by Jack Mars
Darwin King’s eyes were wide.
“If I were you,” Mr. Brown said to those big frightened deer eyes, “I think I’d just try to relax. I’m not going to say that it won’t hurt. It will. But look at the bright side.”
He glanced around at Darwin King’s dreary surroundings. The man, once so rich, so prominent, so high-flying, was living in a medieval dungeon.
“This will all be over soon.”
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
4:05 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time
Pine Valley
Wilmington, North Carolina
Charlotte woke with a start.
It was dark in her room, the darkest time of night. She had been dreaming, something horrible, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
She sat up in bed. Okay. Okay. It wasn’t that bad, the darkness. The door was open, and there was a light on in the hallway. She hadn’t slept with a light on since she was a little girl. Now she couldn’t sleep without one. She could barely sleep at all.
Everything was different now. Everything.
They had given her a physical exam that was more intrusive than being kidnapped. She didn’t like to think about that, and could mostly block it out of her memory.
They would ask her a million questions over and over, and then a new person would come in, and ask her the same questions again. Sometimes they did her the favor of phrasing the questions a little bit differently, just to keep things interesting. Or maybe it was to catch her lying. Who knew why they did what they did?
It went like this:
Yes, she had been attacked on the beach with Rob Haskins.
Yes, they were drunk at the time.
No, she had no idea who attacked them.
Yes, she had gone to an island where Darwin King lived. Yes, she had been taken there by airplane, against her will. Yes, they had drugged her during the trip. She couldn’t remember much of it.
Yes, that was a photo of Darwin.
Yes, a woman named Elaine was there. Yes, that was a photo of her.
Yes, Darwin and Elaine held her captive on the island, inside an old mansion. No, she was not free to leave. They kept her locked in a dark room most of the time.
Yes, there were men with guns there. Wherever she went in the house, at least one man with a gun escorted her. Most of the men were foreigners and did not seem to speak English.
No, no one raped her. No, no one had sex with her.
No, she had never had sex before, not with Rob Haskins, not with Darwin King, not with anyone.
Yes, she had seen several people get killed. She wasn’t sure how many.
Yes, the FBI agent named Luke Stone had rescued her. Yes, he had killed several people. Yes, that was a photo of him.
No, her mother’s boyfriend Jeff had never touched her. Jeff had lived with them for a long time, but had barely even interacted with her, and showed no interest in her at all.
Yes, she knew that Jeff was dead. Yes, she knew he had killed himself. No, she had no idea why.
Yes, she knew her grandfather was dead.
That last one always hit her so hard, it ended whatever interview they were having. She couldn’t answer that one without breaking down. Then she couldn’t answer another one. She didn’t want to answer another question, ever again.
She sat now, staring straight ahead in the dim light. Her bedroom was here, with all the things she used to like. There was a Britney Spears poster on one wall. Oops, I did it again. There was a David Beckham poster opposite Britney. He was wearing small blue shorts and no shirt and was kicking a soccer ball. She used to think how the two of them would make a nice couple.
There was a brown teddy bear on the bed with her that she’d had for a long time. Her father had given it to her to remember him by. She was careful with that teddy bear, and always kept it safe and perfect.
Her cheerleading uniform was still hanging on the closet door, right where she’d left it. Her computer was on her small desk in the corner. She had Hoggard High School pens and pencils. She had a Hello Kitty notepad. The desk was neat, everything lined up, the way she liked to keep things.
Jeff is dead. Pop Pop is dead.
Her bedroom was meaningless. It might as well be empty.
All those other people were dead, too. Elaine, who was so cruel to her for no reason, was dead. The pilot who had flown the plane was dead. Those bodyguards who came upstairs when the shooting started were dead. Soldiers in the jungle were dead. Other men who she had heard mentioned were dead.
All of these people were dead because of her. She had snuck out of the house, like she did sometimes, and all of the people had died.
She couldn’t have known that was going to happen.
She was seeing a therapist every day. It was a woman therapist, who was older, and who wore glasses. Her name was Dr. Patricia Kelly. Charlotte would go into her office. Her mom would sit out in the waiting room
“You can call me Pat if you want,” the therapist would say.
Charlotte didn’t want to call her anything. She was nice, but she asked strange questions, too.
Was Charlotte feeling guilty? She didn’t know.
Did she want to go back to school? No, she never, ever wanted to go back to school.
Why didn’t she want to go to school? Because the kids there would think differently about her. They would think something bad happened to her. They would think it was her fault. They would believe all kinds of rumors.
Did it matter what the other kids thought? What kind of question was this? Of course it mattered. Did it matter if the world stopped turning?
Did she feel like she might be happier right now if she stayed in a hospital for a little while? Not really a hospital, just a place where people could watch her carefully and make sure she was safe and okay. No. She didn’t feel like she would be happier in a loony bin, but thanks for offering.
Did she ever think about Darwin King? No. She never thought about him. She knew he was being held in prison, but that was it. She wasn’t interested in him, and didn’t care what happened to him at all.
