by Meg O'Brien
After Ben leaves I call Frannie and ask if she’ll keep Murphy until tomorrow so I can get some uninterrupted sleep. I’m beginning to miss my furry friend like crazy, but if Frannie were to bring him home we’d have to talk. She’d see the lump on my noggin, demand to know how I got it, warn me to sell my house and move into a gated condo…It’d never end.
Exhausted, I lock every door and window tight, then fix myself a tray with tea, crackers and a hunk of Havarti cheese, which I take up to bed. Hoping to be lulled to sleep I click the remote on the TV and find a presidential speech has taken over every channel. Perfect. That should put me out in no time.
Mr. Squeaky-Clean is polished and tan, like a fine copper penny. His graying hair makes him look distinguished, and his wife and fourteen-year-old daughter, whom the camera pans to every now and then, seem happy as clams.
I study Chase, and even his daughter, searching for some sign of resemblance to Justin. Is this his father? His half sister? I can’t be certain.
Chase doesn’t look, however, like a man whose illegitimate son has been missing for two months. In fact, neither does the first lady look at all worried that her old friend Marti Bright’s son is still missing.
I wonder if Marti told them before she died that Justin had been found and was safe, swearing them to secrecy. The unhappy alternative would be that neither the president nor his wife have a caring bone in their bodies.
The first lady and the president are both consummate actors, of course. One has to be, to survive in politics. Right now, Chase is expounding on health care, which he did nothing about in his last term, but promises faithfully to fix in the next. Since health care will never be fixed in this country, at least not in my lifetime and not by politicians, I lower the volume and turn my attention elsewhere.
Munching on crackers, I let my thoughts roam back over the past few hours, including the surprises Ben brought me about Tommy Lawrence. I’d begun to like Tommy, in a way, and it’s a disappointment that my instinct that he was hiding something, and wasn’t who he pretended to be, was on the mark.
But then, I’ve learned that people will do a lot for money when they’re broke and in debt. They’ll do a lot for money, anyway. Look at me. I made a deal with the devil—Jeffrey—to hang on to my house. Maybe that wasn’t all about greed, but it comes to the same thing. I wanted to assure my ongoing place in the land of milk and money.
And look at Jeffrey. What would he do to get his hands on The Prayer House and secure his future wealth? Despite the potential of Tommy being Marti’s killer, I’m not writing Jeffrey off yet. Sometimes it comes down to who has more to gain. Tommy would have gained revenge for years of rejection and a seven-figure book contract. But for someone like Tommy Lawrence, would that have been more incentive than Jeffrey had, with his scheme to rule the world—or at least the Carmel Valley?
I am amazed at all the balls Jeffrey’s had in the air, to tell the truth. The real-estate scam, holding Justin captive, dealing with the Ryans, with the president, with killing Marti—if he did—and now being on the run. I wouldn’t have thought Jeffrey could handle all that on his own. Especially not with the Secret Service after him. That must have taken some clever planning.
Which reminds me. I haven’t seen the D.C. Duo for some time. And what kind of Secret Service men are they, anyway, that they haven’t been able to bring Jeffrey in by now? My money is on Ben as the better cop.
I wasn’t bluffing when I told Mauro and Hillars I knew “the real reason” they were here. Oh, Chase might have sent them initially to look for Justin. But I’m betting that once Jeffrey disappeared and they started tracking him down, they uncovered the realestate scam. That’s why they were outside the bank the other day—not following me, but because they’d been investigating Harry for bank fraud. Something the Secret Service turns up for faster than one can blink.
So, aside from all else, what does Mr. Squeaky-Clean think about that? Mauro and Hillars must have reported Jeffrey’s illegal dealings to him by now. He’s probably furious at the thought of the headlines: President’s Closest Adviser Arrested for Bank Fraud/ Land Scam—just before the election.
In fact, that’s probably why he called this press conference about health care just now. It’s a smoke screen, something to take the public’s mind off the news about Jeffrey when it breaks.
