Renee eyed me intently. “You are going right?”
“Um, no.” Her gaze got even more intent. “You know how horrible I look in a dress!”
“Christina — ”
“Besides, I doubt that I'd be allowed to go. You know how old-fashioned my mother is.” I raised my voice, adopting her thick accent, “You're wearing that? Will there be boys there, Christina? Boys don't marry girls who look like cheap French whores.”
“I know, I know.” Renee cut me off. “Then you say, No, mother. It's a nun party. It wasn't funny the first time, you know. Holy Trinity is just too close to being a parochial school.”
Not close enough for my mother. In her view, there were three options for a woman. If you were beautiful, you got married. If you were ugly, you became a nun. If you were beautiful and stupid, or ugly and dishonorable, you became a whore. I think that was probably the only reason she was agreeing to let me go to college — she was hoping I'd get my “M.R.S. Degree.”
“So are your elusive parents actually home?”
I grimaced, twisting my hair into a bun. “They shouldn't be. They were leaving this afternoon to go somewhere. Hawaii, I think. I wasn't listening.” Had my mother even told me? “Anyway, they'll probably be gone by the time I get home.”
“On a show?”
“Just leisure. And no, her dresses still cost upwards of a thousand dollars.”
Renee sighed. “Your mom is so cool. I wish I had a fashion designer as a mom. Do you know how many girls would kill to wear one of her dresses to prom?”
“No you don't. It's a total pain. She's never home and I'm too fat to wear any of her clothes.”
“You're not fat, Chris.”
“Tell that to my mom. She's always saying to me, Size sixteen? How can you be a size sixteen? When I was your age, I was a size four. As if my self-esteem isn't low enough already.”
“She's probably just worried….She shouldn't be saying those things to you, but I'm sure that's just because she cares for you. But you should still come to the dance. Don't you see? If you don't, you'll be letting her win because she'll have gotten to you. I'll help you find a dress, Christina — and you're going to look great in it.”
“Maybe,” I said unconvincingly.
“Hold that thought.” Renee picked up her phone. “Hey, Dad. You're on your way? I'm with Christina right now on Anderson.” She listened to whatever her dad was saying and gave me a funny look. “Huh. Interesting. Okay. Love you, too. See you soon. Bye.”
“Interesting?” I raised an eyebrow, wondering what was up with the cloak and dagger stuff.
“What time did you say your parents were leaving?”
“Early. Around noon or one. Why?”
“That's weird. Because my dad said he'd just come back from Radio Shack. He said he saw your dad there.”
“Really? Just now? In Barton?” She nodded.
That was weird. I didn't see why they would lie to me about their trip.
“Maybe they needed a security device,” Renee suggested. “Or a new cell phone.”
“Maybe.” They had told me the plane was leaving this afternoon. Had they postponed the trip? If so, why? Last week, they had seemed quite anxious to leave. Or was I just being paranoid? This was the airport, after all. Flights got canceled and delayed all the time.
I still couldn't quash the anxiety that gnawed at my gut.
“Well, that's my ride.” Renee waved as her dad pulled up to the curb in a gray Mercedes. “Do you want us to take you home?”
“I live just down there. It'd be out of your way.” And I could use the exercise.
“Well…see you, then, I guess. Oh, and don't text me — I'm close to my plan's limit.”
I waved and continued down the street to my house: a large, two-story mock Tudor. I entered through the side door, passing straight through the kitchen. Surprise, surprise, my parents weren't home. My kitten, Dollface, was, though, and ran up to greet me.
“Hi, Doll,” I cooed, scratching him under the chin. He was a yellow tabby with a white tummy and white paws and had the privilege of being the most important boy in my life. This did not bode well for my future.
He purred, letting me pet him until he got bored with me and trotted off to his cat dish. Even I couldn't compete with chicken- and liver-flavored kitty kibble. Feeling hungry myself, I went to the fridge, surprised to see that there was a note waiting for me. Christina — when you get home, call this number as soon as possible:
Ten digits were listed below in my mother's feminine script.
