The driver comes back in from another trip to the car. This time, he closes the door and then pulls a chair out from the tiny, rusty, ancient looking square table nestled into the kitchen and begins pulling off his boots. Boots. Why didn’t I notice he was wearing boots? A town car driver wouldn’t wear work boots. This guy didn’t even have a good disguise.
I have to stop thinking of him as a driver. He’s not a driver. He’s a kidnapper.
He’s still ignoring me, but this silence demands to be broken. I can’t just sit here, passively waiting to find out what my fate will be. “You don’t work for my father,” I say.
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
“If you work for my father then what’s his name?” I ask.
“Fred Shears,” the man says calmly. “But I’m sure that doesn’t prove anything to you. You’re aware that I knew your name and you didn’t find that fact convincing.”
“How did you know my name?” I ask.
“I told you,” he says. “I work for your father, Fred Shears. He hired me. I picked you up from the airport on his instructions.”
I shake my head. “My father would never instruct anyone to pick me up and drive me to a strange place without even telling me what was going on.”
The man sighs and bends over to re-cuff his pants. “We never know what we’ll do,” he says, “until we’re desperate.”
“What does that mean?” I’m increasingly frustrated with his games, his refusal to answer even the most basic of questions. “Is my father in some kind of trouble? Am I? Are you here to help me or hurt me?” I modify my tone, aware that more flies are caught with honey than vinegar. “Please. I just want to know what’s going on.”
The man gets up from the table, walks over to the kitchen sink, and splashes some water on his face. I feel an urge to do the same thing. It’s like I’m trapped in some weird hallucination, some nightmare, and I feel like the shock of cold water would snap me out of it. Or, at any rate, it might at least help get my racing heart back under control. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life.
He sits back down at the table, his back to it, and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “My real name is Joel,” he says.
“So?” Like I care what his real name is.
“You wanted answers, didn’t you?”
He seems annoyed now, and a part of my mind is trying to warn me that his irritation makes him unpredictable and that this should scare me more, but instead I’m just feeling mad. I am not used to being pushed around. I never would have advanced to where I am in my career by letting people treat me like this. The man, though, is staring at me, stone-faced, and I can’t tell how much of my rising fury he’s aware of.
“I wanted answers to the questions I asked,” I say. “Not just facts you decide are important. I don’t care who you are. I want to know where we are, and I want to know why we’re here, and I want to know where my father is. Answer those questions.”
“All right, all right,” he says. He actually chuckles, and I can see that the irritation I read on his face before was the same as the irritation you might feel over a small child pestering you for a toy. Now, it seems, the child has done something clever, but he isn’t impressed or intimidated. He simply thinks it’s cute. He’s amused that I asked the right questions. I know that on some level this is good news—he isn’t angry, so he’s less likely to lash out and cause me harm—but not being taken seriously fills me with such rage that I want to scream.
“We’re in a cabin,” he says, “but think about it as a safe house. It’s secluded enough that hikers aren’t likely to find it, and far from any main roads. We have heating and electricity, but no unnecessary services—postal, for instance—that would cause unwanted visitors to drop by.”
That’s not making me feel any better. “Where?” I demand.
“Just outside of Colebrook.”
I feel dizzy. “That’s way up by the border.”
“Convenient, in case we need to move quickly,” he says as if in agreement.
“You can’t take me out of the country,” I say. Like I have any leverage to be making demands at this point.
“I don’t plan to,” he says. “Not unless something goes wrong.”
“Why am I here?” I ask.
“This is the part that’s harder to explain,” he says. I detect a note of hesitation in his voice like he actually is worried about how I’ll react to what he says next. But at this point, I know better than to trust the evidence of my senses with this man. I thought he was an airport valet, for God’s sake. Clearly, I’m no judge of anything.
“Your father hired me,” the man—Joel, if that is, in fact, his real name—says. “The job was to bring you here and then make you disappear.”
“What, kill me?”
“Not kill you,” he says. How is he so calm? I get the feeling he’s had this conversation before, that he’s prepared for my reactions and ready to deal with them. “Disappear you. Wipe you off the map of human record. Make it so ‘Jenna Shears’ is no longer a traceable identity. Your documents will be destroyed, new ones forged, and you will assume a new name.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because your old identity is compromised,” he says. “There are those, now, who will try to find you. They’re likely out there right now, wondering where you are. They may have staked out your home and are wondering why you didn’t return from the airport.”
“This is some kind of prank,” I say. “One of my coworkers hired you, right?”
For the first time, he looks almost sad. “It’s no prank,” he says. “And it’s important that you take it seriously. There are people who would rather you were dead. Sticking with me is your best chance of survival.”
The thought chills me. I don’t have any evidence it’s true, of course, but what if it is? This is a plausible reason for my father to order my abduction, I have to admit that. “Where is my father now?” I ask. I’d feel much better if I could hear all this directly from him.
