Aftershocks

by Damschroder, Natalie J.

  Zoe didn’t know how he expected to fix Freddie. The woman was clearly off her nut, irreversibly damaged mentally. A whisper reminded her of the things she’d read about the totems, and their powers. She’d suspected Pat believed those stories, and this was evidence. It increased the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  But she had more immediate concerns first. She sighed and pulled her phone from her pocket, setting it in his hand. “It’s off,” she told him. “I’m not trying to record you or anything. And it can’t transmit my location while it’s off,” she added, hoping that wasn’t overkill. This was the phone Henricksen gave her, and if she’d read him right, it could be tracked without being on.

  The phone chimed as Pat thumbed the power button. They all waited in silence as it booted up. He pressed a few buttons, scrolled around, and pierced her with a sharp but smug gaze. “This isn’t your phone.”

  “But—”

  “Where’s the picture of our friend Mr. Carling?”

  Her heart sank. “I deleted it.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think so.” He stood, dropped the phone onto the floor, and ground it under his boot heel. Plastic and tiny pieces of the innards skittered across the floor, along with most of Zoe’s hopes. It was possible they’d tracked her location already and the FBI could be entering any minute.

  Yeah, right. Things didn’t work that way in real life.

  “I wondered why they didn’t check me for weapons,” she said, struggling to sound as strong as she had a moment ago. “Now I know you just wanted to be dramatic.”

  He laughed. “Okay, you got me. A little.” He held up his finger and thumb to indicate how little. “But I knew you wouldn’t have weapons. That’s not you.”

  She ground her teeth, wishing she could whip out a forty-four and prove he didn’t know her at all. Not that she knew how to use a forty-four. Or could have taken a weapon of any kind on the plane. She stared at the pieces of the phone, shattered like her stupid, last-ditch plan. Now what?

  “We won’t be here long enough for the FBI to arrive.” Pat roamed the room, almost pacing but with a more leisurely intent. He paused by an old fireplace with a stone mantle, and Zoe realized the totems were on display there. They looked smaller for some reason, but gleamed among the room’s dinginess, and she was surprised she hadn’t spotted them. Fear trickled through her and she allowed a piece of her brain to pray and beg for the FBI to show up now. She really didn’t want to be part of whatever Pat thought they could do.

  But then she remembered the key. He couldn’t do anything without the key. If he didn’t already have it. He could have found it since he got out of prison. Or even had someone find it for him while he was still there. She sat, watching, unable to swallow or even breathe very well through the lump of anxiety in her throat, as he stroked a finger over the shapes traced in the gold.

  “You recall Jordan Neely.” He wrapped his hand around the center of the totem and squeezed. Zoe’s eyes stung and she blinked hard. Is that how he’d killed him? How he’d kill her?

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “You recall the circumstances of his failure?”

  Heat flooded her face and burned away the tears. She found herself on her feet, hands clenched. “He didn’t fail. He found the totems. And you killed him anyway.”

  Pat shrugged a shoulder, but his mouth twitched in a smile that made Zoe want to throw up. “You’re quite correct. But he didn’t obtain the key.”

  “You knew where the key was. You were on your way to get it when—” She broke off.

  “Yes, when you escaped with my treasure.” He let his hand drop and swung to look at her. “You’re in a similar situation. Jordie needed to obtain the totems to save his brother. He did that, but since he didn’t get the key, he forfeited his life. I knew where the key was then, and I know where it is now. You’ll obtain it for me, bring it back to me.”

  Oh, God. “Or?”

  “Or.” He smiled that smug twitch of a smile again and motioned to a room behind Zoe, nodding for her to look around the blanket hanging in the doorway. Slowly, and without an ounce of needing to know what was on the other side, she crossed the creaky wood floor. Slipped her hand between the crooked doorjamb and the ragged cotton blanket that smelled of cigarettes. Nudged the cloth aside just enough to see past it. And retched.

