“I don’t care about you, or The Lords, or any of the gangs. All I care about is Lindsey, and the truth.”
“Well, at least we can agree on one thing,” the man said shifting his weight around. “We both want to get down to the truth. Maybe for different reasons, but in the end, we’re both looking for the same answers.” He held out his hand. “Which brings me to the matter at hand. The phone, please.”
Michael retrieved it from his pocket and held it out to the man. “I still don’t see what this can do to help you,” he said as he dropped it in his hand.
“In all honesty, it does very little. But, if my enemies want it, then I must have it. It’s simple as that.” He examined the phone in his hand before motioning for one of his men to step forward and take it from him.
“What now?” Michael asked, waiting for the instructions as to what he needed to do to get Lindsey back.
“I assume you still don’t have the answers we’re looking for.”
“I’m getting close.”
“Close is good, but not good enough,” the man said reaching into his pocket and revealing a Polaroid picture. He held it out so Michael could see. It was a picture of Lindsey. She was seated in a chair, in front of a blank, white wall. Her hands bound behind her, a gag wrapped around her mouth, and a look of fear and panic in her eyes.
He snatched the picture away from the man, examining it closely. “You said she was all right!” he exclaimed.
“She is,” he replied calmly. “Does she look hurt to you?”
“She looks scared.”
“What did you think?” he said bursting into a fit of laughter. “That we were going to take her to the Four Seasons and put her up in a luxury hotel room or something? Don’t be naïve, Michael. You’re better than that.”
He turned the picture over, and on the back was written a time—8:30. “What’s this?” he asked, looking down at it.
“That’s the time you’re expected to report back to us, of course,” the man replied matter-of-factly. “If you want to see her alive again, then at 8:30am tomorrow, you have to come find us.”
“Where?” he asked, looking up at the man.
“I’ve given you everything you need,” the man said with an air of finality before turning to return to the car.
“Wait!” Michael yelled after them. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go!”
The man didn’t answer. He just waved his hand to motion for his men to follow him, and continued walking back to his vehicle. Just before sliding into the driver’s seat, the man turned to look back to Michael. “Remember, Michael. We know where you are at all times. Every piece of information you attain, we know about. We’re listening, watching, following your every move. By 8:30 tomorrow morning, if you have the answers, we will, too. By that point, we won’t need you to show up, but if you don’t she’ll be the one to pay.”
Confused, Michael watched as the car pulled away. He looked back down at the photo in his hand. What did he mean? He had given him everything he needed? He gave him nothing—nothing more than a picture of a terrified Lindsey and a time! “Twenty hours,” he said to himself. “I only have 20 hours to figure it out, and on top of that, I have to figure out where they’re holding her too?”
A feeling of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to scream, to curse the people who had done this—all of it. He wanted to curse Hamilton & Lewis, Mickey Walsh, The Lords, The East Side Kings, The Underground Mafia, Gloria from the doctor’s office, even Officer Connolly. But more than any of them, he wanted to curse himself. It was his selfish desire to investigate all of this that led to Lindsey being kidnapped. It was his fault that everything had played out the way it did.
Leaning back against his car, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep his focus. It was next to impossible, though. The images flying around in his mind shifted back and forth quickly between the picture of Lindsey in his hand, to the memory of Rachel that so often clouded his thoughts. He could see the face of Susan Reynolds, tear-stained and blotchy at her daughter’s funeral. He could see his own reflection, staring back at him in the mirror, not the man he was trying to be, though—the man he had let himself become in his grief. The man with tired, drawn eyes, hair that hung loosely around his ears, and a desperate look written across his face.
As he stood there, letting the feelings of guilt and sorrow wash over him, he could see the faces of Jason and Rachel’s parents, looking at him with expressions of pity. He didn’t want to go back to that. He didn’t want to return to the state he was in just a week before. Regardless of where he was in that moment, the investigation into Rachel’s death had changed him—it had helped him.
Lindsey had helped him. She had not just aided in his search, she had helped him find himself again. She refused to look at him the way everyone else did. She refused to see a broken man. She had always had faith in him. He couldn’t let her down now! This situation was difficult, but it wasn’t harder than burying his fiancée. It wasn’t harder than saying goodbye to Rachel. If he could make it through that, he could do this.
Pushing himself up quickly, he reset his mind on the events at hand. He refused to give up; he refused to let Lindsey down. No longer was he the man who let the world crush him; he was who he used to be—a fighter, a survivor. Shoving the picture down into his pocket, he grabbed his keys and slid into the driver’s seat.
He still had a couple hours before he needed to meet with Gloria outside of the doctor’s office. He was trying to decide what to do in the meantime when his cell phone began to ring. “Shit,” he said as he looked down at the screen. “Hello, George,” he said answering the call.
“Michael, where the hell are you?” George said angrily. “You were supposed to be in hours ago!”
“I know,” Michael tried to think of a lie to explain why he didn’t comply with his promise. “I got distracted with something.”