I dumped my messenger bag on the linoleum and helped myself to a sandwich from the fridge. I wasn't concerned. My mother tended to overreact. Whereas my father was the stolid, logical one, my mother was the dramatic one who liked to pretend life was a giant telenovela where she had center stage. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if the problem was serious, my mother would have called my cell phone or left a message with the school.
No, I thought, pouring a few potato chips on my plate. Mom probably wanted to remind me to take my vitamin D, or not consume any high fructose corn syrup while she was gone. Besides, I had more pressing concerns. Like studying for my Spanish test on Monday. Later. I relocated to the living room and switched on the TV. My dad had left the news on from this morning. A blond woman with too much hairspray was saying, “...secret terrorist organization was discovered due to an unlucky hacker's computer exploits — ”
I paused with my finger hovering over the channel button then surfed some more. None of the other channels yielded anything more promising. I settled for reruns of old cartoon shows. During the next commercial break, I took my plate to the kitchen. My eyes went to my mother's note. I should call her so she wouldn't jump the gun and do something drastic like phoning the police. I punched the number, twirling the cord around my finger. For somebody who used to be a professional model, my mother was incredibly lacking in poise.
The connection was terrible. Grainy. I thought I could hear somebody speaking amidst the static. “Christina, this is…warning… must get out…house…possible…danger.” The voice went dead. I heard a beep. I redialed the number. Warning? Danger? If I listened to the message a second time, it might make more sense.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.”
I dialed again, with exaggerated slowness.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.”
The hand holding onto the phone fell to my side. Distantly, I was aware of the phone smacking against the wall. I had always been told not to believe everything I heard. I'd also been told that the mind can play tricks on you when you are afraid. Those two things in combination should have been enough to quell my fears but they weren't. Even if the call meant nothing, even if it was a hoax, I was terrified. I was home alone, getting strange calls from somebody who did not sound like my parents. I wanted reassurance from an adult that I was going to be fine.
But my parents weren't here. They were halfway around the world by now — unless Renee had been right, and they'd decided to take a detour. Wherever they were, it wasn't here, and there was nobody else I could….Wait. I backpedaled. That wasn't quite true. Renee. I could call Renee at home and ask if I could spend the night at her house. Her parents were well-versed in my mom and dad's erratic behavior. I was sure they wouldn't object to me staying the weekend. If necessary, my parents would compensate them for their time and resources.
I could still hear that disembodied voice in my head, chilling me to the bone. It had sounded like the person on the other end was saying that I must get out of the house as soon as possible because of the danger. That didn't make any sense to me, though — wouldn't it be safer to be in the house? Not if somebody was already inside. I brushed that thought aside, where it retreated to my unconscious and darkened my mood like a thundercloud. Okay, that's it. I'm getting out of this house.
Dollface mobbed me, rubbing his face aga
inst my ankle. “Not right now.” I scooped him up, ignoring the indignant mew he uttered in protest. “I'm going away for a while. Out you go.”
I could hear his paws scrabbling against the glass as he mewed to be let back inside the house. I shook my head at him and stumbled up the stairs. My messenger bag was lying on the floor near my bed. I dumped all the school crap onto my comforter, making room for a nightshirt and an extra set of clothes. I hesitated, then packed my Spanish book. No point in tempting fate.
A sudden creak made me jump. I picked up my cell phone from the nightstand and started to dial. My hands were trembling. The sooner I got this over with, the better I'd feel.
I waited as Renee's phone rang…and rang…and rang, before taking me to voice mail. “Hello, this is Renee. I'm not here right now but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Hi, Renee. This is Christina. I was just wondering — ”
The only warning I got was a flash of black in the mirror over my dresser, as if one of the shadows in my bedroom had come to life. In the time that it took me to blink, he grabbed me and my cell phone, which had been in my hand, clattered to the floor. Disbelief gave way to utter terror and I inhaled reflexively for a scream that never got released.