  Carling was there. She hadn’t expected it. Pat couldn’t have flown with him, so she’d assumed someone else was driving him cross-country. He looked much the same as he had in the photo, with dried blood on his forehead partially obscuring a deep purple, raised bruise. His hands were tied with narrow rope, then attached to one of the bed’s feet, as were his legs. He had enough slack to change position a little, but not much. He was awake, his eyes dull and hopeless until they landed on her. Then they lit with hatred that sparked an answering guilt in Zoe.

  But it wasn’t Carling that made her back out of the room, turn, and gack on PB’s shoes. On the king-sized bed next to Carling, curled in a ball against his back but tethered by one ankle, was a girl about twelve years old.

  Olivia. She could barely hear the noises of disgust around her over her great, gasping heaves. She hadn’t eaten anything for hours so not much came up, but that didn’t stop her stomach from trying to turn itself inside out. It cramped hard, and her head swam, her pulse slamming in her ears. All she could see was Carling, beaten, bloody, and the delicate, vulnerable body huddled next to him.

  It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her.

  The words kept echoing, louder and louder over her desperation until she realized it wasn’t denial, but assertion. The girl’s hair might not be dark enough. She was curled up, but seemed too small, too short, to be Olivia. She braced her hands on her knees and forced herself to concentrate on the brief tableau seared into her brain. It had been too quick. She couldn’t be sure. And did it matter? She couldn’t let Pat harm any young girl, whether or not she was Kell’s sister.

  PB pulled her to her feet to face Pat. She wanted to cover his mouth with her hands, drag him outside so that poor girl couldn’t hear what he said, but she couldn’t move. Her limbs were limp and weak, and she could barely speak past the burn in her throat.

  “How?” she rasped.

  “Efficient travel. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me,” he said softly. “Zoe Ardmore.”

  He said her name deliberately, reminding her of the resources he must have at his disposal. She’d changed her name. Moved. Lived a decade and more since she put him in jail. And still he’d found her. He’d used her, and when his objective was reached, he’d orchestrated this scene in a very short time. He was more powerful than she’d ever imagined.

  But she’d put him away. She straightened and slowly swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, watching him. He was different now, no matter how the same everything had seemed when they pulled that blindfold off her. He was harder, smarter, and had probably spent all these years planning what to do. He certainly had control now. And yet, at barely thirteen she had escaped on her own, gotten to the authorities, and had him sent to prison. She could damn well do it again.

  “What do you want?”

  “You will retrieve the key and return it to me within seventy-two hours. If you don’t, Mr. Carling will be dead and we’ll rehearse on your replacement.” He swept a hand toward the other room. “Then we’ll obtain another. Should it be necessary, we’ll repeat the process many times until you fulfill your obligation to us. The final ritual, of course, will be performed with someone quite close to you. I don’t think I need to say her name, do I?”

  Panic filled Zoe. “Where is she?”

  He smiled. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not telling you. Do we have an agreement?”

  No way. She couldn’t agree to any of this. She wouldn’t have to. The FBI had to find her. They’d rescue these people. Even if they left this place, the FBI had to be able to track them. She’d tell them what she’d seen. It would be enough for them to act
on. They weren’t hampered anymore.

  But Pat wasn’t done.

  “I’m sure you think the corrupt government agencies can intervene for you. I assure you, they won’t find us.” He lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps they’ll get lucky and rescue the girl. I won’t be around, and it won’t stop me from fulfilling my promise.” He stepped closer, and PB pulled Zoe higher, onto her toes, so she was face to face with the man she hated more than anyone or anything in the world. “Do you understand me, Zoe?”

  She almost spat in his face. “How do I know you won’t just kill them both as soon as I’m gone?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be logical, would it? You have my word the girl will be safe until your time is up.”

  “And Will?”

  “He won’t be harmed until necessary.”

  Zoe didn’t know why she believed him, but he was smart. And he was right. If she was going to believe he’d follow through on the killing and torturing, she had to believe he’d follow through on his promise to keep them unharmed.

