by Rachel Lee
Outside town, on a deserted back road, he’d ordered her out and had made her climb into the trunk. There, the gun pointing right at her head, he had made her put ankle chains on. Then he had locked her in the trunk. Hours later, in the dark, having driven to some other place, he took her from the trunk and shoved her into a dark structure, locking her alone in a barren room.
To be truthful, Frank had terrified her even more than the gun had. There had been something wild in his normally mild eyes, some kind of desperate tension in his words and posture. From being a familiar, friendly coworker, he had become a dangerous unknown.
Being held hostage—at least, Jessica figured that was her role—was not only terrifying, it was unnerving. Refusing to give in to the terror, she had concentrated on cataloging things, and in the process of cataloging impressions, she had learned some surprising things about herself.
For example, she discovered that it drove her absolutely crazy not to know where she was. In the dark she couldn’t read the dial of her watch, and that drove her crazy, too, not knowing how quickly or slowly time was passing. Pondering those two surprises occupied her for a while. Why did she have such a need to know exactly where she was? Was it some kind of human instinct not to get lost? And as far as not being able to read her watch went, she felt there was something distinctly neurotic about being that dependent on knowing the time.
But such cogitations absorbed her only briefly in the yawning space of hours she could not count. She tried to focus on her discomforts—the cold cement floor on which she had to sit and lie, because there was no furniture, the airlessness of the blacked-out, boarded-up room, the lack of sanitary facilities. Oh, there was a bucket, but how barbaric! She wouldn’t have thought Frank capable of such things.
But evidently he was capable, and she tried not to wonder what else he was capable of. In barren moments, when her mind wandered a little, she would suddenly fear that he couldn’t possibly let her live. No way. Because she knew who he was. Just as soon as he got whatever it was he wanted, he would have to kill her so she couldn’t identify him.
And that was the possibility she ran from by trying to think about stupid, inane things, like the chains on her feet that let her hobble only a few inches at a time. So she couldn’t attack Frank if he ever came back, or run, or really defend herself. Such thoughts were stupid, because she was sure he would never give her the chance to do any of those things even if she wasn’t chained. Frank was not dumb. Crazy, maybe, but not stupid.
But finally, fatigued and cold and hungry, she who had never been brave lost the last of her courage. Shivering, with silent tears running down her face, she thought of Arlen and ached, with a longing so deep it seemed to be part of her soul, to be held by him just one more time.
Poor Arlen, she thought as she lay curled up on the cold concrete. He was going to hold himself responsible for this. He was that kind of man. And she wished now that she had told him she loved him, even if it had scared him away. It seemed somehow unutterably sad that she would never tell him something he so clearly needed to know.
Several times sleep tried to claim her, but each time she woke from the nightmare of being stuffed into a car trunk at gunpoint to the living nightmare of her present captivity. A chill crept into her very bones, and she shivered continually, wasting whatever was left of her meager reserves.
Frank Winkowski. Who would ever have thought it?
Shortly after the kidnapper’s first call to Arlen, the phone company finally arranged for Jessica’s calls to ring on the phone on Arlen’s desk at the Bureau. While he waited for the next call, he and a number of other agents, with assistance from the local police, began to plan. If they could persuade Winkowski they meant to let him leave the country, they might have to let him go as far as the airport before they could move against him. What if he refused to reveal where Jessica was until after he was airborne? Was there anything they could do to increase her chances while preventing Winkowski’s escape? All eventualities had to be considered, and most of the night passed in exhaustive discussion.
And with each passing minute, something in Arlen hardened even more. He could not afford to permit emotion or worry to cloud his judgment, or so he told himself, but in reality the hardening was not a deadening, it was a growing, deadly anger. Each minute that passed was another minute of terror for Jessica, and he was by God going to take each and every one of those minutes out of someone’s hide.