One thing, regardless of what happens with Jeffrey, whether they find him or not and arrest him or not, I’m going to Sol tomorrow and start proceedings for a divorce. Just knowing what Jeffrey has done, if only to The Prayer House, makes me feel dirty by association. After I call Sol, if Jeffrey’s still on the loose, I’ll get the locksmith over to change all the locks, and then I’ll have Frannie come and help me pack up his things.
That settled, I let the president of the United States—whose son, quite possibly, is living in an abandoned shack not two hours from me—lull me to sleep. In the morning I’ll take care of Justin, too. I don’t know how, but I will.
“Why didn’t you just stay out of it?” I hear through my sleep. “You were never the type to meddle. Why now?”
I struggle awake, but can’t see. The room is too dark, the television off. Fear shoots through me, making me weak as I try to sit. A hand shoves me back down.
“We could have had it all. Why did you have to ruin it?”
“Jeffrey?”
Something cold and hard snaps around one wrist, then the other. “So you and Officer Friendly like to play, do you? Well, I’ve brought you some nice little handcuffs.” His voice is hoarse, his hands rough. “You’ll like these, wifey dear. Karen and I have already broken them in. We had a great deal of fun with them, in fact.”
I feel cords tighten around my ankles. Before I can think and react, my legs are pulled apart and tied to each bedpost. I try to jerk a knee up. It doesn’t move more than an inch.
“Sorry, no Kenpo for you tonight, my darling. I want you powerless—the way I would be if I let you tell them what I’ve done. I want you to feel what it’s like.”
I open my mouth to scream, but a hand clamps down hard. I manage a feeble bite. Jeffrey mutters an oath, jerks his hand away, then slaps me, knocking my head to the side.
Covering me with his body, he shoves his forearm under my chin, keeping my head bent back so far, it hurts. My jaw is locked by the position; I can’t get my mouth open to yell. I feel a hand yank my pajama bottoms down, then jam itself between my thighs. Tears of impotency and rage fill my eyes.
“How does it feel?” my husband murmurs into my ear as he jams his fingers inside me. “How does it feel to have all that power and not be able to use it? Hmm?”
I flail with my body, but my efforts to throw him off don’t work. The most I can do is pull back a fraction of an inch from the invading fingers. I get a moment of relief, then Jeffrey thrusts himself inside me. His arm still holds my head in place, so I cannot scream except deep in my throat. He is ramming me over and over, so mindlessly and rough I feel pain everywhere. A grinding, excruciating pain.
“You know how sick I got of hearing how you wanted a baby?” Jeffrey rasps. His breath comes at me in short, laborious gasps. “You wanted pain down here, some doctor, some other man, sticking his bloody instruments up you? Well, now you have it. Everything you ever wanted, wife.”
A whole new kind of agony sears through me, robbing me of sanity and will. I scream again, though there is no sound. It’s the last thing I know before I awake on the hill.
22
Night air surrounds me, dank and chilling. The ground beneath me is wet. I have no way of knowing if the wet is from rain, or from the blood I feel trickling from inside me, oozing out onto my thighs.
I am blindfolded now, and there is tape across my mouth. But I know where I am, and that fills me with dread.
I know where I am not by sight, but by sound. Nails strike wood, and as the carpenter of my final resting place pounds them in, his breathing is labored.
Is this the way it was for you, M
arti? Did you know it was Jeffrey? Did you know what he was going to do?
I wonder if she felt as much fear as I do now. Marti was brave, much braver than I. Even Justin is braver than I. He found a way to get free.
I am not able to move. None of my years of learning self-defense are working for me now. Jeffrey has what he wants—my impotence. I am stripped of power, just as he would be if I lived to tell what I know.
But, wait. He will have to take the handcuffs off, to put me on the cross. There may be time. A split second only, it’s all I might need.
I begin to pray. I pray to all my lost saints, and to the God who seemed to abandon me, though I know, now, that it was I who went away, not he.
Take care of Justin, I pray. Take care of him, please.
My entire abdomen blooms with pain, and my head feels thick and heavy. There is an odor, one I remember vaguely from long ago in science class.
Chloroform. He must have chloroformed me to get me here.
I force myself to be awake, alert. At the same time, I lie unmoving, pretending to be unconscious still.
