Snapshot

by Camryn King

  The bartender’s broad smile revealed a checkerboard of tobacco-stained teeth. “Well, alright then.”

  He reached for the remote, turned up the volume and took a step back to see the screen.

  . . . exploded today in the heart of Manhattan, after pictures of media mogul and owner of True Broadcasting Corporation, Braum Van Dijk and the newly married heir to Becker Pharmaceuticals, Edward Becker, were released by the news and entertainment magazine National Query. These pictures are highly controversial and sexual in nature.

  The bartender looked over at Zeke. “What the hell?”

  Zeke slammed down the double shot and had a feeling he’d need another.

  Several photos accompany the National Query article due out today, and state these highly questionable, deeply troubling shots were taken this past May as Becker honeymooned in the Bahamas on a private island owned by Van Dijk. According to the network’s publicist, the images are photoshopped. She admits that Van Dijk was in the Bahamas at the same time as Becker, but stayed at a home owned by his wife on the main island. According to the article, Van Dijk gifted Becker and his wife a cabin on his private island and went there at the invitation and insistence of Charlotte Lee Winthrop, the new Mrs. Becker. She went on to state that Van Dijk had a horde of haters envious of his success and has callously tarnished the sacredness of a newly married couple’s first days together to try and bring down the most powerful media mogul in the world. She says that both the Beckers and the Van Dijks are furious at the false allegations and are meeting with a team of attorneys to unearth the culprit behind this libelous act and prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law. The National Query stands behind the story and the pictures, which were captured by a professional photographer on assignment for the Chicago Star. The station is in possession of those pictures and will show a couple of them as much as we are able, but as I stated they are of a sensitive nature and even though we’ve blurred the most offensive parts of the pictures I do want to warn you that some viewers may still find them offensive. Viewer discretion is advised. That in just a moment but first . . .

  “What do they have pictures of, a foursome or something?” the bartender joked. Meanwhile Zeke had slid off the barstool to stand directly in front of the TV.

  . . . photographer, who wishes to remain anonymous out of concern for their safety, says that the target being focused on for the shot was the island itself and only after having the photos magnified and enhanced was the realization made that there was a picture within the picture taken that if verified will turn out to be the money shot of the century, the most explosive media controversy since Patty Hearst joined the Symbionese Liberation Army. Again, we are advising viewer discretion. Here is the shot, purported to be in its natural state, meaning it was only enhanced so that the subject photographed from such a great distance could be clearly seen. The photographer has sworn in writing that otherwise the pictures are untouched, that there has been no photoshopping or other manipulation and that what she unknowingly shot is in fact what it appears to be here, some type of sexual tryst between these men. So far there has been no direct word from either Becker or Van Dijk . . .

  One look at the blurred photograph and Zeke had seen and heard enough. He strode out of the bar, hopped into the car and turned back in the direction he’d just driven. With less than five minutes of breaking news, the questions regarding the Wade mission had multiplied. He wanted to call Van Dijk, have the story verified. Every TBC viewer was well aware of the nation’s fake news. But until now Van Dijk’s answers had never been satisfactory. Even worse, he couldn’t ignore the fact that his superior may have straight out lied. He could have been sent out to eliminate a woman who was a threat to his boss’s position of power more than the nation’s security. If Van Dijk indeed had a dirty little secret that had been caught with the click of Wade’s camera, then getting rid of her would have let it remain. Zeke knew that these were the pictures being guarded. What he didn’t know was whether the photos were real or if they’d been doctored. And the only person who might have the answer was locked in a cottage with a fatal gas leak and was about to get blown up. He reached the highway, gripped the wheel, and pushed the pedal to the floor.

  28

  Kennedy held her breath, hoping her ears had deceived her. They hadn’t. Although distant, the distinct sound of a car engine could be heard. She chipped away at the glass still clinging to the inner cross-like frame that held the four pieces of glass, now shattered. The wood was stronger than it appeared and the shards of glass prevented Kennedy from getting a good grip.

