The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  What he really wanted was to take her in his arms, to say all was forgiven.

  “Blair—”

  “I want you out of here,” he said, his pride controlling his brain.

  Lisa took her purse in hand and moved past him. “Don’t decide anything right away,” she said. “Sleep on it. Okay? I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Don’t call me in the morning,” he said, opening the door.

  “When, then?”

  “Never! I don’t want you to call me again!”

  She walked out.

  He watched her go, regretting every step that she took.

  CHAPTER 49

  Headed for the den, he changed his mind and walked into the kitchen. He stood there, commiserating with himself. “Bitch” was the choice epithet that flashed in his head, and he wished he had used it in Lisa’s presence.

  He was reaching for the bottle of Scotch when his hand stopped in midair. His daughter’s face suddenly flashed in front of his eyes, and shame washed over him. How dare he be concerned about his personal feelings?

  He left the bottle where it was and took a seat at the table.

  Once again he wondered who BIS was, and if it even existed. To verify that it was legitimate, he remembered placing a call to the New York number John Dalton had given him. When Dalton answered, he had assumed he was on the up and up, and that no further proof was required.

  Now, he began to pace the apartment. His mind searched for answers, but they were elusive.

  Darkness fell and he was beside himself with worry. If BIS wasn’t a government agency, then his daughter was in worse trouble than he had first imagined.

  Awake for most of the night, Blair’s mind flipped back to all that he’d been through. The first time he met Rena Castaway was important. Though he couldn’t figure out why.

  He continued to toss and turn. He sought answers from a higher being. He offered to forsake every material thing he could think of. From the Scotch he enjoyed, to his cherished BMW. But his concessions not only seemed trite but ridiculous, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  Finally, he closed his eyes and washed everything from his mind.

  Castaway came back to him.

  He moved himself into a sitting position. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his raised knees.

  Something to do with his meeting her, he realized. They spoke for a while. Then he was blindfolded and led outside…

  The answer became clear.

  His blindfold had come loose. And he had caught the last three numbers in the address plaque above the door. 756. This was the house where he had been held. The same house where Sandra was being held now. He could bet on it.

  Just before dawn, Blair went from bed to bathroom, from condo to parking lot. Every second thought that processed through his mind contained the word, “please.”

  Traffic was light at that early hour.

  He passed the TriBeCa area and a few of the restaurants he frequented from time to time. He followed West Broadway to Chambers, then headed south on Church Street. He continued his progress past the New York Stock Exchange, and doubled back along Nassau. A few blocks over, he found a parking lot.

  He left his car with the attendant and began to walk. He craned his neck from one side of the street to the next. Nothing was familiar. Just an endless combination of numbers, none of which fit.

  It was a warm day. Sweat glued his shirt to his back. The hours passed from morning to afternoon, then to early evening. By the time darkness fell he knew there was no point in continuing. He would have to return tomorrow and begin his search over again.

  CHAPTER 50

  He awoke the next morning anxious to get going. Dressed in a short-sleeved, blue sport shirt and pair of jeans, he covered block after block. The only time he paused was to mark down the names of the streets he passed in a notepad he’d brought along for this purpose. He had learned his lesson yesterday, when on at least two occasions he had visited the same street twice.

  Even if he found the house, even if Sandra was being held there, he realized that getting her out safely would take an awful lot of luck. Acting impulsively, without a plan, was foolhardy at best.

  But was there a choice?

  He covered a number of residential areas. They were quiet for the most part, until just before noon, when a preponderance of fast-food delivery vehicles made their appearance.

  His mind repeated the digits of the partial address like a mantra: 7-5-6, 7-5-6, as if he could will the house to come forward by divine intervention.

  He skipped dinner, and once again found it difficult to fall asleep. When he got out of bed in the morning, he was famished. Or so he believed at first. Halfway through his breakfast of bacon and eggs, he began to feel stuffed. He pushed the plate aside.

  On the road once more, doubt slid into his subconscious. So many factors were stacked against him, not the least of which was the size of Manhattan’s downtown core. But he recalled being driven from the house where he was being held to an area close to the East River. He remembered the name of the street where he had been dropped off and the one crossing it, and that the drive had taken approximately five minutes. Last evening he had consulted a map and soon concluded that his search should not be this daunting.

  Now Blair decided to use another tack. Instead of parking, he drove the area where he felt the address was most likely to be. All the while he timed himself, stretching it to ten minutes in each direction.

  Nighttime approached and he was no further ahead.

  On day three his luck changed. He couldn’t say exactly why he took the route he did. But he turned a corner and there it was. The street caught his eye immediately. It was one of the few in Lower Manhattan with a handful of refitted brownstones. They had been combined into townhomes of formidable size. Each had a one-car garage, a true luxury.

  Blair counted down to 1756.

  He recognized it at once. Brown-bricked, with black-framed windows and shutters. The house seemed empty. There were no lights on and none of the shades were drawn.

