by Meg Ripley
“Chelsea Davies, good morning. You are in a great deal of danger, and I strongly advise you to call into work sick today. In fact, it would be best if you remained exactly where you are in your apartment for the next thirty minutes.” Chelsea took the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen for a long moment, confused and irritated.
“What are you talking about? And just how do you know my name?”
“You have plenty of sick time. You should take some of it today, and stay right where you are until you hear a knock like this.” Chelsea’s frowned deepened as she heard a tapping pattern over the phone line: tock-tock-tock-ti-tock. “Did you get that, Chelsea?”
“I’m not going to agree to anything until you give me some answers,” she said irritably.
“We don’t really have time for this; I need to be off the phone in the next thirty seconds. Be a good girl and listen to that knock one more time, and tell me clearly whether or not you understand what I’ve told you.” Once more she heard the tapping pattern. Curiosity overwhelming her irritation at the mystery caller and the interruption of her sleep, Chelsea listened to the pattern carefully.
“Okay, fine, I heard it,” she said sulkily.
“Good girl. You’ll hear it again in about thirty minutes. Call your office and tell them you’ll be sick for a couple of days and stay exactly where you are.” Chelsea opened her mouth to protest the peremptory command when she heard the low-toned beep-beep-beep that signaled that the call was disconnected. She let the phone slip from her fingers and sank down against the pillows, puzzling over the mysterious call and the equally strange caller. Chelsea frowned, her eyelids descending over her eyes as her deep fatigue settled over her once more. He had known that she had plenty of sick time—that much was true; she had banked almost a full week of sick time. You’re not calling in sick because some mystery asshole told you to, Chelsea told herself as she forced her eyes open and reached for her phone once more.
“I’m calling in sick because I am exhausted and I’d be useless at work anyway. It’s a mental health day.” Chelsea opened up her contacts list and found the number to the office, coughing a few times experimentally to roughen her voice. She waited for the automatic prompt to come on—the office didn’t officially open for business for another hour and a half—and put in the number for her manager’s extension. Elise wouldn’t be at her desk either; Chelsea knew that she’d go straight to voicemail, which was for the best. When she heard the tone, she coughed again. “Hey, Elise,” Chelsea said, pitching her voice low and giving into the fatigue she felt in every bone of her body without any pretense. “I’m not going to be able to come in today. I feel like I just got ran over with a Mack truck.” She coughed again for effect and sniffled harshly. “I may check my email just to keep on top of things and send a message to HR, but I’ve gotta stay in bed today. I’ll give you an update later.” She ended the call and let her head fall back against the pillows, yawning again.
Chelsea’s irritation rose as minutes passed; she felt vaguely silly about responding to the call, even if she knew that she was too exhausted to be of use in the office that day anyway. Her bladder gave a spasm, informing her that it was uncomfortably full—and that she should take care of that issue. Her mystery caller had told her to stay exactly where she was; but surely, he just meant in the apartment. Chelsea grappled with the idea before deciding that literal adherence to an order from someone who hadn’t even been courteous enough to introduce himself was ridiculous. It’s not like he’s going to know, anyway.
She picked up her phone absently as she climbed out of bed and padded towards the bathroom, yawning a few more times as she made the short trek. She felt faintly ridiculous that she was waiting in her apartment for the mystery caller—or at least, she assumed that the coded knock would be coming from him—when she had no idea of who he was, what he wanted, why he had called her. Wasn’t there some kind of urban legend with this set up? This is the way that women get abducted, isn’t it? Chelsea washed her hands and splashed water on her face when she finished taking care of her needs, and went back into the bedroom, resenting the intrusion on her sleep, her routine.
****
Chelsea had once more fallen into a doze, with nothing better to do to pass the time waiting—she had told herself that the caller was probably a prank in the first place—when she heard, at her door, the knocking pattern that the man on the phone had performed for her. Opening her eyes, Chelsea groaned, sitting up in her bed. “No one wants me to get any sleep today, that has to be it. The whole world is in on it.” She flung the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, getting to her feet unsteadily. How do you even know you can trust this guy? He’s probably here to abduct you, and you’re playing right into his game plan. Chelsea frowned and grabbed at her phone. She heard her mystery guest repeat the coded knock at her door and stirred herself to pad out of the bedroom.
Considering, she opened up her recent calls and checked for the unfamiliar number; she didn’t know for certain if the caller and the person on her doorstep were the same individual, but it was worth making the phone call anyway, wasn’t it? She hit ‘recall’ and stood, a few yards away from her door, waiting as it rang. “I’m here,” the voice said the moment the call connected.
“I assumed as much from the knock-knock-knocking at my door,” Chelsea said wryly. “What I don’t know is whether I should let you in.”
“You should,” the man said. Now that she was more awake, she could detect a faint accent in the man’s deep, almost rasping voice, though she couldn’t identify where the accent came from. “I promise you, Chelsea, that I’m not here to abduct you. You are actually in some danger right now. If you let me in I can explain it to you.” Chelsea glided her tongue along the front of her teeth, hesitating only a moment longer.