That part was a lie. She just said it because she thought that was what the woman wanted to hear. The truth was Charlotte thought about Darwin all the time. It was strange, but she almost hoped that he would get free somehow, that the judge would find him not guilty, or that he would escape.
She pictured him in her mind. It was almost like he was in the room with her.
He was old, but he was also handsome in his way. He had probably been very handsome when he was younger. He was tall. He had blue eyes that she would never forget.
He had stolen her, but he had not hurt her. He could have, but he didn’t. He didn’t let anyone else hurt her, either.
He lived in a beautiful house, in a beautiful place.
He had chosen her to be there.
He had told her that she was beautiful.
He had told her that he loved her.
It confused her, the feelings she had about this. Yesterday, or maybe the day before (she was losing track of time), she had looked up a question on the internet.
Can you fall in love with the man who kidnapped you?
It turned out there was a condition some people got when they were kidnapped. They came to identify with the kidnappers. For some vulnerable people, young people, it could happen right away. They could come to believe that the kidnappers were in the right, and it was the rest of the world who was wrong. The condition even had a name.
“Stockholm syndrome,” she said out loud.
It was okay, though. The feeling often went away over time, all by itself. She didn’t have to do anything except recognize what it was. She could do that. She was a survivor, after all. She had survived her parents’ divorce, and she had survived her father’s death. Darwin King would rot in jail, and she would survive this, all of it.
“Did you say something, hon?” a voice said. “I thought I heard you call out.”
Charlotte looked up.
>
Her mom was in the doorway. Her body blocked out some of the light from the hall. Her hair was tousled. Her eyes were puffy, as though she had been crying. Her shadow reached deep into the bedroom. Her mom wasn’t sleeping these days, either.
God, she had missed her mother so much.
She had a flashback to when she was young, a little girl. She had loved her mother so much, so intensely, that it was impossible to describe the feeling. That feeling had faded over time, but she remembered it now.
As Charlotte watched, her mom came across the room and climbed onto the bed with her. Her mom hugged her, and they lay down together. Within a minute, she felt her mom’s body shaking as she cried silently, her face in the pillow.
Charlotte hugged her mom even tighter. She felt a lump well up in her throat, but she would not cry. She had to be strong for both of them, she and her mother, and she would be strong.
“I said it’s good to be home, Mom.”
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
6:05 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time
Fairfax County, Virginia
Suburbs of Washington, DC
“What is this nightmare world?”
Luke and Megan Rose Abbott, the missing girl from his childhood, were sitting on the floor, facing each other. They were in a bright white room. The room was stark, nothing in it. The floor was carpeted in white. The walls were white. There were no doors or windows. The light was coming from somewhere, but it was impossible to say where. She watched him closely, but didn’t answer.
“What is this nightmare world?” he said again.
Somewhere nearby, a siren began to howl.
Megan’s eyes were blue, pale blue, bluer than any eyes had ever been since the dawn of time. They were also sad eyes.
“You’re a good man,” she said. “And a brave man. That’s enough. It has to be.”
“Okay,” he almost said, but before he could speak, she began to evaporate in front of his eyes.
“I’m going to go now,” she said. Soon, she was like a soft mist on a lake at dawn. Then she was gone.
The siren grew louder and louder.
Luke snapped awake.
The baby was crying.
Next to him on the table, in the dark of their bedroom, was a digital clock. He glanced at its red numbers.
6:07.
He took a deep breath. He couldn’t fall asleep last night. There was too much on his mind. He had dozed off for an hour, maybe an hour and a half. It hadn’t done him much good. If anything, it had made things worse. The clocks had changed last weekend. Spring ahead, so he’d lost another hour. That hadn’t helped any, either. Luke had been stumbling around, half-awake, like a zombie, since he came back from Honduras.
A tuft of Rebecca’s hair poked out from under the blankets. Soft blue light filtered into the room from a night light in the bathroom. Her voice came from under the covers, thick with sleep.
“Can you get Gunner? I got him last time.”
That was true. Truer words were never spoken. She got him last time.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
It was fair. It was normal. Becca was under the impression that Luke had gotten hurt when he and Ed wrestled a gun away and subdued a suspect while they were in Florida. That could happen to a normal husband who happened to work for the FBI. If she suspected anything more, she wasn’t saying.
Luke stood and padded slowly across to the crib. Gunner was down in there, wide awake, his eyes the size of silver dollars, his mouth turned down, his face a grimace of anguish, existential horror, hunger, every bad thing. Terrible. Just terrible.
Luke picked him up, mostly using his right arm. His left shoulder was healing, coming along nicely according to the doctor, but Luke still wasn’t getting much use out of it. The range of motion was not good. Lifting heavy stuff was out.
But he could use the hand. That part still worked. He ran that free hand over the kid’s bottom. Nothing there. The diaper didn’t need to be changed. Thank the Lord for small miracles.
“Bottles are in the fridge,” Becca said. “Use the oldest one first.”