  The engine sound grew louder.

  Desperate, Kennedy turned her body around in the limited space and scooted her hips near the window. Then she laid down at an angle that allowed her to kick the pane with her sandaled foot. The wood cracked. A couple more kicks, and she was able to break away the narrow pieces. She looked out the window, which looked to be about ten feet above the ground below. She wasn’t crazy about heights but didn’t give the jump a second thought. She turned back around and edged out of the window feet first, gritting against the pain as the ragged wood fragments stuck through the thin cotton she wore and into her skin. There was nothing to brace her feet, so once her legs were through, she used the little strength in her arms that she had left to push her upper body through the small opening. Her thought was to hang from the opening and balance her fall. That didn’t happen. Her fingers, weak and bleeding from her effort to break through the ceiling gave way. Kennedy free fell to the ground. The unforgiving soil knocked the wind right out of her. Kennedy groaned, rolled over and pulled in bits of grass and dirt with her deep gulps of air. She got to her knees and listened. Silence. What did that mean? Kennedy knew she didn’t have time to find out. She stumbled to her feet and using the house to lean against began looking around to get her bearings, hoping to see a house, a barn, any sign of life where she could run to for help. Unfortunately, everywhere she looked, there was nothing but open space around her.

  Her heartbeat was so loud she couldn’t think. Instinctively, she crept toward the edge of the house away from the direction she thought she’d heard the car approaching. She passed the window to the back bedroom where she’d been taken, and the one on the front room’s dining area side. At the corner of the house she stopped, took a breath and slowly, oh . . . so . . . slowly . . . peeked her head out the slightest bit, just enough to see beyond the front of the building. The coast appeared to be clear. She took one step forward. Then another.

  The next footsteps she heard were not her own.

  Kennedy froze, two steps away from the side of the house. She was afraid to turn around, fearing there was someone directly behind her. The thought propelled her forward. She stopped, listened. No further sound. Even on tiptoe, tall weeds blocked her view. There was no clear shot of the road. She had to take her chances and hope there was a house or something on the other side. She crept toward the road, hunched, listening. As soon as she reached the edge of the drive she’d be able to take a good look both ways, and see the car. She ran the few steps from the yard to the dirt road . . .

  And saw a man jogging toward her.

  No!

  He broke out into a sprint. She could not get caught. Seeing the man she was sure was her kidnapper was like having a starter pistol go off at the beginning of the race for her life. Still wearing her sandals, she pulled on muscles she hadn’t used in years and took off down the road.

  “Help!” There wasn’t another house or person in sight, but Kennedy yelled anyway and willed her legs to move faster. With the sandals on, that wasn’t happening. But she didn’t give up. Just ahead was a cornfield. She ran off the path and straight for the tall, leafy stalks. Three steps away from the first row of corn she stepped into a hole and fell.

  Damn! You’ve got to be kidding! Is this a movie?

  Kennedy crawled into the field, moving as far into the row as fast as she could. Her ankle was killing her, probably sprained, but fo
cusing on that might cost her life. She reached shaky hands down to try and quickly remove the troublesome shoes. There was no time to undo the straps, so she pushed and stretched and forced the material over her ankle, removed the second one just as the man appeared in the row.

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  She stood up, firing the sandals directly at the man’s head. She hoped they’d connected, maybe taken out an eye, but she couldn’t wait and find out. The dirt was chunky, her soles tender, but the adrenaline was running too high for her to feel the effect. She cut between stalks. He followed. It was as though she could feel his breath on her neck. In a last-ditch attempt to outmaneuver him, she broke out of the field and headed back toward the dirt road. Maybe the keys were still in the car. She could reach it and get away.

  “Wade, stop!”

  The sound of his voice made her abductor more real. Tears clouded her eyes. Her lungs burned and felt about to burst. Her legs were cramping, her ankle throbbing, and the bottom of her feet felt shredded and raw. She ran faster. But it wasn’t enough. She felt rather than saw him. Her arms flew out as he tackled her and threw her to the ground.

