by Terri George
Chapter Twenty Three
ABBEY
JOURNAL ENTRY FIFTEEN
When someone’s abusive most of the time, it’s hard to trust them when they’re being uncharacteristically nice. So I was suspicious when Jensen cheerfully announced we were having a barbecue in the back yard. Like it was just another fun-filled summer’s day. And this is what we did.
In any other circumstance it would have been nice. Sun shining and in the mid-seventies, it was pleasantly warm enough to be outside in a tee shirt and jeans, but the old-fashioned brick-built barbecue just made me think of other al fresco meals at Cristina’s parents’ house.
Food is important to every nationality. It’s the one thing every culture has in common. It’s what brings families together. And meal times at the Caputo house are always something special. Whether it’s chicken or lamb, Stella Caputo’s traditional Sunday roasts are, quite simply, to die for. And all Italian food is delicious, that’s a given, but when Enzo is cooking on his traditional wood burning oven on the patio you know you’re in for a real treat. Alessandro’s birthday is in the height of summer and always celebrated in the flower-filled back garden with family and friends, lots of laughter, great wine and wonderful food.
Not the sesame-seeded white buns and fat-marbled steaks Jensen had me cook.
He stood close, sipping his beer as I dug the prongs of the barbecue fork into the steaks and flipped them to cook on the other side. I knew he could tell that I’d seen what was burning on the charcoal. And he knew I knew.
They may have already been reduced to small scraps, but those burnt-edged pieces were obviously fabric.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know you’ve been down in the basement?”
I’d put the girl’s clothes back in the carrier bag and left it as I thought I’d found it. Taken a pair of thin-nosed pliers I found in one of the boxes and carefully locked the door to my room behind me before hiding the pliers under the loosened floorboard with my journal. So I thought I’d left no trace of having been out of my room, much less down in the basement.
How could he possibly know?
He laughed. “Oh, look at your face. Surprised huh? Well maybe you should have been more careful to put the key to the basement door back exactly where you found it.”
Yes, I should have been because I know he’s going to make me pay in ways I don’t even want to think about.
“It’s not there anymore. The key. So don’t even bother trying that again. But why would ya? There’s no escape from down there either. There is no way out. Period.”
That doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying to find one.
“So just enjoy being outside while you can. Oh, and I know you won’t try running, in case you were wondering. You know I’d only catch you. Again.”
I knew.
So I made his steak sandwich, squirting ketchup on one half of the bun, mustard on the other as he told me to, and handed it to him.
He took a big bite. “Mmm. This is good,” he mumbled around his mouthful. “Eat some. You’re gonna need your strength. I got plans for you later.”
Chapter Twenty Four
CRISTINA
Despite Shari’s text, disappointed isn’t descriptive enough, but I don’t know a better word for how I feel. I’m the IT geek, Abbey’s the English nerd. She’d know, but then she’s a walking thesaurus. But as disappointed as I am after my hopes were raised then dashed, I know I can’t let it get to me. So, for now, more than the urgent need of a big glass of wine, what I really need is to do is some washing.
I’m dead impressed all the motels we’ve stayed in have laundrettes, but from the pall of artificial fragrance with its harsh metallic edge that hits you when you walk in, so strong you can taste it, I didn’t fancy using the laundry detergent on offer from the coin-operated machines. So when we got to the next town the first stop was the supermarket for washing liquid that’s kinder to my skin and the environment.
Of course, Abbey’s always on my mind (she’s the reason I’m here after all) but even so, it feels like the universe is conspiring to find all sorts of bizarre ways to remind me of her. Like the laundry liquid I found in the supermarket: non-bio, eco-friendly and fragranced with natural lavender oil. So why should washing liquid make me think of Abbey? Because she hangs bags of lavender in her wardrobe and slips sachets between her neatly folded clothes. Just as her mother did.
We’re queueing at the checkout behind a large woman, her weekly shopping of assorted ready-meals, fake-cream filled sponge cakes, (chocolate, yellow and an alarming shade of pink) jars of spaghetti sauce and processed cheeses probably containing the recommended allowance of sugar and salt for a whole month, when my mobile rings.
Heart suddenly pounding in my chest, I can’t quite get my breath when I read the name of the caller.
Reception’s rubbish in here and I only have one bar. Not wanting to lose connection I shove the shopping basket at Alessandro and mutter “excuse me”s as I squeeze past the large woman and the man in front of her who’s tapping his PIN into the machine attached to the till before tearing across the fifty or so feet to the exit in seconds.
As soon as I step over the threshold and out from under the awning protecting the display of cut flowers and potted plants from the weather, the number of bars increases and I hit the accept call button.
“Abbey?” I can barely hear her say my name she says it so softly, and the fear I hear in that one word terrifies me. “Are you all right?”
She starts to speak, then her words become unintelligible as they’re swallowed up in sobs.
“I’m here, Abbey, in Nebraska. Alessandro too. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. A beige house with a barn or garage out the back, surrounded by corn fields.”
Middle of nowhere then. Doesn’t help much. “Do you remember anything that could help us narrow it down?”
There’s a pause before Abbey answers. “We went through a town not long after we crossed the border into Nebraska.”
