Out of Reach: A Novel

by Patricia Lewin

  Damn them all. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  As he opened Cody’s door, the boy said, “It’s about friggin’ time. I—” He broke off midsentence when he caught sight of Ryan’s face. “Hey, man, that looks really bad.”

  Ryan actually smiled, relieved that at least someone was willing to acknowledge him, even if it was to tell him he looked like a punching bag. “I’ve had worse.” A lie, but one meant to ease the other boy’s concern.

  “Really?” Cody seemed awed.

  Ryan half laughed and handed over the tray. Then he went to the mirror to take a look for himself. The entire left side of his face was swollen and mottled in shades of red and purple. His cheek, ripped from cheekbone to lip, had been treated with some kind of yellow ointment and pulled together with butterfly bandages. And both eyes, black, made him appear like a character from a horror movie.

  “It does look pretty bad, doesn’t it,” he said, stating the obvious.

  “Yeah.” Cody raised his eyebrows and nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions as he set the tray on the table in front of the cold fireplace and sat on the floor. “Roy hits me sometimes.”

  Ryan eased into one of the chairs beside the table. “Who’s Roy?”

  “My mom’s boyfriend.” Cody dug into the food, shoveling it into his mouth, his manners a far cry from the days he refused to eat. “Her current one, anyway.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  Cody shrugged. “Don’t know. He took off a long time ago, but Mom says we’re better off without him.” He seemed to think about that for a minute, then added, “I don’t know, though, we haven’t got much money and she’s always . . .”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Cody shook his head. “Don’t you guys ever have normal food here?”

  Ryan looked at the thick beef stew and hearty bread. It was one of his favorite meals, and he’d brought Cody a double serving since he’d missed breakfast. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know.” Cody eyed him like he was from another planet. “Like hamburgers. Hot dogs. French fries.” He rolled his eyes. “Man, I’d kill for a Whopper about now.”

  Ryan grinned, amused. In a way, he was from a different world than Cody. Though one of the maids had been a fast-food junkie and snuck it in occasionally. She let Ryan try some once, but he hadn’t been impressed. The meat was thin and rubbery, the bread soggy, the potatoes laden with grease. He just didn’t get it.

  “The General’s not big into Whoppers,” he said.

  “Well, it just proves your General’s an idiot.”

  Ryan laughed, then stopped abruptly because the action hurt his chest. He’d never heard anyone speak badly of the General. No one Ryan knew had the nerve. “He’s not my General.” Not after last night, when he’d let Trader nearly kill him. “How come your mom lets Roy hit you?”

  Cody glared at him. “Hey, she does the best she can.”

  Ryan lifted a hand, winced, and dropped it again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  Cody gulped down another spoonful of stew. “Well, she tried to stop him once, but then he started in on her. So, I figured it was better to keep him hitting me instead of taking it out on her. Since, you know, women aren’t so strong.”

  Ryan was amazed. It would never occur to him to take a beating for someone else. In his world, survival meant keeping a low profile and out of the way of flying fists. “How did you do that, get him to hit you instead of her?”

  Cody chuckled. “Roy’s not too bright. I just keep egging him on until he can’t stand it no more. He forgets all about Mom and starts in on me.” He tore off a piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth. “Of course, he’s got to catch me first. And I’m real fast.”

  Ryan grinned, thinking he might enjoy watching Cody get the better of this Roy. “So, if he’s so bad, why doesn’t your mom just kick him out?”

  Cody shrugged. “It’s not that easy.”

  Ryan thought about their situation: the guards, the dogs, Trader. “Yeah, I guess it never is.”

  “How about you? What’s your mom like?”

  “I don’t remember her.” Ryan settled back in his chair, feeling tired again. He needed to rest, time for his body to heal. Only he expected he didn’t have much time left.

  “She dead?”

  “I don’t know. They took me from her when I was younger than you.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since?”

  “Nope.”

  “Man, that sucks.”

  Ryan hadn’t thought about his mother for years, but Cody was right. It sucked. “I remember she was real pretty, with long black hair. And she used to sing to me.”

  Hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

  The words floated in his mind. A snatch of memory. Too elusive, too distant, to catch.

  “My mom never sang to me,” Cody said. “But she used to take me to the movies every Saturday. That was”—he rolled his eyes—“before Roy moved in.”

  “You miss her, don’t you, Cody?”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m just used to her and all. And well, I want to see her again. I don’t want to forget her, like—” He suddenly looked a bit embarrassed.

  “Like me?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Look, Cody.” Ryan eased forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “If I can find a way to get us out of here, are you willing to make a run for it?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Not now. I need a day, maybe two.” Ryan wasn’t even sure how he was going to get them out the door, much less past the dogs and the guards. Plus, he had no idea where they were or where they’d go once they got away from the mansion. “If we’re caught, it will be bad.” Then there would be Trader to deal with, and he wouldn’t just hurt Ryan this time. And he had no idea what would happen to Cody. “Really bad.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to grow up never seeing my mom again.”

  “Okay. Be ready, then, and I’ll come for you when I can.”