  But three days wasn’t nearly enough time. “I don’t know where the key is.”

  “I do.” This time his smile was pure, malicious glee. “It’s with Grant Neely.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kell watched his mother prepare the tea, following the rituals she’d learned in London, knowing the familiar movements steadied her. But why did she need steadying in the first place? She couldn’t know about Pat and Freddie and what he’d been doing with Zoe. Every individual step of the process chafed at him. Zoe was in danger, possibly already in the lion’s den, maybe already hurt or confined, and he was having tea.

  “Mom, why is Olivia in Europe? During school? Without you and Dad?”

  She carefully dropped a cube of sugar into each cup and stirred with a tiny spoon so delicately that it didn’t clink once. “Your father hasn’t officially declared, but he intends to run for state senate,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know. What—”

  She shot him a warning look that was much more normal than her fragile demeanor.

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Today photos surfaced that showed him in a compromising position with a girl who is certainly not of age.”

  Kell shot to his feet. “What? No way.” He shook his head and crossed the Aubusson rug in one stride. She didn’t move, so he dropped to a knee and took her hand. “He wouldn’t. You know you wouldn’t.”

  She smiled wanly. “I can believe that deep in my soul, Kellen, and it wouldn’t make it less true.”

  His heart thumped, paused, thumped. “No. What happened? Where did these photos surface?”

  “Everywhere.” She withdrew her hand. “All the media has them, and they were e-mailed to us and every member of your father’s firm.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “Where’s Dad?”

  “At the office. He’s meeting with the other partners and a crisis manager to discuss how to handle this.” She handed him a cup and saucer, and he got the message. He was to move back to his seat on the sofa.

  He took the tea and obeyed. “You sent Olivia to Europe so she wouldn’t see or hear about this.”

  She nodded. “And they’re on a random itinerary to keep the media from finding her. You know how relentless the sharks are.” She drew a deep breath that shook halfway through. “A side benefit is the additional safety. Unless you coming home means that’s no longer a concern.”

  Kell closed his eyes for a second, sick with relief. Olivia was out of Thomashunis’s reach. The rest of this was meaningless crap in comparison, but he knew it didn’t feel that way to his mother. He should be out of here now, working on a plan with Grant, finding out what the FBI was doing. But he couldn’t just abandon his mother.

  “No. Not yet. I’m glad she’s safer.” She didn’t need to know what was happening with Zoe, not with this on her shoulders now. “I want to see the pictures,” he told her.

  She sipped her tea. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “They’re not real,” he argued. “We’ll hire an expert to prove it.”

  “The firm has someone. They’re working on it.” But she didn’t sound hopeful, and he didn’t understand why.

  “Where are they?”

  She shrugged and patted her lips with a napkin, so Kell got up and went looking for Genovese. He found her in her office, scanning receipts into her computer.

  “Where are they?”

  She nodded once at a manila envelope in her in-tray. He snatched it up and dug inside. There were only three photos. Whoever had sent them had printed them eight by ten. The first was poor quality, grainy and pixelated at that size. A guy was kissing the neck of a girl who looked like she was still a teenager, her head thrown back, hand curled around the man’s head. All he could see of the man was a dark suit. His hands and face weren’t visible.

  “Bullshit,” he muttered, tossing the picture onto the desk. Genovese sat watching him, her hands motionless on her lap. She didn’t react to his grumble.

  The second photo showed the same girl, wearing the same maroon-colored dress or top, standing in front of the window the photographer had shot through. They hadn’t zoomed as much, so the photo was marginally clearer. This time, the man’s face was visible, though in shadow, his hands wrapped around the girl’s waist. He did look like Kell’s father, but it wasn’t definitive.

  The last one was the punch to the gut. It was taken outside a bed and breakfast, next to a sleek car of the same make and model as his father’s. The girl now wore a black sweater or something over her dress. She was arching her body toward the man, who was bending as if about to kiss her. This one was clear enough to see his face, and it was definitely Robert Stone.