Near dawn he catnapped in his chair, waiting for the phone to ring. What the devil was Winkowski up to, anyhow? Why was he taking so long? Unanswered, unanswerable questions roiled around in his head, following him even into sleep. One thing stood clear in his mind, like a beacon. Until yesterday at 11:45 a.m., Frank Winkowski could have boarded any plane at the airport and left the country as a free man. What the hell had panicked him into taking a hostage?
The room was not quite dark as Jessica had thought. When she awoke, a small, pale stream of sunlight was pouring through some tiny crack in the heavy window coverings. It was a slender pencil of light, but it caught dust motes in its beam and shed just enough illumination to bring reality to her prison. She could even read her watch and see that it was just before seven in the morning.
That little bit of knowledge was somehow comforting, giving her a sense of connection to the rest of the world. And this window must face east, she thought, for such a strong ray of light to reach her so shortly after dawn. That would explain, too, why it had seemed so dark last evening.
A key scraped in the locked door, and Jessica instinctively edged back into a corner and huddled, shivering wearily from the chill, from fatigue and from fear. Even her shivers were halfhearted, she thought, as she forced herself to look at Frank Winkowski.
“I brought you some food,” he said, and set a paper plate down on the floor. On it sat a limp, thin sandwich. Next to it he placed a large paper cup.
“Why are you doing this, Frank?” she asked him, hating the faint uncertain sound of her voice. Yes, she was a coward, but it wasn’t something she wanted this man to know.
“You know why, Jessica.”
“No, I don’t! At least tell me that much, Frank! Are you going to kill me? Why?” Her voice rose in desperation, and he stepped backward.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he said after a moment. “I won’t, unless they don’t let me go.”
“Go where?” she asked, trying to keep her voice down, trying not to drive him away before she at least had some kind of answer.
“Out of the country. Come on, Jessica. You know what’s been going on! Hell, you were working with the FBI on it.”
“I was?” Her mind scrambled frantically for some way to deny what he already seemed to know. And then she thought of Leong. “I was working as a double agent, you mean? Because of that Chinese student who kept trying to meet with me?”
“Chinese student?” Frank looked startled. “What Chinese student? I’m talking about that damned missing document you made such a stink about.”
“The document? But I reported that to Barron. What does the FBI have to do with that?” Please, God, please let him believe I don’t have anything to do with what frightened him. Please!
Frank took another backward step, looking uncertain for the first time. “Don’t lie to me, Jessica. You called that Coulter guy yesterday morning to tell him about me. I heard you.”
Jessica’s heart sank, and hope began to die. “I called to make a lunch date with him,” she argued.
“Right. And as soon as you told him your suspicions about me, he would know about Barron, too.” He started to turn away. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, and you can talk to your boyfriend.”
An agonizing throb of hope pierced her heart. Arlen. Was Arlen here? “My boyfriend?” she repeated, and hated the hoarse, weak sound of her own voice.
“The FBI guy. Did you think I didn’t know?” Frank looked at her. In the faint, dim light, his expression was hard to read, but to Jessica it
looked frighteningly like revulsion. “I thought you were a lady, Jessica,” he said. “You always seemed like such a lady. But everybody at the FBI office knows you’re living with him. Everybody. You can’t be much of a lady, after all.”
Jessica stared after him as he stomped out and locked the door once again. Everybody at the FBI office knew? Well, that seemed likely enough, she thought.
Funny how her mind wanted to seize on everything except her own impending doom. Her thoughts played hide-and-seek with the intolerable and insisted on thinking about the evidently tattered state of her reputation rather than…other things.
And then understanding hit her hard, knocking the wind from her and tearing a short groan from her lips. Frank had spoken of what everybody at the FBI office knew, and there was only one way he could know something like that. She didn’t have a chance in hell. Not a chance. She was as good as dead, because somebody at the Bureau had a good reason for not wanting her or Frank to be found.