A gloved hand had closed over my mouth. I could taste leather. “No,” I screamed, “No, no, no — ” before my words just dissolved into incomprehensible shrieking that not even the glove could mask. Something hard and cylindrical pressed against my temple.
“Be quiet. It's not in my interests to hurt you, but I will.” The voice was sexless, emotionless, and lacked any discernible human characteristics, including mercy. Is your name Christina Parker? Nod yes or no.”
I nodded, staring at my flowery mattress, which was starting to blur before my eyes.
“Are you alone?”
Yes, I was utterly and inescapably alone. Should this man know that? He'd already made it quite clear that laws meant nothing to him. He'd broken into my house and now he had a gun up to my head. What if he was going to rape me as well? What if he was going to kill me?
Please, God, let me get out of this and I swear, I'll start going to church again. I'll lose the twenty pounds my mother keep insisting on. Just don't let him hurt me. Please, please, don't let him hurt me.
I jumped, unable to hold in the cry that escaped my lips as my phone exploded into dozens of twisted metal shards that pelted against my leggings like shrapnel from a fallout, creating a stinging sensation I experienced through rubber skin.
“I don't miss twice.” The small fragments crunched beneath his shoes as he shifted his weight. “Are you alone?”
I nodded my head, feeling as if I had signed my own death warrant. Perhaps I had.
“Good.” There was a hot stinging pain, a flash of light, and then I blacked out.
Michael:
I caught her as she slumped forward, set the gun down on the floor, and pulled a silk, paisley tie out of my trouser pockets to bind her wrists behind her back. Then I adjusted the complimentary eye mask I'd received from the airline over her face. A thorough search of her school bag yielded nothing dangerous, though I removed the Spanish book. She wouldn't be needing it, in any case. Not where she was going.
The girl groaned. I eyed her, waiting for any sudden movements or surprise attacks. Nothing. She was out. I watched her a few minutes longer before turning to her dresser. It was littered with pictures and expensive baubles. Her family was well-off. Too well-off, even if her mother was a designer. I filed that away. Richardson would be interested to hear that, I imagined. I stuffed more clothing into her bag. Slung it over my shoulder. The girl was too heavy to carry with the bag; I settled for dragging her down the stairs.
Rubens Parker had a nice house. Low-key, with tasteful furnishings. He had done away with several thousand dollars, stealing from various companies by means of a special virus that deducted small increments of money from the payroll. The increments were small, mere fractions of a penny, but the totals added up over time. Fortunately, the IMA did all their transactions with cash, so this was not a problem for us. His hubris, however, was.
In the living room I opened my briefcase, revealing a small metal box with a black display panel. When I pressed a small button a series of digits appeared in red with a beep. I pressed the button again and the numbers began to count down from 15:00. Someone would hear the explosion. One of the neighbors probably had the number to the Parkers' hotel. When their daughter failed to show up for school on Monday they would think the girl had died in the blast. When they found out she was alive, in our possession, we would undoubtedly have their full cooperation. How much would they be willing to pay to save their lovely daughter?
Information was valuable. So was a child's life.
I hoisted the girl into the backseat of the company-issued black sedan. I had prepared for the occasion: I had jammed the locking mechanisms on each of the passenger doors and replaced all the windows with bulletproof glass. Not that I expected gunfire but one could never be too careful, and I didn't want her getting hold of a blunt object and smashing her way to freedom. There was a nasty bump forming where I'd pistol-whipped her but otherwise she was in perfect condition. Richardson wouldn't have my ass over one measly bruise; I'd gotten his quarry.
I pulled out my phone. Subject acquired. Proceeding to step 2.
When I was sure the message had been sent, and received the answering message — Proceed — I dropped the phone on the ground. Got into the car. Backed up. Made sure to crush the phone beneath the wheels. Another pained sound came from the backseat. I didn't envy the headache she was going to have when she regained consciousness. Or her thirst.