Luke nodded. “Yep.” She had it all organized, under control. The bottles were labeled with white surgical tape. Date and time. Use the oldest ones first. There was a system in place, it was simple and easy to follow. Even a butterfingers like Luke Stone could handle it.
He carried Gunner in one arm out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. He moved slowly, walking gingerly on his wrapped ankle. It was healing too, but it was taking its sweet time.
The kid knew what was coming and had already let up on the crying, if only just a little. Luke opened the fridge. Top shelf, there was a bottle right there, the first soldier in line. 4/12. 3:45 p.m. Getting old. The one behind it was 7:15 p.m.
Luke glanced across the open counter and into the darkened dining room. The table was cluttered with plates and bowls left over from dinner. There was an empty bottle of beer where Luke had been sitting. You couldn’t control everything. Sometimes even the best systems failed.
He went into the living room, bottle in hand, baby on his arm. He was ready for action. He plopped down on the couch.
He gave Gunner the bottle. The boy made a new face. He did something you’d almost say was shaking his head.
“Cold, huh? I know, but it’s the best you’re going to get right now.”
Gunner realized that. He drank.
Luke glanced around at the house. They could have a great life here. It was a beautiful home, modern, with floor to ceiling windows, like something out of an architectural magazine. It was like a glass box.
God, it was nice. Between this place, and the cabin out on the Eastern Shore, could you really ask for a nicer lifestyle?
He could never afford this place on his salary. He knew that. Becca’s family money had bought the house. In fact, her parents had simply given it to them. It said a lot, a lot he’d prefer not to think about.
What was he doing? What was he exposing himself to, and why?
He thought of Buzz MacDonald again. The man was dead. A seventy-two-year-old man had been murdered, possibly because Luke had made a bad decision. If Ed had been with them on that island, maybe Bowles…
“You can’t know that,” Don Morris had told him. “You can’t know how it would have played out. You thought Ed was on a hair trigger, you thought he was putting his and your lives at risk. Maybe you were right, did you ever think of that? Maybe if Newsam was with you, you’re both dead now. You got the girl out, the other girls got rescued, and Darwin King is where he belongs. That’s what matters.”
Don must have seen that Luke was not convinced.
“Here’s the other thing. Buzz Mac died doing what he wanted to do. They had to kick him out of special operations because he was too old, and he didn’t want to leave. The guy lived on the edge. That’s where he wanted to be, riding that edge with guys like you, guys less than half his age. As much as it hurts, this was long overdue. He should have died thirty years ago.”
Okay. Okay. Maybe Luke could buy that.
Maybe.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He picked up the TV remote control, hit the green button. The big flat-screen TV came on across the room, the sound on low. It was the news. Wasn’t it always?
Words across the bottom of the screen, in capital letters:
DARWIN KING DIES IN JAIL.
“Now for breaking news,” the reporter said. He was a square-jawed, blond-haired man of indeterminate age. “Billionaire Darwin King was found dead of an apparent suicide in his cell at a federal holding facility in Atlanta this morning. He was discovered by a guard making a routine welfare check at approximately four a.m. local time. Initial reports indicate that he used a bed sheet to hang himself. King was under arrest in connection with multiple sex trafficking cases, and the murder of a lobbyist in Washington, DC. His death raises more questions than it answers, and even at this early hour, some lawmakers are calling for a congressional
inquiry.”
Luke shut it off. It was too much.
The world was too much. Maybe death was a punishment. Or maybe the real punishment would have been a long prison sentence. It was possible that Darwin King had walked off scot-free again. Luke couldn’t decide. He was too tired.
He glanced at Gunner. The boy had annihilated the bottle of milk and was already sound asleep. That was a good way to be.
Luke lay back on the couch, the boy on his chest. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.
The phone rang.
He looked at it. It was his cell phone. He had left it in here, on the coffee table, so it wouldn’t disturb anyone’s sleep. The ringer was off, but the vibrate mode was on. It made an annoying buzzing sound as it skittered slowly across the table.
He picked it up. Why not?
“Hello?”
“Luke? It’s Ed Newsam. Did I wake you?”
Luke shook his head and answered honestly. “No.
“Good, man. That’s good.”
Things were still tense. They had promised each other they would work out the differences between them, but it hadn’t happened yet. It was going to be a process. Luke didn’t know when it would happen. He was on medical leave, recovering from his injuries. Meanwhile Don had given Ed some personal time off, to get his head together, and because…
The baby was coming.
“Ed…” Luke said.
Ed’s voice was shaking. “Yeah, man. I wanted to tell you. It just happened thirty minutes ago. I was going to wait until a decent hour, but…”
Luke was silent for a long beat. He didn’t say a word.
“It’s a girl. A healthy baby girl.”
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
7:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool
The National Mall
Washington, DC
“I come here a lot,” Bill Ryan said.
Don Morris walked on the gigantic mall between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument with his former classmate and longtime… friend? Don supposed he would call Bill a friend.