Chapter 12
The coffee urn held nothing but hot sludge, so Arlen spent a few minutes cleaning it and starting a fresh pot. Most of the agents who had filled the office to overflowing last night had found someplace to crash. Soon they would be returning, and life would fill the silence of the offices.
Walking back down the hall to his own office, he passed by Phil Harrigan’s door. Hearing the murmur of Phil’s voice, Arlen paused, raising a hand to knock and go in.
“I told you not to do anything,” Phil said. “I warned you.”
It didn’t sound like a good time to intrude, so, mug in hand, he continued down the corridor.
Maddy Kazin showed up moments later and dropped a computer printout on his desk. A small, birdlike woman with huge green eyes, she appeared lost in herself most of the time.
“Everything I’ve been able to find on Winkowski,” she said. She made no secret of her weariness, but pulled off her horn-rims and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think there’s a damn thing there to help you, Arlen. If he made any money apart from his job, he hid it. If he knew anybody he shouldn’t, I can’t find it. He appears to be completely clean.”
“He can’t be.”
“I know.” Maddy yawned. “I’m going home for a couple hours of sleep, and then I’ll be back.”
For lack of anything more useful or active to do, Arlen smothered his own yawn and started flipping through the information Maddy had gleaned.
The phone rang. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his heart slammed into the wall of his chest once, twice. As he lifted the receiver, the attached recorder automatically began to run.
“Coulter,” he said.
“Listen,” said the muffled voice.
And then, “Arlen?”
The sound of Jessica’s tentative, frightened voice smashed into Arlen with all the impact of an out-of-control freight train. “Are you okay?” he barked into the phone.
“Y-yes…. Arlen, why didn’t you tell me everybody at your office was talking about us?”
Startled by her direction, Arlen stiffened and frowned. “Jessie?”
“You should have told me,” she said with an intensity that sounded almost wild. “Arlen…Arlen, I need to tell you—”
“That’s it,” interrupted the muffled voice.
There was a click as the connection was cut, and Arlen found himself staring at the humming receiver. An image of his fist slamming into Winkowski’s face clouded his vision. He found himself, for the first time in his life, wanting to commit atrocities against another human being.
“Arlen?” Phil Harrigan stood in the doorway of his office. “Was that the kidnapper? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Arlen said grimly. “I’m fine. I’d like to kill the son of a bitch. Slowly.”
Harrigan shifted uneasily. “Did he make any demands?”
“No, he just let Jessica say a couple of words. That’s all. Damn it!” Heedless of the pain—indeed, grateful for it—he pounded his fist one futile time on the top of his desk. “Damn it,” he said again, more quietly. “Damn it.”
“I’m going across the street to pick up something for breakfast,” Harrigan said after a few moments. “What can I get for you?”
Arlen sure as hell didn’t want to eat, but he knew better. “A double order of dry whole wheat toast and orange juice. Thanks, Phil.”
“No problem.”
Swiveling his chair, Arlen leaned back and looked up at the brightening morning sky. The soft glow of dawn had given way to a harsher, brighter, clearer blue. Behind him, beyond his door, he heard arriving agents. Questions began to swarm around him like bees.
Why had Phil Harrigan hung around all night? He hadn’t been assigned to the team that had pulled the night shift. Everybody else had gone home a couple of hours ago, or headed to a hotel to grab some shut-eye.
Why didn’t you tell me everybody at your office was talking about us? How did she know that, even if it was true? And Arlen certainly didn’t know if it was, because nobody would have the nerve to gossip about it to his face. Who could have told her that? Winkowski? And how the hell would he know? And, under the circumstances, why had Jessie considered something that was really so trivial so important that it was all she had managed to say to him? It didn’t seem like her, somehow.
I told you not to do anything. I warned you. Phil’s mysterious morning conversation.
Arlen snapped out of his chair as if propelled on springs. Striding to the door of his office, he raised his voice. “Who’s here this morning?”