  He slowly drove down the street. He made a U-turn, crossed to the other side, and parked. Now he had an unimpeded view.

  When he noticed the garage door going up a few hours later, he wasn’t so much taken aback as relieved. A Lincoln MKZ pulled out of the driveway. It was being driven by a man of about thirty years of age. He activated a remote switch. The door started to go down and he drove away.

  Blair waited.

  In less than a half-hour the man returned.

  Blair counted the time it took for the garage door to go up. Fifteen seconds. Then he timed it on the way down. Just over ten seconds. Not very good. But the next time it was activated, he would take a chance by throwing himself beneath the door before it started its descent.

  He remained in place, his mind willing someone else to come out and run an errand.

  Night fell, but it was not to be.

  CHAPTER 51

  The following morning, dressed in the same shirt and pair of jeans, Blair was at the address before six o’clock. At home he had practiced sliding under the couch from a standing start in the hallway. It was a poor substitute for a garage door, but better than nothing.

  Now, he sat in his car, trying not to think of the risk involved. Whatever Rena Castaway’s intentions, he was ready to confront her. No matter the danger, he had to get inside the house and hopefully find his daughter.

  The hours dragged by. Mail was delivered. Close to eleven o’clock a woman came out of one of the townhomes next to where he was parked. She glanced at him briefly, then continued on her way. Blair knew that if he was still in position when she returned, she would become suspicious.

  He waited until noon. He stepped out of his car, locked it, and proceeded toward the house. When he was almost parallel to it, the garage door began to rise. Quickly, he hid behind one of the few trees lining the property.

  The driver put the car in gear and drove away. T
o Blair’s astonishment, the garage door remained in the upright position. He speed-walked toward the garage, entered, and maneuvered his way into a corner. The light—obviously on a timer—dimmed, then shut.

  Blair tried the handle of the door leading into the house. It was unlocked. He couldn’t believe his luck. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  He took small steps. The main floor wasn’t all that familiar to him. He spotted a cluster of furniture in the living room. A couch and two loveseats. Continuing, he paused at the stairs leading to the basement.

  Hearing nothing, he began his descent.

  The long corridor was what he recalled most. That, and the number of rooms.

  The first door he opened led to an empty space. The next exposed a drab cubicle. There was a cot and a bathroom. He was certain this was where he had been held.

  He closed the door and moved forward. He arrived at the huge kitchen, with its two-tub sink and old-fashioned appliances. His heart skipped a beat. One or two of the cigarette butts in the ashtray were smoldering. Steam was rising from one of the coffee mugs. A sound came to him from below. He looked down as if he could see through the tiled floor to the subbasement.

  He moved out of the kitchen. He headed along the corridor and tried each room as he went. There were few with windows, most with beds. He had to swallow the temptation to call his daughter’s name.

  The corridor widened.

  There were only two rooms remaining, both on his right. He tried the door nearest him. It was the first one that was locked. Blair recalled his home in Queens, after he and Mandy had first moved in. Somehow the latch to the master bathroom had engaged after he had closed the door. Using a knife, he had jiggled the blade for a few seconds and the lock gave. Now, nervously, he pulled out the pocketknife he had brought along for just such an occasion, and set the blade in motion.

  It did not take long. Wiping perspiration from his brow, he moved into the room … and gasped.

  Sandra was lying on her side. She was dressed only in underpants. He could see the bedsores on her body. They ran along her arms, back, and legs. He moved closer and whispered her name. He was ready to clamp a hand over her mouth if she cried out.

  She remained asleep.

  Blair stood for a moment, ramrod stiff. It seemed like months, not weeks, since he had last seen her. What had they done to his baby girl?

  Sandra’s eyes flickered open, then widened in fear.

  “It’s daddy,” he said.

  Her body shook, even after he took her in his arms.

  She had lost weight. All he could feel was skin and bones. She was void of color. Her hair was matted and damp. Blair felt a surge of anger so powerful he had to literally bite his lip to keep control.

  “Daddy?” she questioned, her voice a whisper.

  “Yes,” he said. He swallowed hard. “It’s me, darling.”

  “Daddy?” It was as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  He took her clothes in hand that were lying in the chair next to the bed and tried to get her to put them on.

  She was lethargic.

  He dressed her, then lifted her up.

  Sandra’s parched lips told him she was most likely dehydrated. He moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He removed a bottle of water and twisted off the top.

  “Drink slowly,” he advised as she took the bottle in hand.

  She began to guzzle, then coughed.

  “Slowly,” he reminded her.

  Blair made out voices from below; they were on the move. He quickly bent to one knee and placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I need you to listen to me,” he said. “Very, very carefully. Do you think you can walk on your own?”

  She nodded without hesitation, which encouraged him.

  “Good,” he said. “But if something should happen to me and I tell you to run, you must do so at once. The minute I say run. Do you understand me, Sandra?”

