The MisFit Series (Book 2): The Lost Days

by Plum, AB

  Chapter 46

  Fighting Off Gloom

  Sleep tugged at me like an undertow. Imagining the punishment yet to come kept my eyes open. Stiff and sore, I stood on shaky legs and debated going back across the road for water.

  Which was greater?

  Risk Baseball Cap’s return at the precise moment I emerged into the open?

  Or risk brain damage—maybe permanent—due to dehydration?

  Logic—operating subpar—whispered my body needed water. I’d stand a better chance against Baseball Cap and Olavi if a few brain cells kicked in.

  Halfway through the trek to the lake, I bent over my knees, gulped in the hot, moist air, and accepted the certainty I was dying. Teeth gritted, I moaned like an animal. A snapshot of Baseball Cap flashed. God, he’d love to see me mewling.

  Just as I’d love to see him grovel at my feet for mercy.

  Overhead, disks of chartreuse and magenta and purple circled the strobing sun. My head drummed from the intensity. The throb sounded so much like a car’s motor, I laughed. Or thought I laughed.

  The vibration increased. I raised my head and looked in the direction Dimitri had biked. In a haze of white heat, a black car covered in dust barreled down the road.

  Christ, here they come. I spun around, fell over my own feet, and went down in the dirt. Bits of gravel stung my palms and knees. I struggled to stand. Failed. Crawled, glancing over my shoulder.

  The car stopped inches from my backside. A door slammed. I balanced on my stinging hands and exhaled—hoping to get to my feet and face my abductors. Brain and muscles failed to communicate, and I crawled forward. All thought had evaporated. Wind whistled through the air and rushed into my ears.

  A hand like a vice clamped down on my shoulder. Fingers dug past flesh into muscle and bones and cells. With my last ounce of energy, I snarled, “Get your fucking hands off me.”

  “Gladly.” The hands released me with such force I fell face down, my teeth rattling my brain pan.

  But it wasn’t the pain that shriveled my bladder to the size of a peanut. It was the voice I dreaded more than Baseball Cap’s voice of doom.

  Chapter 47

  Time to Pay the Piper

  “On your feet, Michael.” My father’s voice rang with hatred.

  When he made no offer to help me stand, I made a tripod with the fingers of one hand and pushed myself upright with the other hand to support my quivering thighs. Slowly, I faced him.

  Unlike everyone but Dimitri and our captors, he did not flinch from my glare. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

  Unwilling to say no, I lifted my chin and nodded. “I’ve survived beatings and starvation and sleep deprivation by three violent kidnappers.”

  “And your survival will leave you far poorer than you ever imagined.”

  The heat was shutting down my brain. Confused, I asked, “Has something happened to Dimitri?”

  He barked a short laugh. “Never waste your time worrying about a Russian from peasant stock. Your bootlicker’s fine.”

  My scalp tingled. Despite our recent confrontations, I didn’t want to imagine life without Dimitri. “I don’t understand.”

  “And you a genius.” My father stared into the sun as if he had no fear the rays would damage his eyes. His bravado was totally unnecessary to impress me. In my eyes, he’d always been fearless.

  His gaze shifted to the trees in the distance. “This land you are standing on belonged to your mother. And the land beyond that forest and the forest after that and the next one, too, belonged to her. She owned half the richest companies in the country and inherited stock from some of the biggest corporations in the world. By Finnish law, you were her sole heir.”

  My heart missed a beat. “Were?”

  “Were.” He snorted. “I have just signed away all your rights to any claim on her properties in exchange for your freedom.”

  Anger exploded in a red haze. “How do you have that right?”

  “Though you don’t behave like a son, I am your father. Until you are eighteen, I have legal responsibility. I exercised that responsibility two hours ago. Now get in the car. No more questions.”

  Chapter 48

  Father Knows Best

  The return to Copenhagen provided Dimitri and me plenty of time to talk. My father bought a first-class ticket for himself. Dimitri and me, he consigned to the last seats in coach. I felt fortunate he didn’t make us fly out on the wing.

  Not that I gave a damn about where he or I sat. Sitting near him, I risked terminal hypothermia from his icy fury. He needed no words to express that the kidnapping had stemmed from my stupidity.

  Assumption made, he asked for no details. Offered no words of comfort. Expressed no curiosity. Voiced no fear about the trauma Dimitri and I had survived. His curled lip and narrowed eyes had cut short my whoops when, on that desolate Finnish road, Dimitri had climbed out of the backseat of an unfamiliar BMW.

  As if playing parts in a play, Dimitri and I had downplayed our greeting. A bone-wrenching handshake communicated how good it was to see each other alive. Unspoken, we signaled that survival trumped our earlier, ridiculous spats.