She took the last few steps to the door and unlocked first the deadbolt, then the chain, and finally the twist lock on the knob, before opening the door. For a long moment, Chelsea stared. The man on the other side of the door was more than tall; he dwarfed her, easily a foot taller than she was, over six feet. He had dark blond hair, cut short with razor-precision, parted to the side, and bright blue-green eyes that shone intently as he looked down at her. Chelsea’s gaze took in the slightly darker stubble that roughened the man’s cheeks and jawline, contrasting sharply with the soft look of his Cupid’s bow mouth. He wasn’t just tall; the man filled up the frame of her door: broad shoulders and chest, tapering to a narrow waist and hips, and long legs. He wore fitted jeans, and a black tee shirt that clung to the lines and ridges of his torso, with a dark leather jacket over it. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked her, raising one wheat-colored eyebrow. Chelsea took a step backwards, blinking and shaking off her confusion; she felt disastrously underdressed in her pajamas, next to the man who strode quickly through her door, closing and locking it behind him.
“This is the part where you explain what the hell is going on, right?” Chelsea threw herself onto the couch, feeling irritated at her own reaction to the man.
“We have some time now, but not very much,” the mystery guest said, sitting down in the wingback chair nearest to her. Chelsea frowned.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. She was acutely aware of the effect of the slight chill in the air when her guest had come in, of the fact that underneath the thin fabric of her top and the pajama bottoms she’d managed to pull on before she’d gone to bed the night before, she was bare.
“Someone wants to kill you.” Chelsea stared at the man in disbelief. “They think you know something that they’d rather keep hidden.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Chelsea protested. “I don’t know anything—I can’t even think of something I know that might make someone want me dead.” The man shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter at the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that you do, be
cause you have the information.”
“What are you talking about? I’m nobody. No one’s handed me some mysterious parcel or anything, I haven’t even gotten anything in the mail.” The man’s lips twitched in a smile. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” The man’s smile deepened.
“My name is Johan Lindstrom,” he said. “Tell me, Chelsea; what comes to mind when I say the name Aaron Rosen?” Chelsea stared at the man blankly.
“The CEO of the company?” Chelsea frowned. “What does he have to do with anything?” Johan raised an eyebrow, the smile not quite leaving his lips.
“Are those really the first words that come to mind?” he asked her.
“The first words that come to mind are ‘the scumbag I work for,’ ” Chelsea retorted, feeling the heat rising into her cheeks. Johan inclined his head slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“The scumbag you work for, that’s much more accurate. I’m sure you’re aware he’s engaged in some…less than savory practices.” Johan made the statement an almost-question and Chelsea shrugged.
“Everyone in the office knows that,” she pointed out. “If he didn’t want that getting out he’d have to kill us all, not just me.” Johan’s lips twisted into a wry expression.
“Drug running, profiteering…those are the common-knowledge things,” he said slowly. “But you know what happens to people who think they’re untouchable. They start taking bigger and bigger risks.” Johan shrugged. “The CEO of your company has had—dealings—with someone who’s now decided that it suits him better to roll over, give himself up—basically, to out Aaron Rosen for some very dire crimes indeed.” Chelsea swallowed at the tightness she felt in her throat. “And that man is one of the clients you’re working with right now.”
“Why would he give that information to me?” Chelsea shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not like…I’m not anyone with any authority. I’m not even a project manager.” Johan watched her intently for a moment.
“Have you noticed a few people going missing at the office?” he asked her. “Just…dropping off the radar? No explanation, they just aren’t there anymore?” Chelsea felt her mouth go dry as she tried to rack her tired brain for the answer to that question. Johan held his silence for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps Sarah Johns, Micah Paxton…Cary Knowles?” Chelsea felt as if her stomach had fallen to her knees. Sarah Johns was the project manager for one of the clients that Chelsea was assigned; Micah Paxton was the account manager. Cary Knowles was one of the salesmen. “They were all involved in this particular client’s business dealings with your company, and they’re all deceased.”
“No,” Chelsea said, shaking her head in denial. “You’re lying to me. Whatever kind of sick prank this is, it isn’t funny.” Johan exhaled, reaching into one of the many pockets on his jacket. He withdrew a folded-up bundle of papers.
“I have proof,” he told her, almost sympathetically. Reluctantly, Chelsea took the papers from him and unfolded them, staring down at the pages. The first several she flipped through were obituaries—featuring each of the names he had mentioned, listing unknown causes of death, presumed accidents. As she continued through the stack, Chelsea’s blood began to run cooler and cooler as she saw emails, text messages. Target has been handled, one read. No information found. Confiscate their work computer.
At the bottom of the pile, there was a picture of her—the one she had taken in the office, that was used for her email signature; it was attached to an email that read like a macabre dating profile, listing her address and phone number, the hours she worked, the fact that she typically went out to happy hour with her department on Fridays. “No,” Chelsea said, her voice little more than a breath. “This…I don’t even know anything!” She looked at Johan as her heart began beating faster in her chest, her eyes stinging.
“We need to do a few things, and we need to do them quickly,” Johan told her, his tone level. “Can you access your work computer from home?” Chelsea nodded absently, glancing down at the papers in her hands. She felt her fingers trembling, almost unable to hold the surprisingly slippery sheets of paper. “You need to download the information the client sent to you, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
“Where are we going?” She looked up again, meeting Johan’s level gaze.