  As he left Cody to finish his meal, Ryan realized some people would say he was crazy. He no longer cared. All he knew for sure was that he was sixteen and he wasn’t ready to die.

  And he wanted to see his mom again, too.

  XIV

  SUNDAYS WITH CLAIRE were always an ordeal.

  From one week to the next, Erin never knew what to expect. Often Claire was sullen and irritable, or simply refused to see or speak to them. That was hard enough on Erin and Marta, but devastating to poor Janie, leaving her confused and hurt.

  Even on her good days, though, Claire was unpredictable. She might be wildly silly and childlike, playing games with Janie as if they were peers instead of mother and child. Or Claire might remain quiet and thoughtful, gracing them with her presence and a few words, but hardly noticing her daughter.

  Either way, Janie was usually fussy and demanding afterward, and Erin came to dread their weekly excursions. According to Claire’s doctors, however, she needed regular contact with her family. They said it grounded her and aided the healing process.

  Their concerns were validated when Erin had to cancel one of their visits in early spring. She’d been called to a last-minute meeting at Langley and didn’t want Janie and Marta going alone to see Claire. As it turned out, that decision had been a mistake.

  Claire called the house and, getting Janie on the phone, accused the little girl of not loving her. By the time Marta claimed the receiver from the sobbing child, the damage had been done. But Claire wasn’t finished; she continued to berate the older woman, alternately sobbing and ranting, accusing Erin of heartlessness and desertion.

  Erin had been furious when she’d first heard about the call. Janie had been through enough. She didn’t need her mother berating her about things she couldn’t help. Then, after a long talk with Claire’s doctor, who’d put her under watch in case she hurt herself, Erin had calmed down.

  Claire, after all, wasn’t well and hadn�
�t been for a very long time. Her official diagnosis was Post-traumatic-Stress Disorder, or PTSD, stemming from severe childhood trauma. But Erin suspected not even the doctors really knew how those years of abuse had damaged her.

  Still, Erin worried about Janie and how her mother’s illness affected her. How did you explain to a seven-year-old that her mother behaved irrationally because she’d been kidnapped as a child, because years and her innocence had been torn from her life? It was a horror story no child should have to hear, much less live with, and Erin couldn’t inflict it on Janie.

  So all her niece knew was that Claire was very ill and lived at the hospital, where the doctors were trying to make her better. And after the phone incident with Claire, nothing got in the way of their weekly visits. Not even the Company.

  Today, Erin felt more on edge than usual. Her encounter with Alec Donovan had left her unsettled. After leaving him at the diner, she’d gone home, showered and changed, then headed down to the police station to work with the sketch artist. It had taken a couple of hours, but he’d come up with a remarkable likeness of the man she’d seen. Now, if the authorities could just locate him, they might also find Cody Sanders.

  She told herself she’d done her part. The rest was up to the FBI and police. Still, Donovan’s request buzzed in her head, whispering that there was one more thing she could do to help. Except the last thing she wanted was to ask Claire about the fateful day nineteen years ago when she’d disappeared from a Miami playground.

  Claire had never spoken about her ordeal, about the kidnapping or her missing years. Not to Erin or to their mother. Not to numerous psychiatrists or mental health professionals. Not to anyone. Whatever she’d endured during those years was locked in her damaged mind. But the physical exam after she’d finally been brought home told them enough about what she’d been through, about the monster who’d taken her, about the abuse, physical and emotional, that she’d suffered. Fortunately, according to her current set of doctors, Claire didn’t remember what had happened to her. She’d blocked out the memories because they were too painful.

  Erin had never quite believed that explanation. In her opinion, everything Claire had done since the police had found her indicated she did remember, but couldn’t put words to the memories.

  Despite that, Claire had been steadily improving over the last year. After their mother’s death, Erin had moved her sister to Gentle Oaks, a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, about an hour south of Arlington. It had taken the bulk of their mother’s life insurance to keep Claire there, but the facility was world-class and well regarded.

  So Erin didn’t want to risk whatever progress Claire had made by picking at a subject that could tumble her sister back into the abyss. She had Janie to consider, and no matter how Erin felt about her sister’s ability to mother her daughter, Janie loved Claire.

  When they arrived at Gentle Oaks, they found Claire outside, sitting under a tree. She seemed lost in her own world, wearing a loose cotton dress of soft blue that emphasized her pale skin and hair. From a distance she looked young and beautiful. And fragile.

  “Mommy!”

  Claire turned, a smile brightening her face, and spread her arms. Janie rushed into them, nearly knocking Claire to the ground as she pulled the child onto her lap.

  “Did you miss me?” Claire asked as she buried her face in curls so like her own.

  Janie giggled and squeezed her mother’s neck. “This much.”

  “Is that all?”

  Janie tightened her hold, scrunching her face in an expression of effort. “And this much, too.”

  “Ooh, that’s a lot.” Claire laughed, a high, tinkling sound.

  “Did you miss me, too?” Janie asked.

  Claire untwined the small arms from her neck and leaned back to look into Janie’s face. “Of course.”

  “I made a picture. Want to see?”

  “I do, but first help me up.”