  “Y…yes,” she said, not sounding quite as sure.

  He hugged her. “You will be fine, darling. You are going to go out through the garage. The door will be open. Once you reach the sidewalk, you are to run in either direction. Run for as long as you can. Okay?”

  “But where will you be, Daddy?”

  He forced the calm in his voice. “I will be with you. I am only telling you this in case something happens to me. The people in this house are bad, Sandra. We must get you away from them. No matter what mommy and daddy have told you in the past about talking to strangers, you are now going to make an exception. The first person you see on the street, no matter who it is: a man, a woman, even someone your own age. You are to ask them to call the number you know to use in an emergency. Do you remember what that is?”

  She recited 9-1-1.

  “Good.” Blair straightened, then he took his daughter’s hand. “Just pretend you are Alice in Wonderland,” he said. “This is quite an adventure you have been on. But it will all be over soon. Okay, Alice?”

  She gave the slightest hint of a smile.

  As soon as they came out of the kitchen, Blair heard footsteps. He led the way along the corridor. A man’s voice called out in a foreign language. Blair lifted his daughter in his arms and began to run.

  They mounted the staircase.

  The sound from behind told Blair they’d be cutting it close. He neared the door leading to the garage. He lunged for the handle and turned.

  Nothing happened.

  Blair set his daughter down. He examined the door. He couldn’t find anything impeding it. He tried the handle again; it gave. He guided Sandra forward. “Run!” he instructed. And he gave her a push.

  CHAPTER 52

  Before Blair could turn, a hand flew over his shoulder and reached for the door. He fought to keep it closed. A fist slammed into the back of his head. He shot his elbow out blindly but caught nothing but air.

  A glancing blow connected with his chin. Fists began to pummel his chest. He refused to give up his position.

  Another pair of hands went for the door.

  He turned his fingers into claws and raked them along the hands until they let go.

  Someone grabbed him from behind.

  He feigned to his left, then quickly shot to his right. The hold on him loosened. There wasn’t a lot of room. His intention was to back up and draw them with him. He no sooner completed his move when he realized his mistake. Three of the men followed him. The fourth had the door open and was heading through it.

  Blair knew he only had one chance. He dove at the man, aiming for his ankles. But he missed. His chin hit the floor and he felt a jolt in the back of his neck. As soon as he caught his breath, he reached for the penknife in his pocket and pulled it out. Before he could flick the blade open, however, one of his attackers knocked the knife to the floor.

  He tried to retrieve it.

  A punch to his kidneys crippled him.

  Another punch, practically in the identical spot.

  He keeled over … and was lost.

  Sandra?

  The thought of his daughter jolted him back.

  He was seated in a strange-looking metal chair with wide arms. A hard leather strap bound his ankles in place. Another was tightly enclosed around his hips. A third went over his arms.

  Blood dripped from his nose. His head was pounding. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache.

  For a moment he felt disoriented. He closed his eyes; then opened them. Did Sandra make it? he wondered.

  He took in the room, noticing how average it seemed.

  Feeling sick, he slowly leaned back.

  His daughter must have made it, he was thinking.

  He was left alone for over an hour.

  The lights had been dimmed. But he could make out a rectangular conference table with chairs lining both sides. There was a phone and a laptop computer with a wide-screen monitor. The wall directly opposite had a window cut out of its center running approximately six feet
diagonally. He wondered if it was one-way glass, if he was being observed.

  The wait got to him.

  He wanted to know, had to know, about Sandra.

  The door opened and Rena Castaway, dressed conservatively in a brown dress that fell below her knees, approached. Her eyes narrowed with what could have been hatred. And Blair acknowledged that her role in all this was far more odious than he’d first imagined.

  “You enjoying yourself?” he said, angry with her, angrier with himself.

  Castaway looked away, ignoring him.

  But he couldn’t let go. “You must be feeling awfully proud. Aren’t you?”

  “Shut up!” she hissed. “Your time to speak will come.” She turned on her heels.

  From his position in the chair, Blair had to strain to follow her movements.

  Castaway opened the door and nodded toward someone.

  Blair struggled to see, but the leather straps dug into his flesh.

  A man wearing a djellaba walked in. There was an attachment to his white robe, not unlike a hijab that some women wore, partially concealing his face.

  Blair’s heart leapt in his throat.

  “Mr. Mulligan,” the man said, his voice accented but familiar.

  Not a delusion but the truth, Blair was thinking.

  The man removed the covering from his face.

  It couldn’t be.

  But it was: John Dalton, alive and well.

  CHAPTER 53

  It didn’t seem possible.

  Dalton was dead. Blair had seen him murdered with his own eyes. So how could he be standing here? And why was he wearing an Arab robe?

  Blair felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.

  He replayed the scene in his head: Bullets flying. Dalton going down and urging him to run. Not one sign of blood. In his anxiety he hadn’t grasped it at the time. But he was certain of it now. There was no blood.