“Well, you better get your ass over here now!” George demanded. It was rare that he took that tone with anyone, but after the situation that Michael had put him in, agreeing to fix up Lindsey’s car despite his own better judgment, he understood his frustration.
Michael looked at the clock—12:52. He only had two hours; it wasn’t enough time. “I can’t today, George,” he said.
“What do you mean ‘you can’t’?”
“I just can’t, okay?” Michael snapped at him. He didn’t want to get angry, but the car was the last thing on his mind. He didn’t want to lie to his former boss; he just wanted him to stop asking questions.
“I don’t want this thing in my garage, Michael. It’s covered in bullet holes! You said you’d help and we could get it out in a few days,” George reminded him. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed,” he muttered under his breath.
“Just hold onto it for a few more days, George. I swear, I’ll be in soon.”
“If we don’t get this done, Michael, I’m going to report it.”
“Don’t!” Michael pleaded. “Please, just give me a little time. Throw a tarp over it or something. You don’t have to work on it until I’m there. Just give me a little time.”
“I thought you had turned a corner, Michael,” George said in a fatherly tone. It was wrapped in concern with a hint of scolding.
“I’m sorry, George. It’s just a lot for me right now,” Michael decided to play the pity card as long as he had it. It was his only viable option at the moment. “I’m getting my shit together, I really am. Just give me a little more time!”
“Tomorrow,” George said firmly. “If you’re not in tomorrow, I’m reporting it.”
“Thank you, George,” he said before hanging up.
Driving back to his house, Michael tried to think of where The Underground Mafia could be holding Lindsey. The man with the scar had said that he had given him everything he needed to know. But, all he had given him was a picture. Is it possible that they would meet again in the same parking lot they had just met in? That seemed too
simple. Michael reached into the cup holder next to him where he had shoved the slip of paper with the address on it.
He held it up in front of him, careful to keep his eyes on the road, almost hearing Lindsey’s voice scold him for not keeping his focus on driving. He squinted his eyes at the sloppy writing, trying to decipher if there were some sort of hidden message in it. There was something funny about the way the numbers were written. Could that be it? The hint he was supposed to follow? Maybe they were written that way on purpose?
He turned the paper around, trying to see if he saw anything different from a different angle. Pulling the slip of paper closer to his face, he let out a frustrated sigh when he saw nothing more than a row of numbers, just upside down. Throwing the paper back on the seat next to him, he turned his attention back to the road, just in time to see a car barreling towards him, driving down the wrong side of the street.
It was the black Impala; there was no doubt about that. Michael grabbed onto the wheel with both hands, not giving in to his game. If he wanted to play chicken, Michael would play chicken. The man driving the vehicle that was quickly rushing up on him didn’t flinch; neither did Michael.
The two cars kept true to their course, although the Impala accelerated slightly. It wasn’t until they were mere feet away from colliding that Michael jerked the wheel to the right, turning quickly down a side street running up to an old farmhouse hidden far from the main road.
He slammed on his breaks, and turned to look behind him. The Impala didn’t follow him. He could just see it disappear down the road. He let out a sigh of relief, turning back around and throwing his car into reverse.
It’s not just The Underground Mafia who was continuing to keep a close eye on him. It’s obvious that the Lords, Hamilton & Lewis, and whoever their third party member was as well. It was clear, though, that they still wanted to keep their presence unknown, at least for the moment. A move like that was meant more to scare him than anything. They were giving him a chance to back down.
It wouldn’t work, though. If anything, their desperate acts only served to fuel him forward. They proved to him that he was on the right track; that he was getting closer. Pulling out of the driveway, though, his renewed sense of confidence evaporated quickly. The only thing that he had accomplished since the last time he saw the black Impala was figure out about the payphone and speak to Gloria.
That only meant one of two things—either Gloria tipped them off, or she was in trouble. Remembering the look of panic in her eyes when he spoke to her gave him the sinking feeling that it had to be the latter. Despite the fact that it was still an hour and 45 minutes until they had agreed to meet, Michael took off in the direction of the shopping mall. No matter what the circumstance was, he had to get back to Gloria before whoever was driving the Impala did.
Chapter 16: Two-Thirds of the Puzzle
“What are you doing here?” Gloria asked him quietly over her desk.
“Did you tell them?” he demanded of her, not worrying about keeping his voice down. The new group of faces sitting in the waiting area looked at him with the same confused and scared looks the other group had earlier in the morning.
“Sir, I think you really should…”
“Gloria!” he said slamming his fist down onto her desk, causing her to jump. “Did you tell them?”
He heard the quiet murmurs of the people behind him, whispering back and forth between them. “Come with me,” she said pushing herself up and taking his hand, leading him around the corner to what appeared to be a supply closet. “What are you talking about?” she asked him in a harsh whisper once they were alone.
“Whoever you’re working with, or working for, or whatever… did you tell them I came to see you today?”
Her face showed a momentary flash of panic. “No,” she said quickly. “Why would you say that?”
