by Dave White
“Your own daughter,” Callahan said again. Again he flashed to the terrorist, trying to bargain with Callahan’s sensibilities over the whirr of the drill.
Sandler stepped around the desk and stopped next to Callahan.
“One of my daughters.” He gestured toward the armed woman. “This is my other daughter, Christine. She is Michelle’s half-sister and is working for me right now. Her Uncle Tony is helping us out as well. This is a family enterprise. If not for me, then for Michelle.”
Callahan jammed his hands into his pockets and Christine took a step toward him. Michelle had only mentioned a half-sister once since they’d dated. Sandler’s DHS file mentioned her too, but not much was known about her. She had gone off the grid. Tony. Callahan struggled to find the memory. An image of a news report flashed in his mind from a court case a few years earlier.
Tony Verderese. New Jersey mobster. His dad used to be a player. This guy wasn’t.
Callahan didn’t know what was going on, but it wasn’t good. The mob was involved too?
“I can’t help you.”
“Oh, you will. You’ll do whatever I want.”
Sandler tried to speak forcefully, as if he was directing an employee to do a job, but his voice cracked between sentences. Tony let go of the wheelchair. A huge grin spread across his face.
“Help us out. It’s just one simple address you have to give us. Is he captured?” The words came from Christine. Callahan couldn’t read the emotion behind them.
To know for sure, he’d have to talk to his superiors. Maybe they got to Omar after the incident, and Weller hadn’t even known about it. It’s rare someone just disappears like Omar did. Sandler wanted Callahan to give himself away to the DHS. Then give up his embedded status. Make himself politically ineffective.
If he talked to Duffy and the DHS then knew about him, on record, he wouldn’t be able to do the dirty work anymore. No more deniability.
And Sandler had also gotten hold of his computer files. Callahan was useless.
“I have no idea.”
“Ameritech is selling arms to terrorists. Isn’t that clear?” Sandler shoved another picture in front of Callahan’s face. The Arabic man was shaking hands with the white guy. The photo was blurry, but Callahan was reasonably sure the Arabic man was the one he talked to at the Mosque in Jersey City.
The room got cold, as if the heat had gone out.
Callahan thought of the nights shivering in windy Afghanistan while on a surveillance mission. The sand whipped off the ground hitting him in the face. Michelle’s eyes were wide in the wheelchair, but no tears ran from them. She shook her head at him. A small shake, but he picked up on it. She knew something. Wanted to give him a sign. A warmth started in Callahan’s stomach and spread to his arms and legs.
“No,” he said. “I don’t know who this man is. Why do you need him?”
Sandler shook his head and started to pace back and forth. When he spoke, he spoke hesitantly, as if he was trying to figure something out.
“He’s going to help us. Ameritech is going to kill people and we want him to tell us what the target is. You’ll stay quiet and let Americans be killed?”
Callahan took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms in front of him. Something felt wrong about this.
“No. I know Omar’s background. He doesn’t want to help Americans. He wants to kill us” he said. “If you need his help, it’s not to save people’s live.”
Sandler turned toward Christine.
“Do it,” he said.
Christine closed her eyes, then opened them again. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Tony laughed. “About time you woke up, Robert. This is going to be fun. A little summer style barbeque!”
Callahan turned toward Sandler, his arms and legs tingling. “What are they going to do?”
Sandler stared back at him. The man’s face may have gone pale, but his eyes didn’t waver. He didn’t speak. Callahan saw Christine moving toward Michelle and Tony, each step echoing off the hangar floor.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting, sis,” Christine said.
Callahan blinked sweat from his eyes and swallowed the scream that was bubbling in his chest.
Christine gripped the taser tight as she approached Michelle. Michelle’s eyes were wide. She caught Callahan’s gaze and then moved on to her father. Callahan watched as she wrapped her fingers around the handlebars her wrists were taped to.
Christine pressed the button on the taser and it lit up. The sound reminded Callahan of white noise on a TV. Michelle shook her head back and forth, muffled sound rising from her covered mouth. Tony Verderese laughed, pulled a gun and aimed it at Callahan. Christine stopped, pressed the button and the taser went silent.
Robert Sandler’s cheeks were rosy. He stared at Callahan.
“He’s gonna do what you say, Bob. Just watch,” Tony said.
“I don’t want to hurt her, Peter. I don’t,” Sandler said. “But we need you to help us. Come on. Do the smart thing. Tell us where he is.”
Callahan flexed his triceps and chest, felt his muscles stretch the outside of his shirt. If he rushed the wheelchair, he’d be dead before he made it. Odds were Tony would hit him at this range. But he couldn’t stand there and do nothing.
“You’re not going to electrocute your own daughter, Robert,” he said. “Be smart.”