“Away. That’s all you need to know for right now.” He paused. “Away for several days.”
“Do I have time to pack? Change clothes?” Johan shrugged.
“We should be out of here in an hour; by then your boss will have probably reported you phoning in sick.” His gaze trailed over her slowly. “Pack whatever you feel you can’t live without.” There was something so final in the statement; as if to underscore the point, Johan added, “I can’t guarantee anything you leave behind will still be here at the end of the day.” Chelsea stood unsteadily, letting the papers fall from her hands and onto the coffee table. She wished—fleetingly—that she had made coffee, instead of using the time she spent waiting for Johan’s arrival to get sleep; she had the feeling that it was going to be a very, very long day.
****
Chelsea paced back and forth along the length of the living room area of the suite she had checked into with Johan only a few minutes before, her arms crossed over her chest, looking at the floor beneath her feet. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was not doing any favors to herself; but as she turned sharply and counted the steps to the other end of the room, she couldn’t help herself.
They had driven for three hours; that was the most that Chelsea knew. She was not even certain that they were three hours away from the city she lived in. It seemed somehow as if Johan had doubled back at some point, as if she had seen the same vague landmarks—a stand of trees, or a particular unfamiliar sign—more than once, though she couldn’t be sure. Fatigue throbbed in her bones, waging war with the adrenaline surging through her veins. Chelsea felt as if there were tiny bugs underneath her skin, making her tingle, making her nerves twitch inside of her.
Johan had given her exactly an hour and a half before they left; he had told her to bring her laptop out, log into her work station, and then dismissed her to pack her things while he went in and downloaded whatever files she was supposed to have been given, the information that had led to the CEO of her company deciding that she needed to be eliminated. “Why didn’t he just fire me?” she asked out loud, glancing at Johan. He was seated on the other end of the room, reading a book; a perfect picture of tranquility. Who the hell is he, anyway? Chelsea wondered, frowning at the sight of the man reading. The front cover of the book gave her no clues as to what its contents might be; Chelsea couldn’t make heads or tails of the foreign words, and there was no picture to provide any context. What the hell kind of guy carries two guns, three knives, drives a sports car, and reads in his downtime? Johan glanced up from his book, his expression almost bored.
“Because, he can’t be certain that you don’t already have the information—or didn’t already have the information. If he fired you, that wouldn’t do him any good.” Johan licked his lips, smiling slightly. “If it gives you any consolation, he’s after the criminal mastermind who decided to roll on him, too.” Chelsea felt a shiver work down her spine.
“That doesn’t exactly make me feel great about my chances. He’s killed three people already.” Chelsea remembered—bleakly—a fortune she had gotten once at a Chinese restaurant: “Three can keep a secret, if you get rid of two.” She wondered if Rosen had received that same advice, or if as a lowlife, the epiphany came naturally to him. She started walking more quickly, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage.
The hotel they had come to was much nicer than Chelsea would have expected; the suite was as big as her apartment, with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. It was obvious to her that Johan had had much more lead-time than she originally thought; the room they were in was already booked when they arrived. “Who do you work for?” Chelsea asked him suddenly, stopping i
n mid-step.
“That really isn’t your concern,” Johan pointed out, glancing up from his book once more.
“I would think it is,” Chelsea countered. “I mean—as far as I know, you’re just…you might even be working for Rosen. Holding me here until someone can come and get me.” Her feet started moving again as the adrenaline flowed through Chelsea’s veins, making her heart beat faster.
“Because Rosen would want you to be comfortable while you waited?”
“Why not? Lull me into a false sense of security.” Johan laughed.
“His goons could have snatched you out of your apartment at any time. They didn’t. I could have grabbed you on your way to your car this morning and drugged you to bring you here.”
“That is probably the least comforting thing you’ve said to me all day.” Not that he’s been exactly chatty. Chelsea looked down at the floor, numbering her steps as she made her way from one end of the room to the other.
“You should stop pacing,” Johan said, his voice perfectly level. “It’s making you more anxious.”
“Well excuse me!” Chelsea countered, her feet coming to a stop in spite of her protest. “I just spent three hours on the road with someone I don’t even know, I have no idea where I am, and my morning started out with being told that someone wants me dead, and I have an hour and a half to pack up anything I couldn’t bear to lose, because my house might get wrecked—who knows?” She crossed her arms over her chest, pinning Johan down with a stare as brittle anger built up inside of her. Chelsea fleetingly wished that she hadn’t outgrown the kind of tantrums that had marked her toddler years; it would be so satisfying to throw herself onto the floor kicking and screaming. “Someone could come in at any moment and try to kill me. How the hell are you so calm?” Johan’s lips twitched and Chelsea’s anger deepened at his amusement.
“Because I know that someone could come at any moment and try and kill me, or you—or anyone,” Johan said. “At any time.” He shrugged. “Or you could get hit by a car. You could get struck by lightning. Hell—people have been killed by animals falling out of the sky. The difference is that right now you know someone is out to get you. At least right now there’s someone between you and your death.”