  Whispering later in our airplane seats, we reconfirmed our oath made months earlier: We owed loyalty to no one except to each other. During the flight, Dimitri summarized reaching the village just as Father left the hotel. He immediately ordered Dimitri into the BMW and barked he wanted silence.

  No questions if I was hurt or alive?

  Dimitri shook his head to my unasked query.

  Jaw locked, I dug a fingernail into a knot behind my ear. Baseball Cap had raised the welt with no more empathy than my father showed after arriving in Finland.

  Was I, instead of his heir, simply another possession?

  The cabin attendant interrupted, offering us drinks and a variety of small sandwiches. Laughing, I asked for two Cokes—beverages Father adamantly outlawed in our home. Dimitri followed suit. We raised our glasses and toasted our adventure.

  The strong liquid went down like lava, searing my tonsils and bringing tears. Thank God I’d killed Alexei for revenge and not for first-place in Father’s eyes. Maybe, like me, he was incapable of love.

  Better to accept that truth and have no expectations.

  The second swallow of Coke slid down smoothly. Too bad Father sat so far forward. With each swig of the forbidden drink, I imagined leaving my seat, marching into first class, and challenging him about Kari’s body. Had his payoff to Baseball Cap included disposal of the corpse? Or would it lie undiscovered in that deserted cabin and rot?

  An image flashed. Of Dimitri and me bashing Kari’s head with the cans of reindeer meat. My pulse pounded, then slowed. I savored the last drop of the soft drink. If I informed my father of my ingenuity, would he feel a twinge of pride?

  When we reached the little house my father had bought after my mother kicked us out of the Hellerup estate, he gave us two minutes with the inimitable housekeeper Emma. She clucked over our cuts and bruises, but scuttled to her room when Father declared we required no attention.

  As soon as her door closed, he said, “I leave tomorrow for Buenos Aires. You two are coming with me. End of discussion—unless you choose to live on the streets of Copenhagen.”

  Dimitri and I exchanged looks. We could live quite well on our drug and porn business—as agreed on the flight from Finland. However, we also agreed it made more sense for us to delay using that money right now. We planned to invest the savings even as we continued to expand. We had long ago recruited an illiterate, small-time gangster who had helped with the pornographic pictures that contributed to my mother’s suicide.

  I pasted on a faux smile. “I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish. What should we take?”

  “Only necessities. Everything is cheaper in Buenos Aires. I’ll have Emma send your books. Now go to bed. You both look like corpses.”

  “Good night, Father.” I sounded like an obedient child. On the inside, my guts bo
iled. I imagined intestinal acid spewing into his facial crevasses and those of our abductors who—with the exception of Kari—had escaped punishment.

  Fists clenched, walking next to Dimitri toward my bedroom, I turned to my father. “The men who kidnapped us? Were they related to my mother?”

  “Related to your mother?” He sputtered, and a vein in his temple pulsed in a frenetic rhythm. “Why would you ask such a stupid question?”

  “One of the men spoke as if he knew her.”

  “Finland is a small place, Michael. Everyone’s related. We’ll probably never know the men’s identities.”

  “Who received the ransom?”

  “Why? Do you think you’ll get retribution?”

  Not retribution. Revenge. I shrugged. “Curiosity. Was it Herr Karppinen?”

  “Karppinen? Are you sure those thugs didn’t permanently damage your brain?”

  “Can you say for a hundred-percent certainty that Karppinen is innocent?”

  “Innocent?” Laughing, he threw his hands in the air. “Karppinen is as innocent as the devil. Except in this instance. Now go to bed. You’ve given me a blinding headache.”

  “Sleep well, Father.” Under my breath, I said to Dimitri, “Expect worse headaches to come, old man.”

  ****

  THANK YOU!

  I hope you enjoyed reading the new revelations about Michael Romanov’s bizarre childhood. If you’ve not read The Early Years, Book 1 in The MisFit Series, it’s available now. While you’re there, I’d love it if you’d leave a review.

  Word of mouth works!

  Interested in behind-the-scenes outtakes about story development and sneak peeks of upcoming releases? Check out my website: abplum.com.

  Sign up for my mailing list and get a FREE copy of The Boy Nobody Loved, plus other exclusive content: http://eepurl.com/cX_v-v

  Acknowledgments

  As always, David, thank you.

  Thanks to all my friends and family for reading snippets or offering feedback with the gift of your support. I owe special thanks to my critique partners, published authors Marjorie Brody and Linda Madl.

  My go-to-cover guru is Patty G. Henderson @ http://boulevardphotografica.yolasite.com/.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by AB Plum.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in whole or in part in any form whatsoever. For information on reproducing, contact abplum.com.

  About AB

  AB Plum lives and writes just off the fast lane exit in Silicon Valley. Reading, walking, and aerobic dancing fuel her brain during non-writing hours.