“That’s not important right now. What is, is that we need to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her wrist and starting to lead her out to the reception area again.
“Wait,” she said pulling her hand back. “How do I know I can trust you?”
He turned around and looked at her. She wasn’t just scared; she was terrified. She knew something, he could tell. She had information he could use. “Do you remember the girl I mentioned earlier?” he asked. “Joy Reynolds.”
“Yes,” she said softly, nodding her head at the same time.
“She worked with my fiancée—Rachel Johnson. Rachel was also killed.”
“In January,” Gloria said, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
“Yes,” Michael replied, not letting her obvious reaction to Rachel’s name detour him. “Please, Gloria,” he said firmly. “We need to get out of here. We can talk more once we’re sure that we’re safe.”
“Okay,” she said with a quiet sob. She ran her palm along her cheek to dry her tears. “But what do I tell my boss?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Michael said grabbing her hand again and leading her back to the reception area. “I’m sorry Gloria, but it’s urgent!” he yelled out loud enough for everyone around them to hear.
“What?” she asked him quietly. “What are you doing?”
“We have to go!” he continued to yell loudly.
A man appeared down the hall, coming from one of the examination rooms. He was obviously the doctor, dressed in a white lab-coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. “What’s going on?” he asked walking quickly towards them.
“Dr. Gordon,” Gloria said addressing him. “I’m afraid I have to leave a little early today.”
He shot her a look of disapproval. “Gloria,” he said to her sternly. “You’ve used all of your vacation days already.”
“Please, Doctor,” Michael said stepping forward. “It’s our grandma,” he explained.
“Your grandma?” Doctor Gordon asked turning his full attention to him.
“Yes,” Michael continued to create the false story as he spoke. “You see, she’s been pretty sick lately.”
“Gloria,” the doctor turned his attention to her. “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“I didn’t…” she started, stuttering.
“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Michael said stepping back and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “She’s been really beat up about it. She didn’t mention it, I’m sure, because she just didn’t want to think about it while she was at work.”
“I heard someone yelling before,” the doctor said, his eyes shifting suspiciously between the two of them. “Was that you?”
“Yes,” Michael said shrugging. “I wanted to know if Gloria had told the doctor’s at the hospital about our granny’s penicillin allergy. Gloria spends the most time with her, you see. I shouldn’t have yelled,” he turned back to Gloria. “I’m sorry. I was just nervous.”
“I understand,” she said looking past him at her boss. “Please, Dr. Gordon. It’s only an hour early. Please let me go see my grandma. It may be my last chance,” she let out a shaky sigh.
“Fine,” the doctor said, waving his hand for them to leave. “Call if you won’t be in tomorrow,” he added as they walked to the door. “At least give me a heads up.”
“Will do, sir!” she called out over her shoulder as Michael pushed her out the door.
“We’ll take my car,” Michael said leading her over to where he had parked.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice shaking and worried again.
“I don’t know,” Michael admitted as he waited for Gloria to take her place in the passenger’s seat before he took his in the driver’s seat. They couldn’t go back to his house, anyone and everyone seemed to know too much about him; that would make it too easy for them to find them. Rachel’s apartment was also not a possibility, considering what happened the last time he went there.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Gloria asked, her voice becoming more high-pitched.
“Do you have anywhere we can go
that’s safe?” he asked her pulling the car out of the parking lot.
“No,” she said, burying her face in her hands and letting out a quiet sob.
“Don’t,” he started, feeling very uncomfortable. “Please don’t cry.”
She didn’t stop; she just continued to sob into her hands as Michael drove around, looking for anywhere that they could go. “Are you hungry?” he asked her finally. “I’m hungry.”
“I can’t eat right now!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I can,” he said pulling the car into the parking lot of a locally owned steak house. When they made their way inside, he was pleased to find the place was almost completely empty. “See,” he said whispering over his shoulder to Gloria. “No one goes to eat at 2:00 in the afternoon. We’ll at least have some privacy here.”
They requested a corner booth, which they were given, and sat in awkward silence while they waited for the tall, lanky waiter to bring them their order. “I can’t believe how hungry I am!” Michael said as he reached for his fork and knife and began cutting into the medium-rare steak sitting in front of him.
“How can you possibly be hungry at a time like this?” Gloria asked, sipping on her water and staring at him with wide eyes that threatened to release another flood of tears at any moment.
Releasing a long sigh he chewed his food before answering. “The last time I had a real meal was easily more than 24 hours ago,” he explained. “I’m guessing the next time I’ll have a chance to sit down and relax will be 24 hours from now. So, I’m going to take advantage of it while I can.”
Gloria shifted her eyes back and forth quickly, making sure the waiter wasn’t going to return, and that no one was around. “How did you know that they knew you came to see me?” she asked leaning forward and pushing her water to the side.
“Why don’t we start with you telling me who ‘they’ are?” Michael countered.
Unforgiven: A Conspiracy Thriller Page 11