  “Let me go!”

  She kicked, punched and tried to get loose.

  “Wade, dammit, stop fighting!”

  “No,” she mumbled, trying to knee him in the groin. “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “If that were the case, you’d be dead,” he responded, his voice a deadly calm that stilled Kennedy’s struggle. “Now I’m trying to save your life.”

  A giant explosion shook the earth beneath them. Kennedy sat up, dazed, as vibrant flames shot up in the air and clouds of black smoke seemed to cover the sun. She looked at the man who looked beyond her at the house she’d escaped from.

  “How the hell did you get out of there?”

  Kennedy slapped his rugged-looking face, paused, and slapped it again.

  * * *

  Knowing how loud noises could trigger flashbacks, so realizing he’d likely be close when the gas built up and exploded, Zeke had used techniques learned in therapy and prepared for the boom. He wasn’t as prepared for Wade’s vicious attack and grabbed her arm on impulse at a place he could snap it in two with one quick twist.

  “Ow!”

  Her scream snapped him out of combat mode. He rested his arms on his knees and caught his breath. Wade sat a few feet away breathing heavily, her eyes narrowed as she watched him intently while rubbing her arm. Her feet were bleeding. She seemed not to notice. As his eyes traveled upward, he noticed her dress was torn and dirty. Every piece of skin he could see was bruised, scratched or bleeding. He watched her change positions, saw her eyes shift from him to the road.

  With the strength of an ox and the speed of a falcon, Zeke pounced on Kennedy, scooped her up and headed toward the car in a dead run. For once, his captive didn’t fight him. She must have heard the sirens, too. They reached the car. He opened the passenger door and tossed her in.

  With a finger in her face, almost touching foreheads, he said, “Run, and you’ll regret it.”

  Zeke jumped into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and after a quick look in his rearview mirror shot down the road. On the right side was a big black hole, where a house had stood moments before.

  Zeke veered from one dirt road to another. When he felt a safe distance away, he engaged his GPS to lead back to the main highway. He felt Kennedy’s eyes on him. A glance told him what he already suspected—they were full of questions. Did she recognize him, he wondered? Was she trying to reconcile a familiar face with brown instead of blue eyes and blonde hair once hidden beneath a brunette wig?

  “Don’t try anything crazy. This is not a part of the state where you want to end up lost.”

  Kennedy’s chuckle held no humor. “Like you care about my welfare.”

  She shifted her legs and winced, lifted her feet from the floorboard. “I’ve got a first aid kit in my luggage. I need it.”

  Zeke shook his head. “Not yet. We need to put a lot of distance between this car and that blast.”

  She stared openly now. “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Who hired you to kill me?”

  “If I told you that, I’d have to go through with the order.”

  He glanced at her and smiled. She didn’t smile back. She shifted as far away from him as she could, pressed against the door, and gave him a slow, perusing once-over. Zeke didn’t notice. With the adrenaline rush slowing and reality setting in, he was thinking about what he’d just done and what acting on impulse may have cost him. He’d been given a direct order to eliminate Wade, to make her go away, to neutralize the problem. When the blurred picture came up on the bar’s wide flat screen, it gripped his very core. When it came to the reason behind this assignment, he’d had several conversations with Van Dijk. He remembered snippets of one that in the present moment—barreling down the highway at a high rate of speed with the person he’d been ordered to kill beside him—was especially troubling.

  Ah, hell, Foster . . . I was meeting with the son of one of those fathers. Now, the average person has no idea this family is a part of the order. In fact, they believe just the opposite, that they’re part of the crowd bringing America down. He has successfully infiltrated Hollywood, politics, every bastion where secrets we need flow freely. To be seen with me would mean the end of that access, and usher in the end of the America that we now know.

  He’d had meetings with influential men who didn’t hold his conservative values many times. Their friendships had been left-wing fodder for years, dating back to before the election. It had never seemed to bother Van Dijk before. Why now?