My moment comes sooner than expected.
“Time to say goodbye,” my Roman soldier says, his voice coming from somewhere above me. “Sorry, no time for the flogging this time.”
Jeffrey’s voice sounds strange. Tight from allergies rather than emotion? The wheezing is more pronounced now.
I hear keys jangle. Get ready, Abby. Don’t flub this, it’s your last chance to stay alive.
A hand touches mine as he reaches to unlock the cuffs. They spring free, and the moment they do my left hand darts like a snake to grab a wrist. The fingers of my right hand form an Eagle’s Beak and punch in the direction where his eyes must be. I know I connect when I hear a howl. In that instant, I kick with both tied feet toward the groin. When I don’t connect this time, I know he must have sidestepped. Ripping off the blindfold, I jump to my feet and left-chop down on his neck while my right fist smashes up, striking him below the chin.
I am hampered by weakness, but the second he’s off balance from the punch, I slam my right fist into his groin. As he knifes over, I left-chop him again and watch as he falls to the ground.
He doesn’t stay down long. Shaking uncontrollably, I step back for a breath as he struggles to his feet. We come face-to-face for the first time, and even though it’s black as death itself out here, what I see shocks me so much, I lose valuable time. In the moment it takes me to recover, he’s on me again, and this time I’m no match for the positions he uses—they are all black belts.
He gets me with a “Lion,” several kicks to the body that end with a right chop to the throat. I’m down. Standing above me, my opponent says in that heavy, constricted voice, “Give it up, Abby. You can’t win.”
Ripping the tape off my mouth, I manage in a guttural whisper, “Go to hell, Agent Mauro. Go to fucking hell.”
23
I am helpless as a kitten as Mauro drags me to the makeshift cross and lashes me to it, hands and feet. I have never been so frightened in my life, and I now know the meaning of “my blood ran cold.” I can only pray, and I do, against the tape that once again binds my mouth.
“You’re husband was right, you know,” he says in that heavy, constricted voice as he searches through construction nails in a wooden box. The cross is still on the ground; he will have to lift me on it. I have no doubt he’s up to it, even with the difficult breathing.
“You shouldn’t have meddled so much,” he says. “You had that nice little life going for you, everything a woman could want in the world, and you blew it. That wasn’t smart.”
He sits back on his haunches and looks at me. “I even told you. I told you to stay out of it, but you wouldn’t listen. Funny thing is, I almost liked you.”
He laughs, a low, evil sound. “Almost being the operative word. I couldn’t let you go and blow everything I had going. I waited a long time for that deal to come together with your husband, out there in the valley. Ever since Hillars and I first came out here to look for Justin Ryan, in fact—three months ago. You think I wanted to be in the Service the rest of my fucking life? You think I want to go putting my life on the line for the kinds of jerks that pass through the White House now? Shit, none of ’em are worth it.”
My jeans have been pulled up around me, since Jeffery removed them, and Mauro plucks absently at one leg of material. “All it took,” he says, “was one look at how people live here, and I was in. Bet you didn’t know that. You poked around and you found the Realtor, even the banker. You just never found the appraiser. Or me.”
He takes up a construction nail and a mallet and stands over me. My bowels constrict, and my heart races. I can already feel the huge nail puncturing my palms, and I don’t think I can take it. I will die before then.
Is this the way it was, Marti? Oh, God, Marti, help me.
Mauro seems to pause, thinking, then drops the nail and mallet, picking up a shovel. “Guess I’d better dig a deeper hole this time,” he says in a detached voice that is chilling. “Let’s see, now, you weigh maybe twenty pounds more than Marti, right? Tiny little thing, she was.”
He begins to dig in a hole he’s already begun.
“Good thing the ground is nice and soft from that rain. Gotta make sure, though, the cross is deep enough so it doesn’t fall over. Wouldn’t want to deprive the press of a great photo op in the morning.”
I grunt against the tape, making a sound.
“What’s that? You want to know how it all came down?”