  “This is ridiculous,” he told Genovese. “You can’t identify anyone in that picture.” He jabbed a finger at the one he’d tossed. “This one isn’t clear.” He dropped that one, too. “And this is meaningless. He could be about to kiss her cheek. It’s not even evidence of an affair, never mind proof.”

  Genovese nodded but didn’t speak. Kell peered more closely at the details in the photo. “Can you pull up this bed and breakfast? The Gloria Rose.” He leaned over her shoulder to see what came up. She clicked on the business website, and the screen filled with a photo of the front of the white building.

  “It’s the same.” He held up the photo next to the monitor. The angle, distance, and frame were exact.

  “Well, it makes sense that the photographer—”

  “No. It’s exactly the same. Pixel for pixel.” He pointed to a rosebush next to the sign. “Four blossoms.” He pointed to the photo in his hand. “Four blossoms. Same size. The lighting is the same. Look at the patch on the roof.” Sunlight filtering through a tree left the exact same pattern in both shots. “What’s the only thing that’s different on here?”

  She shifted closer and looked back and forth. “There’s no driveway in the website shot.”

  “Exactly.” He flicked the edge of the photo. “This was faked.”

  She swiveled to face him. “The part with your father and the girl appears to be one image, though.”

  Kell shook his head. “So what? She could be anyone. It could have been taken anywhere, and ‘anywhere’ is obviously not as incriminating as Gloria Rose B&B. Can you please print that?”

  She did, with a few taps on the keyboard. He grabbed the page off the printer and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Gen.”

  “Of course.”

  His mother was sitting just as he’d left her, the barely touched tea cradled in her hand as she stared out the window into the empty side yard.

  “Mom.” He showed her the two photos and explained what they revealed. To his surprise, she waved them off.

  “Oh, we know all that already. The inn has no record of your father staying there, and the girl is the daughter of a paralegal who used to work for him. She brought her to work when she was a baby for a couple of years. They were in town a few weeks ago and had lunch
with Robert. It’s all ridiculous.”

  He let his arms drop. “Then why are you—”

  When she looked up, the sorrow drowning her eyes laid him low. “Oh. Oh, Mom.” These photos weren’t the issue. They were just the catalyst for something worse.

  She nodded and sniffed. “I never wanted you to know.”

  He sat on the edge of the sofa and laid the photos next to him, face down. “When? You make it sound like it wasn’t recent.”

  “It was two years ago.” She looked at her left hand and adjusted her wedding band with her thumb. “Long over. We had an in-house separation while we went through counseling. It was actually good for us, in the long run. But you’ll never convince anyone else of that, and this fraudulent scandal will send everyone digging for more.”

  Kell wanted to tell his mother not to care what anyone thought, but he knew it was pointless. “Who was she?”

  She shrugged. “An interior designer who bid on the office reconstruction.”

  Well, at least the real one wasn’t underage.

  “She didn’t even get the job. It was, apparently, ‘a chemistry thing.’ ” She seemed to remember her tea and drank before setting it back on the table. “We’ll get through it, of course. I just didn’t want your sister suffering through this part. She’s continuing her studies as she travels, and as long as she keeps up her work, the school approved a two-week educational absence. By the time she returns, the news cycle will have moved on, and we’ll be prepared to help her handle any fallout at school.”

  Olivia would probably be more upset that they’d tried to shelter her, sent her away so they didn’t have to deal with her, more than she’d care about what her classmates said. A month ago, he would have argued with his parents about that. Now, though, it made everything simpler here. He doubted Pat’s resources would allow him to track Olivia on a random itinerary in other countries.

  He reached for his mother’s hand, expecting it to feel frail in his, but she gripped with familiar strength. “I’m sorry, Mom. Sorry you’re going through all this. Sorry Dad’s an ass.”