“You don’t want to do this. You’re an American, you don’t torture. News says so. Bush says so.” Dark eyes wide open staring back at Callahan. The sounds of the drill bit almost drowning out the terrorist’s voice.
Sandler flinched. A small movement in his left hand.
“I’ll do what’s necessary. I need that information. Whatever it takes.”
Sandler nodded at Christine, who made a show of rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck.
And jammed the taser into Michelle’s stomach.
The white noise was suddenly muzzled, then came the shaking. Michelle jolted to the left, and then the right, the wheelchair rattling hard. Her eyes were wide, the whites a stark contrast to her dark hair. She didn’t scream. Didn’t make a sound through the gag.
Callahan tried to watch but couldn’t. He turned his attention back toward Sandler, who was still staring at Callahan.
The white noise stopped, but the rattling of the wheelchair carried on for a while. Only once it stopped, and he heard Michelle huffing through her nose, did Callahan allow himself to breathe.
“This is stupid,” he said. “You’re going to let her get hurt for your own financial gain?”
“This is stupid. I go to the press. I tell them what you did. I’m not a terrorist.” The drill inched closer toward his temple.
Tony said, “He’s making the right choice.”
“Shut up,” Sandler said. His face was covered in sweat now. “Peter, where is Omar?”
“No.”
This time Sandler didn’t have to nod. Callahan heard the white noise again, static stabbing into his brain. Michelle didn’t scream, but there was an audible “mmmmmm,” from her as if she was doing all she could to hold it in. The wheelchair sounded as if it were bouncing off the floor, it rattled so loudly.
Callahan stared at Sandler, refusing to blink, silently willing Sandler to give it up. To give himself up. For his daughter’s own good.
Bang! The terrorist’s eyes widened when he heard the gun shot. Callahan told him it was the terroirst’s partner’s punishment for keeping quiet. Death. Callahan moved the drill even closer.
The rattling stopped, and Callahan exhaled again.
“Robert, I can’t tell you.”
Sandler shifted his gaze toward the floor. Took a breath.
“Do it again,” he said.
Callahan turned and looked this time. Michelle started shaking before the taser even hit her. When it did, her head went straight back against the headrest of the chair. Callahan felt his legs wobble. He clenched his hands int
o fists and dug his nails into his palms.
Now the scream came. Muffled. Callahan’s arms went cold as if he’d buried them in the snow outside.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you! Please stop. I’ll tell you what I know!”
“Stop it!” Callahan said.
Sandler didn’t say anything. His face was ashen now, as if the blood had escaped from it.
“Stop it,” Callahan said again.
Callahan turned off the drill and listened.
Sandler shook his head.
“Zap her again, Christine!” Tony said.
Christine did. It was a quick jolt this time, as if she’d touched Michelle and then pulled it right back. Michelle shuddered and didn’t stop. She was dancing to a song without rhythm. Tears flowing.
“Again!” Tony bounced on the balls of his feet as he spoke.
“She’s your daughter,” Callahan said to Sandler, his voice not much above a whisper.
At the same volume, Sandler said, “If you want to help her, answer the question.”
Christine looked toward Sandler and Callahan. Tony kept yelling for her to jolt Michelle again, but Christine didn’t move. She just stared at her father.
Michelle’s gaze was unfocused. Her breath was coming in thick, heavy puffs from her nose, like it was being forced from her lungs.
Callahan wanted to tell her he was sorry, but didn’t say anything. Couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“This isn’t right, Robert,” he said.
Sandler just nodded toward Christine again. She lowered her head, and jammed the taser back into Michelle.
Callahan couldn’t watch. He heard the static echoing off the high ceilings. Michelle’s screaming, despite the gag, just as loud as the static.
“SHE’S YOUR DAUGHTER!” Callahan shouted. “PLEASE! PLEASE STOP!”
Sandler shook his head slightly, as sweat poured down his face. He was still pale, and the drops of sweat shaded his skin yellow.
The electricity kept pouring through her.
“YOU’RE KILLING HER!”
Sandler said nothing. His gaze was soft, staring toward Callahan, as if pleading.
On their second date, last summer, Callahan and taken Michelle out to the Deleware Water Gap to go bungee jumping. She talked a good game the entire drive, saying how much fun it was going to be, how excited she was. No one she’d dated had ever taken her to something like this.
He’d thought it was all talk. Michelle’d go through the motions, get into the gear, click the cord to her boots, step up to the edge and freeze. He’d jump, come back up laughing, and she’d laugh with him. Then they’d go for dinner.
But once they got there, Michelle clicked the cord into place, stepped up to the edge and leaned over to get a look at the water below. Callahan thought she was going to lose her footing and fall. He took a step forward, and reached out to steady her.
But by the time his hand reached out, she’d already jumped.
Callahan heard the static, heard the shuddering wheelchair, metal clanking against wood. He counted to three, waiting for Sandler to yell out. Watiting for Sandler to give up.