He doesn’t stop shoveling, but taunts me as he works. “Well, you gotta blink, then, Abby. Once for yes, twice for no. Isn’t that what you did to poor old Harry in the bank that day? Made him nod? That was pretty cute. Oh, yeah, we heard it all on tape. Had his office bugged for weeks, but he didn’t give anything up till that day you were there. Come to think of it, he didn’t give anything up, anyway—it was you who said it all that day. In fact, if it hadn’t been for you going to Blimm and laying the whole thing out, Hillars never would have had any real facts about the land scam. He wouldn’t have started to put things together and get on my tail.”
He kicks my leg hard with his boot. “You’ve got to pay for that, Abby. Okay? But you want to know how it all came down first? I can do that for you, Abby. Go ahead, blink.”
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, except that it might buy me time. I blink.
“Good girl!” he says. “Just like old Harry. Well, now, see, the way it came down was, the president, he sent me and Hillars out here to help find the kid, just like we said. But he wanted something else, too—your husband’s head on a platter. See, his old pal Marti Bright didn’t just tell him about her kid being gone. She told him something else, too—that his trusted personal adviser, Jeffrey Northrup, was running a big-time real-estate scam out here. She told him she was about to blow the scam wide open—which, of course, wouldn’t be so good for Chase, given the upcoming election and his close ties to your husband. Understand?”
He pauses. “Blink, Abby.”
I blink.
“So anyway, Marti, she told him she’d hold off on the story till after the election, but only if Chase threw his resources behind her and helped her find her kid. Chase agreed, but he knew she’d tell all eventually and it wouldn’t look good for him. So like I said, he sent me and Hillars out here to find the kid. Plus, he told Hillars he wanted him to find out all he could about this deal of your husband’s, then run some damage control.”
He makes a sound of contempt. “Damn that Hillars, he’s a real stick-in-the-mud, a pain in the ass. But like I said, our noble president, now, he ain’t so innocent as he looks. Behind Hillars’s back he offers me, personally, a bonus if I can get rid of your husband—and Marti Bright—for good.”
He laughs that chilling sound. “You know, over the years I’ve known a lot of lying, cheating presidents, but Chase beats ’em all. He looks at you with that clear-eyed, boyish innocence, and you believe every
word he says. Well, the public does, anyway. Me, I’ve had it up to here with all of ’em.” He makes a gesture beneath his chin.
“So,” he says, the shovel making thudding sounds as he lifts dirt out of the hole, “I cut a deal with your husband. Half the profits, and I wouldn’t kill him. He could collect the cash from those developers, we’d split it, and we’d each disappear to someplace that doesn’t have extradition.”
He sighs and shakes his head.
“But there’s this one little problem—this lady who owns The Prayer House, the one who won’t sell. We need somebody to lean on her, and your husband comes up with an idea to shut her down and wipe her out. He knows this lawyer—Paul Ryan, you know? Justin Ryan’s father? Anyway, Jeffrey blackmails him into filing a heavy-duty lawsuit that would shut down The Prayer House for not being up to code. He threatens to tell Ryan’s kid he’s adopted if Ryan doesn’t do what he wants. Only thing is, the kid hears them talking about it and runs. At first it looks like we’ve lost our leverage. But that’s when I come up with the perfect plan.”
He butts me on the arm with the shovel. “It was a perfect plan—or should have been. I go looking for the kid and find him in Santa Cruz. I take him to this cabin and hold him there. Now, Mary Ryan, she thinks the kid’s been kidnapped by a stranger because I send a phony ransom note, and I say if they don’t keep the kidnapping quiet, I’ll send their kid’s head back in a bag. But Paul Ryan, he knows I’ve got Justin, and he’s willing to do anything to get him back. He files the lawsuit and starts to lean on the woman at The Prayer House in any way he can. Like I say, the perfect plan.”
Mauro bangs the shovel into the ground, hard.
“Except that Ryan is a wimp. After a while he says he’s done what we wanted, and he wants the kid back. We can’t give the kid back, of course, not till the valley deal’s been finalized. We figure Ryan would blab and ruin the whole thing once the kid was safe, right? Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Blink, Abby. Do it.”
I grit my teeth and do it.