“At another safe house,” Joel says.
“Well, take me to that one.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. He sounds like he means it. “I know that would be easier. Unfortunately, you can’t be housed in the same place, for security reasons.”
“What security reasons?”
“You’re being hunted,” Joel says. The word sends chills down my spine. “So is your father. To put you in the same place right now would be criminally irresponsible. Dereliction of duty. Any trace they might pick up on one of you would lead them directly to the other. For your own safety, and for your father’s, it’s not practical for you to be housed together at this stage.”
“Does that mean there’s a next stage?” I ask. I had been starting to wonder if I was doomed to live out the rest of my life in this depressing cabin, but this gives me hope. Joel sounds like these circumstances are temporary.
“There’s always a next stage in life,” he says. “That, or you die.”
Great.
I get to my feet and walk around the one room, taking in my surroundings. The place is chilly—Joel just turned the heat on, and it’s clearly been sitting empty for a long stretch of time, so it hasn’t yet warmed up all the way. Apart from the chill, and the fact that I’ve been abducted by a stranger, the place doesn’t seem half bad. I could see myself here under other circumstances enjoying a pleasant getaway. Somehow, that thought just makes the whole thing grimmer. It’s as if I can see the good time I could be having right in front of me, temptingly close, but behind a veil of fear and misery.
I’m beginning to feel calmer than I did at first, and it’s not hard to pinpoint the reason why. Despite my anger and frustration, I actually do believe Joel’s story. I think his intention here is to conceal me from greater dangers. Whether or not I believe in said dangers is another question, one I haven’t yet answered for myself. But I feel confident, now, about
one thing at least—Joel does want me alive and in reasonably good health. None of those boxes he carried in here contain the means of killing me.
Because my fear for my immediate safety is ebbing away, space is being made for all kinds of other emotions. I’m angry, of course. That hasn’t waned at all. Even if everything I’m being told is true, I don’t know where any of them get the nerve. It’s really unlike my father. He wasn’t controlling at all when I was growing up; he talked to me about what he felt were reasonable boundaries for my behavior. I agreed to them, and as a consequence, I was rarely in trouble. So, I’m angry with my father for deciding suddenly—when I’m well into adulthood, no less—that he knows best how to ensure my safety, taking such drastic measures without even consulting me.
And I’m mad at Joel. What kind of man is he? Even if he is acting on instructions from my father, to erase my whole identity without even talking to me about it? At some point, there must have been a conversation between him and my father where they decided this was the best course of action. Why wasn’t I a part of that conversation? Because I’m young? Because I’m a woman?
The anger forms a hard shell around the rest of my feelings, keeping them locked deep within where they don’t show on the surface. But I’m aware of them all the same. I feel terribly, terribly sad. I like my life as Jenna Shears. I like my job, and I like my apartment. The way Joel is talking, it sounds like all of that may be gone for good. I might be starting over completely, from scratch, building a new life from the ground up. I guess there are people who would see that as an opportunity, but I’m having trouble focusing on anything but what I’ve lost.
“This next stage,” I say, turning to Joel. “In it, I’ll be able to see my father?”
“I hope so,” he says. Surprisingly, I find that I believe him. “The plan is to reunite you soon. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
“Why can’t you?” I demand. “You’ve got me locked in a cabin, after all. It’s not like I can spill the beans to anyone. You might as well tell me everything now that we’re here.”
“He told me you would say that,” Joel says.
“Who did?”
“Your father.” Joel’s smiling. The only thing that restrains me from punching him is that I have no idea how to effectively throw a punch. “He told me about you. He said you would immediately assume that you knew best and try to tell me what to do and how to handle the operation.”
That does sound like something my father would say, so I feel further inclined to believe the two of them are working together. Still, I can’t believe Dad would talk about me that way to a stranger. He’s going to have a lot to answer for when we’re finally face-to-face.
I can see that I’m not going to convince Joel to give me any more answers. “I’m taking the bed,” I say. Ordinarily, I would feel bad about making someone sleep on the floor, but it’s Joel’s fault we’re in a cabin with only one bed in the first place. If he wanted comfort, he should have rented a room at a local hotel.
Joel raises his eyebrows and shrugs, giving the irritating impression that he considers such petty concerns as who sleeps where beneath him. Fine, if he thinks it’s so unimportant, then he won’t mind the hard floor!
Wishing heartily that I had a change of clothes, I pull back the flannel sheets, toe off my heels, remove my suit jacket, and peel off my pantyhose. My pencil skirt and button-down blouse will have to serve as pajamas.
Joel doesn’t turn off the light, and if I’m honest, I kind of don’t blame him. I know it’s far too early to be going to bed. It’s not yet sundown. My jet-lagged internal clock is telling me it’s much later, though, and the events of the day are getting to me, wearing me out.