“What was it called?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“It’s okay. Was there anything about it you remember? A landmark or something.”
“Not really. Everywhere looks the same… Oh, wait... It’s weird, but it made me think of that old Harrison Ford film we watched on TCM a couple of months ago. That Sunday it chucked it down all day.”
And we couldn’t be arsed to go out. I remember the day, but the film only vaguely. “Then which way did you go?”
“Straight. In the same direction, I mean.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. An hour maybe. No, a bit less than that. Then we turned left and about ten minutes later we got to the house.”
“Look, we met a sheriff who’s helping us. She’ll find out who this Jensen really is. We will find you.”
“Please hurry. He–”
There’s a loud clattering, like her phone’s been dropped, bouncing on a hardwood floor. I press my phone against my ear as if that will help me hear better, then wish I hadn’t as what I hear is Abbey’s distant whimpering, like a dog whining as it cowers in expectation of another beating, followed by a slap.
A moment later Abbey’s phone is picked up and I hear a steady breathing at the other end. Then the connection is cut.
Abbey’s call has left me even more worried about her safety, so I cling to the one good thing about it. She’s alive.
Alessandro comes out with our shopping looking less than pleased. “Well everyone in the shop thinks we’re complete nutters after the way you ran out. Thanks for that. Who was on the phone?”
“Abbey.”
The annoyed look on Alessandro’s face fast morphs into one of concern. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
“No, I don’t think she’s ‘okay’, but she’s alive. And she doesn’t know where she is. Not exactly.”
“What does that mean, ‘not exactly’?”
“She remembers they
went through a town not long after they crossed the border into Nebraska. Then they kept going straight in the same direction.”
“I said we should have gone north. Didn’t I say we should have? If we had…”
I share Alessandro’s frustration. The thought that if we’d kept going straight we could have found her by now… “Yeah well, you know what they say about hindsight having perfect vision. But getting frustrated isn’t going to help. What we need to get is smart.”
“Okay. How do we do that?”
“Abbey said the town they went through reminded her of a film we watched a while ago on TV. An old Harrison Ford film. Trouble is I can’t even remember what it was about much less what it was called.”
Alessandro’s smile is wide. “Well, that’s what Google’s for.”
“It wasn’t sci-fi or an adventure, so not Star Trek or Indiana Jones.”
Alessandro turns on my laptop. “First off it’s Wars not Trek.”
I add a splash of water to the penne pappa al pomodoro and set it to cook in the room’s microwave for another four minutes. Just enough time to dress the salad with olive oil, mustard and pepper. “What?”
“Harrison Ford was in Star Wars. Well the first three films, which turned into the fourth to sixth, and the twenty-fifteen reboot.”
“Whatever. All I’m saying is, it was a contemporary action movie. A good one though, with a proper story, not just car chases and guns.”
“Okay. How old are we talking?”
“Maybe the nineties. He looked like he was still in his forties.”
“Well it wouldn’t have been any of the Star Wars or Indiana Jones films anyway because he made them in the eighties.”
“You’re such a movie geek. What was he in in the nineties?”
Alessandro taps away at the keyboard as I finish making dinner.
“Right. Nineties Harrison Ford films are, Presumed Innocent. Rusty Sabich is a lawyer investigating the death of a colleague... Okay, forget Regarding Henry. It’s about a bloke who loses his memory so not an action movie… Patriot Games doesn’t sound like your kind of thing. CIA agent Jack Ryan is targeted by the IRA... The Fugitive. Doctor Richard Kimble is wrongly accused of murdering his wife... He was Jack Ryan again in Clear and Present Danger, so obviously the IRA didn’t kill him in Patriot Games... Sabrina’s a romance and The Devil’s Own is the IRA again. Any of them ring a bell?”
“Not really.” Although… “What was that one about the doctor?”
“The Fugitive. Bloke wrongly accused of killing his wife. Is that the film Abbey was talking about?”
“Could be, but I don’t get the connection.”
“Well there must be one.”
I know, but what? I’m just not seeing it.
“It scores ninety-six percent on Rotten Tomatoes so I can see why you watched it. ‘After being convicted of murdering his wife, while being transferred to prison, Kimble is involved in a spectacular bus-train collision (one of the best of its kind ever filmed). Surviving the disaster, Kimble escapes, vowing to track down the elusive professional criminal responsible for the murder. Dogging the fugitive is US marshal Sam Gerard, who announces his intention to search “every whorehouse, doghouse, and outhouse” to bring Kimble to justice.’. It does sound good. How come I’ve never seen this?”
Oh my God. That’s it. “Kimball. That was the name of the first town we got to when we crossed into Nebraska.”
“Great, so where does that get us?”
“Abbey said they kept going straight from there for a bit less than an hour. So we can narrow down the towns where she could be.”
Alessandro calls up a map and zooms in on western Nebraska. “The good news is there aren’t many.”
A Google check of the towns north of Kimball shows we can discount the nearest. It’s less than a half hour drive. That leaves three other towns where Abbey could be. And they’re all nicely in a cluster.
“So how big an area are we looking at?”
Alessandro does a quick mental calculation. “Just over eleven square miles.”