Two minutes later he was closeted in his office with Lisa Gonzales, Ted Wilson and Colleen Mahaffey, who had just walked through the door.
At least Frank had been decent enough to leave her with a thermos of hot soup and a jug of water. Jessica considered smashing the insulated bottle, but couldn’t figure out what she could possibly use the eggshell shards of glass for. It wasn’t as if she could cut the chains from her ankles, which felt terribly sore from the constant chafing and banging of those steel bands.
The soup warmed her a little, easing the chill that had penetrated during the night, but she still felt cold. She tried hobbling around the room to warm herself, but she couldn’t move fast enough to do any good, and the steel rings around her ankles had rubbed her flesh nearly raw, so movement was agony.
Finally, huddled again in the corner, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The present was unbearable, so she resorted to a childhood game. Starting from the moment she had opened her front door to him the first time, she would remember each and every minute of her relationship with Arlen. In sequence, in full detail. It would pass the time.
And time, she realized with a tightening throat, was suddenly something she had both too much and not enough of.
If only she had told him that she loved him.
Phil Harrigan walked back into Arlen’s office a half hour later with a foam container of toast and a plastic bottle of orange juice. Halfway across the room, he seemed to notice the silence that had settled over the agents already there. He glanced from Wilson to Gonzales and then to Mahaffey. When his gaze settled on Arlen once again, there was a look of dawning comprehension in his eyes.
“Thanks, Phil,” Arlen said, accepting his breakfast. “Have a seat.”
Said pleasantly, it was still a command. Phil sat.
“Ted?” Arlen said.
Wilson crossed the room, his young face set in hard lines. “I’d like your weapon, Phil.”
“Why?” Phil tried to smile and look relaxed. “What’s up?”
“Give him your weapon, Phil,” Arlen said grimly, and waited until the pistol was firmly in Ted’s hand. “Now. Maybe you’d like to tell me where Jessica Kilmer is.”
Phil raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wrong.” Arlen leaned forward, impaling him with an arctic stare from gray eyes that suddenly looked like shards of steel. “I haven’t read you your rights yet, Phil. Nothing you say r
ight now can be used against you. Where the hell is Jessica Kilmer?”
Phil started to rise, but Lisa Gonzales stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Inexorably, she pressed him back down.
“What the hell makes you think I know anything about where she is?” Phil demanded hotly. “Damn it, I can’t believe this!”
“Believe it, you son of a bitch,” Arlen said on a low, angry growl. “And right now it’s all I can do not to come around this desk and smash your lying face. You were assigned to protect that woman! You, a federal agent! Damn it, I’m the one who can’t believe this. How does it feel to be only the second FBI agent in history to get involved in spying? Tell me, Phil, where the hell is she and what the hell did you get out of this?”
“You’re crazy, Arlen,” Phil argued. “I don’t know where you got this insane idea, but you sure as hell can’t prove any of it!”
“No?” For just a split second, a pause so brief that it was almost unnoticeable, Arlen considered that he might be wrong. Phil was right: there was no proof. All he had was what Jessica had said and a snatch of overheard conversation. Then he plunged ahead. “Right now, about the only possible way I can see you not winding up with a couple of life sentences is if you cooperate, Phil. We’re talking espionage and kidnapping. The Bureau is going to have your skin.”
When Phil remained silent, Arlen shrugged. “Have it your way. Lisa, read him his rights.”
That was when Phil decided that Arlen wasn’t bluffing. If he was going to be Mirandized, then Arlen meant to arrest him, and Arlen wouldn’t set himself up for charges of false arrest. Somehow they had gotten evidence against him.
“Okay,” he said as Lisa pulled out her card. “Okay. But I didn’t have anything to do with this kidnapping, and I don’t know where the Kilmer woman is. Honest to God. Winkowski freaked out. I knew he was getting edgy, and I warned him not to do anything, but he didn’t listen. I swear, he did this on his own, just like he killed Dave Barron.”