“STOP!” He heard the word, and felt the knot in his stomach loosen.
Then he realized the word had come from his own mouth.
The electric humming stopped. Then the shaking. The breathing didn’t come.
Oh God, you let it go too long. She’s dead.
He heard it, small, like a wheeze. He looked over, at the haze over the wheelchair, and watched Michelle’s head lean back like she’d fallen asleep in the chair. Her chest rose and fell slowly.
He turned back to Sandler. Bags had formed under his eyes, and he was hunched over. But he didn’t take his gaze away from Callahan.
Seconds went by, the fading echo of the final jolt the only sound.
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Please,” Callahan said.
He dropped to his knees, placed his palms on the floor and dry heaved. When he looked up Sandler was whispering to Tony.
Tony shook his head and grabbed the wheelchair by the handlebars and spun it around and walked with it through the hangar. He disappeared into a hallway.
Sandler was wiping his eyes.
Christine put the taser away into a plastic box. As she did it, her shoulders shook with laughter. Callahan would remember that.
Ashley stood up.
Blood shot out from the wound in her gut, but she didn’t try to cover it with her hands. She let it flow. It didn’t seem to be bothering her, not even slowing her down as she stepped forward and reached her hand out. Her palm was up as if she wanted to take John’s hand.
Her mouth was moving, but words wouldn’t come out. Or if they did, John couldn’t hear them.
He reached his hand out.
Looking up again, he saw it was no longer Ashley reaching out, but Michelle, blood still spurting from her stomach.
John’s eyes snapped open and air caught in his chest. He felt his chest rise and then deflate like a popped balloon, spitting the air out of his mouth. He was covered in sweat, sitting on the couch in Frank’s living room.
Wiping his brow, he realized he’d dozed off when he sat down. Just wanted to take a minute to get his bearings. How long had he been out?
His neck was stiff and his shoulder burned. It might be time to change the bandage. Stretching out his good arm, John blinked his eyes and tried to adjust to the darkness. His fingers tingled and he felt light-headed.
“Ashley?” he called out in the darkness.
Ashley? What was he saying? Ashley was dead.
He stood up and walked into the kitchen and dug out a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and chugged half of it in one gulp.
Outside the back window, the world was silent. A cat stepped gingerly through the snow, as if it didn’t know what the stuff was. It looked up at the window and John wondered if it could see him. It then looked up into the sky and John tried to follow its line of sight. He didn’t see anything but the black night sky, with the hint of sun at the horizon. It must be close to five thirty in the morning. Maybe six.
The cat ran off around the corner of the house. John tried to listen for the small footsteps in the snow, but all he heard was the heat clicking on.
He hadn’t been up this early in weeks. The last time was after a night of drinking with Ashley. He never slept well when he drank, rolling over, kicking his feet out, his body getting too warm. He was never comfortable, and the hangover headache always woke him early. He did the same that night as he did today, getting up and digging a bottle of water out of Ashley’s fridge. Back then, after he’d finished, he got back into bed and sidled up next to Ashley. She was still asleep, and he whispered in her ear that he loved her. If she heard him, her only reaction was to roll a bit, back into his arms. Her back pressed against him. Sleep didn’t come after that, but he held her until she woke up hours later.
As the memory left, the shakes returned hard. John dropped the bottle of water and had to grip the small piece of counter between the sink and the cabinets to keep standing. He held his breath, tears welling up.
He wondered if Ashley’s parents knew yet. Knew her body was propped up, a hole in her stomach surrounded by dried blood. Were they awake now too, staring out the window into the early morning sky? Wishing she’d come walking up the sidewalk to tell them she was okay, only to find a lone cat searching for food?
He let go of the counter top. Started to bend over for the water bottle, when pain shot down his arm like he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. He really had to clean his shoulder wound again, get some new gauze on it.
The way Michelle did it the other day. Her fingers grazing his shoulder. Touching his neck.
And now she was gone. Like Ashley. Like Hannah. He wasn’t going to let that happen a third time. He couldn’t.
John reached down again, teeth clenched, and picked up the water bottle. Pulling open the cabinet under the sink, the strong stench of the g
arbage hit him. He pulled the plastic receptacle from the shelf and put it on the floor, dropped the plastic bottle in it and pulled the bag out of the can. He tied the bag, placed it on the floor, and went to return the can to the shelf. Looking toward the back of the cabinet he saw something metallic attached to a plastic clip.
He pulled it out and saw it was Frank’s BlackBerry. John pressed a few buttons and watched it light up. It vibrated in his hand, a missed call displayed from a number John didn’t recognize. He cleared the display and scrolled through the other missed calls, including one from Michelle’s cell, but none of the others were recognizable. Nothing to indicate where Michelle was.