I bought a red sports drink at a gas station mart, which I paid for in cash. In the parking lot, I freed a white packet from my jeans. The packet contained a white powder, which I shook into her drink to keep it from settling. To my satisfaction, the opaque red liquid was viscous enough that it concealed the remnants of any powder that hadn't dissolved.
Perfect.
Twelve minutes later, I heard the scream of sirens in the distance. But try as they might, the only evidence the police would turn up was rubble and the crushed remains of a black cell phone.
Christina:
I woke up paralyzed. Had I gotten all tangled up in my sheets again? Then a violent burst of pain exploded from just beneath my ear and it all came flooding back — the strange man — the gun — my phone being blown apart. Over the sound of my racing heart I could make out the faint but unmistakable purr of a car's engine and somebody else's breathing. I thought I had a pretty good idea who that somebody else was.
An odd noise left my mouth as I twisted around, trying to free myself, trying to find out why I couldn't see. “Who's there?” I cried. “Where am I? What did you do to me?”
“There's no need for you to see where we're going.”
The sound of that familiar voice made me jerk in place; it was the voice of the man who had held me at gunpoint in my bedroom and then knocked me unconscious. He was no longer speaking in a whisper, but it was definitely the same man. The implication of his words took a moment to sink in. “What do you mean? Where are you taking me?”
No response.
Why was I being kidnapped? My family wasn't powerful, or interesting. My father spent all day in front of computers deciphering, writing, and rearranging code. We had our flaws but we were good people, for the most part. There were no skeletons in our closets. I couldn't figure out what I had done to draw this dark man into my life, but his silence allowed me to jump to my own terrifying conclusions.
I'm not sure how long we drove before he stopped — it could have been hours, minutes. With the blindfold, I had no way of telling what time of day it was. I heard the car door slam and then my door opened. Something hard and plastic touched my lips. I jerked my head back, causing warm liquid to soak into the front of my dress. “What is that?”
“Gatorade. Drink it.”
His voice was hard and brooked no argument. I thought he might have a faint accent but if he did, he hid it well. That could be useful, if I got away.
That seemed like a pretty big if.
“I'm not thirsty.”
“You'll be anything I damn well say you are.” He pinched my nose until I was forced to open my mouth to breathe and poured in the drink. I gagged the cloyingly sweet liquid down. It certainly tasted like Gatorade but what if it was poisoned? Why would he go through the whole process of kidnapping me just to kill me?
“It isn't poisoned. One more sip.”
I spat out the drink in the direction his voice had come from, hoping it would hit his face. He squeezed my jaw. His fingers were gloveless now, and the intimate contact filled me with disgust. “Now you listen to me. I don't think you know who you're dealing with.”
I said a rude phrase to him in Spanish involving his mother and a goat. Pain flared up my cheek. “One of my men is stationed right outside your parents' hotel. He's waiting in a black sedan, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sharpening a knife. All I have to do is give the word and you'll be an orphan.”
I forgot how to breathe. “You're a monster.” His hand left my face. I heard the unmistakable sound of someone punching in a phone number. My heart stuttered. “No — stop! Don't hurt them!” My captor said nothing but, to my relief, he had ceased dialing. “I'll drink it…” I said. “Please…don't…”
The Gatorade was warm, as if he'd kept it in the car all day, and tasted of generic fruit. I swallowed it all with a grimace and the door slammed again. I felt the car shift from his weight as he got back behind the wheel. This was the man in charge of my fate. I couldn't remember ever feeling this scared and helpless. “Why are you doing this to me?” I said in a small voice. I don't think he heard me. Even if he had, he might not answer. He'd made it pretty clear how much — how little, I should say — he valued my input.
Time marched on. The steady rumble of the car's engine made me want to go to sleep. I closed my eyes, feeling the darkness around me grow even darker. The forced “nap” had left me feeling even weaker and less rested than before. I was so tired…like I might just drift away. How could I even sleep at a time like this, with so much adrenaline in my system?
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA) Page 4
