Did it or didn’t it?”
“Right now, might is the operative word. But—and I don’t want to say this in front of my sister—I don’t think it’ll stay that way for long.”
“Okay, why don’t you just tell me what it’s all about?”
“I’d rather do that in person if you don’t mind. Also there’s something we need to show you.”
“We?”
“My sister Rachel—Rachel Thorne—is with me.”
“And you’re both here in Portland?”