  Can you imagine what the liberal media would do if they had pictures of me chatting with someone seemingly opposed to our values? Say a faggot or atheist or one of those sympathetic Hollywood devils?

  In the photo Zeke had seen before rushing out of the bar, Van Dijk and Becker hadn’t been holding anything, except each other. They hadn’t been wearing anything either.

  They’d spin a web of lies the way they always do and the next thing you know there would be yet another probe with lawyers blowing smoke up our asses trying to find wrongdoing where there is none.

  Even with certain aspects of the photos blurred out, words like probe and smoke up asses took on new meaning. Zeke had been there, had taken a boat tour after Wade caught her plane to go where she’d gone, to try and see what she saw, to have some idea of what she could have photographed that could topple America. He was no photographer and he sure as hell didn’t know anything about programs like Photoshop, but still he wondered how someone could create a picture that looked so authentic. Wade had to know that if it were a lie, Van Dijk would sue the pants off her and her entire family.

  Those liberal stations have hated me for years. They are jealous of the power our media yields, and how we’ve got the real American, the patriotic, God-fearing majority on our side. They want to turn our democracy into a socialistic, communist nation full of illegal immigrants taking the jobs, and people too lazy to work, living off the hard work of the tax-paying public and make that look normal. Now I know you don’t want that to happen.

  Zeke loved his country enough to die for it in a heartbeat. He admitted to not knowing a whole lot about communism and socialism except they were forms of government his party abhorred and because of that he did, too. He was all for keeping America for Americans and sending the people who didn’t belong here back to their countries. Living in West Virginia, he’d known plenty of people on welfare. Some were lazy no-account bums to be sure. But most of them were upstanding, hard-working Christians who’d caught a bad break and landed down on their luck. Most were third and fourth generation Americans whose families had paid taxes for decades.

  He should have put a call into Van Dijk. He should have left Wade in the house with the gas leak. He should be heading to Fort Leonard Wood right now, checking out guys for a security team. He hadn�
�t done any of those things, and now he was in a world of turmoil bringing on the type of anxiety that squeezed his heart to the point it could bring on a heart attack. It was time to take a pill. He reached over for his fanny pack. The minute he did, he heard a click, and felt a whoosh of air. He grabbed Wade’s arm as she prepared to tumble out of a car going ninety miles an hour.

  29

  It was the smile that did it. For Kennedy, that’s when it all came together. The fragmented images that popped up when the man finally caught her. The moment when she finally had the opportunity to give her captor a good look. It was him, except it wasn’t. The hair was different. The eyes were brown, not blue. But when he smiled, she caught that hint of a dimple and the slightly crooked teeth that she once thought adorable. That’s when she knew who’d kidnapped her from the streets of Chicago.

  Jack Sutton.

  From that moment until her hand reached for the door handle about two minutes later, there was only one thought on her mind—escape. This was no longer a faceless kidnapper who’d locked her in a death trap. This was now also the person who’d befriended her in the Bahamas only to later drug and rob her, take photos of her naked, and Kennedy would bet money, also burglarized her and Logan’s homes. He was the man she’d seen in Peyton. In short, this was the motherfucker who for the past few months had made her life a living hell. With that realization, there was only one option. Between staying in this car and going to the second location, and risking her life by jumping out of a moving vehicle, she chose the latter. Already bruised and almost broken, she’d take her chances with asphalt and speed. She opened the door, ready to drop and roll.

  Only she didn’t. Jack’s hand was like a vise grip on her arm and more, the car veered left and right. She heard the sound of a long car horn and squeezed her eyes shut for the impending crash.

  “Got dammit, Wade!”

  She felt Jack pump the brakes and the car slowing as the car door swung jerkily in the wind. He pulled over to the side of the road where Kennedy noted more civilization. Road signs announced places to eat, sleep, and get gas just a mile away. It’s all the motivation she needed. She swung a fist toward the side of Jack’s head. He caught it, squeezed her wrists, and her world went black.