  Janie climbed off her mother’s lap and pulled her hand as if helping her to her feet. By then, Erin and Marta had reached them, and Claire gave Marta a warm hug. “Are you taking care of my baby?”

  “With your sister’s help,” Marta answered.

  Claire brushed the comment aside. “Oh, I doubt that.” Then, offering her cheek to Erin, added, “She’s not exactly the maternal type.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.” Erin gave Claire a perfunctory kiss, sensing the accusation—never spoken—but always there, just beneath the surface of Claire’s words. She was here because Erin had failed her all those years ago. “And I manage to find a maternal moment or two when needed.”

  “Did I hurt your feelings?” Claire looked surprised. “I didn’t mean to. You’re just so good at everything else . . .”

  “Come, let’s sit down,” Marta said, diverting them. “I packed us a nice lunch.”

  Claire brightened and turned back to Marta. “I’m ready.” She looped her arm through Marta’s and started toward a nearby picnic table beneath a sprawling oak, its leaves just starting to turn. In another week or two, it would wear its full fall regalia. For now, though, only a smattering of yellow tarnished its summer cloak.

  Erin followed with the promised basket of goodies, and Janie skipped alongside.

  While Marta started unloading the basket, Janie pulled at her mother. “Can I show you my drawing now?”

  “After we eat,” Claire replied absently, still focused on Marta. “Did you bring my favorite?”

  The little girl’s face clouded.

  “Janie is becoming quite the artist,” Erin said, upset by her sister’s lack of interest.

  Claire met her gaze, irritation and understanding sparking her eyes. “Of course she’s a good artist, she takes after her mother.”

  “Then I’d think you’d take the time to look. She spent a lot of time—”

  “Enough,” Marta said. “Janie, come help me set up lunch.”

  Janie looked from Marta to the two sisters, then nodded and climbed up onto the bench.

  Erin bit her tongue, angry with herself for losing her patience. Just being around Claire was a trial, making Erin act like the twelve-year-old child who’d once lost her baby sister rather than a grown woman. She knew better. She was the adult here, the one in control of all her actions. Yet she always managed to let Claire get to her, especially when it came to Claire’s lack of maternal instincts.

  “Marta made fudge,” she said, smiling an apology. It was Claire’s favorite.

  After that, lunch was uneventful. Claire ended up looking at Janie’s picture of her school as they ate, letting the girl explain and point out all the details of the building. When they finished, Janie turned back a page of her sketchpad and pushed it toward her mother.

  “Now you draw, Mommy.”

  Claire flushed, obviously pleased. “Okay. Do you have your pencils with you?”

  Janie produced the box of precious pencils.

  To anyone watching Claire work, there was no doubt where Janie had gotten her talent. Claire sketched the graceful stone building that looked more like an expensive boarding school than a psychiatric hospital, added the stately oaks, and filled in the finely manicured lawns. Unlike Janie, whose attention to detail marked her drawings, Claire used broad strokes, which gave her work an otherworldly appearance.

  Erin experienced a moment of sadness at the waste of Claire’s talent, and guilt over her own part in that waste. What would Claire have done, what would she have become, if a stranger hadn’t plucked her out of that Miami park nineteen years ago?

  While Claire focused on her drawing, Marta and Janie went in search of the ice cream that was always available to patients and their guests during Sunday visiting hours. Erin watched Claire for a minute or two, her thoughts slipping to Cody Sanders.

  Like Claire before she’d been taken, he had his whole life in front of him. Erin wondered what talents, what gifts he possessed that might be lost if the authorities never found him. What da
mage would his kidnappers inflict on him? If he even survived. Would he end up in an institution like Claire, or become a monster himself? And if she had the power to stop any of those fates, how could Erin turn her back on him?

  With that question weighing on her mind, she made a decision she hoped she wouldn’t regret.

  “You’ll never believe what I saw yesterday,” she said.

  Claire didn’t seem very interested. All her attention was focused on the sketch coming alive under her hand. “Hmm.”

  “An ice-cream vendor, performing magic tricks for the kids in the park.”

  Claire’s shoulders stiffened. “Really.”

  “Do you remember that in Miami?”

  “No.” Claire’s hand moved faster, adding the concrete walkways that crisscrossed the grass.

  “Sure you do. He came to the park near our house a couple of Saturdays. He wore that bright orange Hawaiian shirt, and we giggled and called him a snowbird.”

  “I said, I don’t remember.”

  Erin let the silence settle for a minute, then pushed on. “Mom gave me money for ice cream the day you disappeared. I think you ordered a Creamsicle.”

  Claire turned on her, angry and frightened. “Why are you talking about this?”

  “I just thought it was an interesting coincidence, that’s all.”

  “Did you?” Claire shut the pad and started putting away the pencils, her hands trembling. “I think it’s time for you to go now.”

  Erin ached for her sister, for making Claire think about things she preferred to keep buried. But as Donovan had pointed out, there was a young boy’s life at stake.

  “Claire, you have to help me. This man in the park yesterday, he looked an awful lot like the man we used to see in Miami. Please.” She clasped Claire’s hands, tried to steady them with her own. “Was he the one who took you?”