“I don’t know why you’re looking so pleased. That’s still a lot of ground to cover.”
“Because, even though the total population is a little over twenty-five thousand, there aren’t that many roads. We could check them out in two days max. The odds on us finding Abbey are shortening.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Alessandro grins. “Good. Can we eat now, I’m starving?”
“Yes, but first text Shari and let her know about Abbey’s call and the towns we’ve narrowed it down to while I dish up.
***
Remember how hard it was to get to sleep on Christmas Eve when you were little? More than the childish longing to witness Babba Natale leaving gifts in the stocking hanging from the post at the foot of your bed, it was the anticipation of tomorrow that kept you wide-eyed late into the night. An expectation you grow to realise as an adult that was always going to be bigger, brighter and better than the reality could ever hope to fulfil. By three in the afternoon, once the debris of the delicious lunch that took all morning to prepare and was scoffed in minutes has been cleared away and darkness lowers as the Big Day comes to a premature close, it all seems a bit of an anticlimax.
Or how, when even though what you really need before an important day is a good night’s sleep, that’s the last thing you get. Anticipation seeping into your psyche. An arrhythmic fluttering in your chest, a jitteriness that isn’t caffeine induced, a restlessness that, despite fluffing the pillows and sifting positions trying to find that sweet spot of comfort, has you staring at the ceiling.
Abbey’s exams were done and dusted, but I still had one last exam in my finals to go. I had it all sorted, knew I’d done the work and was confident of a good grade, maybe even a great one, but even though on the surface I seemed calm, I couldn’t settle. So, unlike my course-mates cramming in their dorms, downing gallons of coffee to stay awake, I dragged Abbey to the student bar. And even though I was still ever-so-slightly hungover when the invigilator told us to turn over our papers the next morning, I still scored ninety-two percent.
But this is far bigger than sneaking a peak at Santa or exams.
Which is why I was still awake when it started getting light beyond the thin floral curtains protecting our privacy from anyone passing our motel room on the walkway. The same video playing in my head on repeat, of an isolated house surrounded by armed men clad in black with SWAT written in yellow on the back of their uniforms. Jensen handcuffed. Abbey safe. Hoping this will be one time when expectation and reality come together in perfect symmetry.
I’m drying my hair so Alessandro checks my ringing phone on the cabinet between our beds. “It’s Shari,” he says and puts it on speaker.
I turn off the hair dryer. “Morning Shari. You’re up early.”
“You call eight-thirty early? I’ve been working an hour already.”
Yeah well, I bet you had more than two hours sleep.
“I’ll cut straight to the chase. I know who he is.”
I’d rather ‘who’ was ‘where’, but it’s a start.
“His name is Jeremiah Jensen”
That explains his Facebook name. “Jeremiah Jensen what?”
“I have to liaise with the sheriff in Scottsbluff. I’ll have my deputy book us rooms at the Flagstone hotel and meet you there.”
Did she just evade my question? “So if you know who he is, do you where he is? Where he’s holding Abbey.”
There’s a pause before Shari answers. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?”
“Because I know how much you want to find your friend. But–”
“So you know where he is, but you’re not going to tell us?”
“Not yet, because if I do, you’ll head straight there and it’s too dangerous. For you and Abbey.”
“Why? Because you think he’s armed or something?”
“There’s nothing to suggest he is, but he doesn’t need a gun, There are things in every home that can be used to kill. Please, Cristina. You have to leave it to law enforcement. Let us do our jobs. Check into the hotel and I’ll see you later and get you all caught up. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. See you later.”
Alessandro hangs up and stares at me. “So that’s it? We’re just going to sit and wait in a hotel?”
Do you know, sometimes I wonder if my brother knows me at all. “Are we bollocks. I’m going to find my best friend.”
Chapter Twenty Five
CRISTINA
Despite the attempted homeliness of a sofa and armchairs arranged around the fireplace and contemporary abstracts on its walls, the lobby of the hotel Shari booked us into somehow manages to be both bland and stark. Why do all these hotels look the same? Their interior designers’ inability to think beyond magnolia and beige borders on the obstinate. Maybe an expectation of more would test their creativity a step too far. Or perhaps they believe there’s comfort to be found in the familiar. A misplaced sense of safety in the similarity of the insipid.
It’s the same everywhere. Everything looks the same. Burger bars, coffee shops, clothing retailers. With global chains proliferating on every high street, it gets harder each day to identify where you are as the world edges closer to becoming one big homogenised retail outlet.
But the smile of the girl on reception as we check in is just as wide, her welcome just as warm as we’ve received in every place we’ve stayed. Who knows, her cheeriness might even be genuine. Although there must be days when she’s faking it.
“You’re in room two-oh-three, second floor,” she says, handing me the key card.
I return her smile with one equally as broad. “Thanks.”
“When Shari gets here, do you think she’ll let us in on what’s going on?” Alessandro asks as we head for the lift.
I’d like to think so, but I get the feeling she considers this a police operation now, so she’ll take over and we’ll be left in the dark. Yeah, good luck with that. “Whether she does or not, we should have plenty of time before she gets here to do what we have to.”