I roll on my side in bed so I’m facing toward the wall, away from Joel, and try to pretend he isn’t there. My attempt is made harder by the fact that he’s so quiet, I can almost convince myself I’m alone until he coughs or a floorboard creaks under him, ruining the illusion.
I can’t remember when, as an adult, I’ve felt less in control of my life. It’s awful, and just about the only thing getting me through is the promise of seeing my father again. Joel won’t tell me when that’s going to happen, but all I know is that it better be soon. I’m not going to stay in this cabin alone with this man any longer than I have to. I’ll give him a few hours to follow through on his promise of reuniting Dad and me, but if he hasn’t come through by then, I’m getting out of here. I don’t know how I’ll escape or where I’ll go once I do, but I’ll figure it out.
I cling to that thought as I finally drift off to an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 6
Joel
I am definitely in trouble.
Jenna is lying on the bed, curled up into a quasi-fetal position. I’m sure she’s doing her best not to think about me. I’m trying not to think about her too, but for an entirely different and utterly alarming reason.
I wasn’t expecting her to be so attractive.
Trying not to make any noise so I won’t disturb her, I reach into my pocket and slip out the picture I’ve been carrying around. I took it from Fred Shears when I emptied his wallet at the bar. The girl in the picture is recognizably Jenna. A few years younger but with the same even features and dark curly hair. She’s pretty and smiling in an engaging way, but she’s not captivating.
The girl on the bed is captivating.
Could a couple of years make that much difference? Or is it something about seeing her in person? A subtlety about the way she moves? The bite in her tone when she snaps at me to tell her what’s going on? Any or all of these factors could be making the difference. But whatever it is, I need to get it under control. I can’t be this damn attracted to a mark.
Helping people to disappear requires me to disengage from them. For most of my clients, it’s a very emotional time. They fear for their lives. They’re also grieving for their lost identities, and they’re worrying about what the future holds. My job is to stay level-headed, even surrounded by all that messy emotion. I have to keep calm so I can make sure the disappearance is neat and nothing is overlooked.
It’s the worst time in the world, in other words, to get the hots for a client.
Which is why I’m not going to watch her sleep. Resolutely, I turn away and begin unpacking boxes. I hold my hand inside the refrigerator for a moment, ensuring that it’s working, and breathe a sigh of relief when I’ve ascertained that it is. Dry and canned foods would have been fine, but I know we’ll be much happier and healthier with fresh fruits and vegetables in our lives. I unload some apples and celery, moving as quietly as I can so Jenna won’t be disturbed. Then I lift a few gallons of purified water up onto the shelves.
When I’m done unpacking, I decide to give her some privacy—as much as I can, that is; it’s not like there’s anywhere for me to go in this one-room cabin that would be out of her way. Instead, I step outside onto the porch and pull the door closed behind me. There’s only one way in or out. As long as I sit by the door, I’ll know she’s safe and not trying to escape.
Unless she climbs out a window. Would she do that? The majority of the cabin’s windows are on the same wall as the door, so she’d have to come right past me. But there is a small window on the adjacent side, facing out into the woods. I think it’s too high to climb out of, but just to be sure, I move down to the end of the porch so I can see both sides of the building.
She doesn’t trust me yet. I know she doesn’t, and there’s no real reason she should, after the way I got her here. But I need her to start trusting me. I need her to learn that everything I’m doing has a purpose, and it’s all to keep her safe. And as much as I want to tell her how hot I think she is, I know I can’t. That kind of thing is messy and almost never straightforward. It would probably make it harder for her to trust me. With every move I made, she would be questioning whether I was just trying to get closer to her.
I wonder if it would be better for her to know everything—the full details of the
danger she’s in, and what exactly could happen to her and her father if they aren’t compliant. I wonder this all the time with my clients. Should I share stories of what happens when things go wrong? When people don’t do as I say? Or should I protect them from that horrible knowledge? Nobody should have to know things like that, should they? Jenna doesn’t need to know that I’ve dealt with Carl Boetsch before, that I know exactly what he does to people who cross him, that he uses their loved ones like bargaining chips. It wouldn’t help her to know that. It would keep her up at night. It would just make my job easier.
I’ll have to be better at my job so it won’t be necessary to tell her.
Let her hate me. Let her mistrust me. Even though I want to wrap my arms around her, assure her that I’m here to protect her and that I’ll never let any harm come to her…let her think I’m the bad guy. Because the truth is, there is so much worse than me out there. Maybe the best way I can protect her at the moment is to shield her from the knowledge of the true dangers she and her father face.
I don’t want to go into the cabin, not until I’m sure she’s deeply asleep—I’m sure my presence makes sleep harder for her to come by right now—so I look around for something to do out here. There isn’t much. I could rotate the tires on the car, I suppose. But that would involve crawling around on the ground in positions that would limit my access to the house, allowing Jenna to slip past me. I’ll have to save that job for another time, when I’m more confident she isn’t going to try to leave.
I rest my hands on my hips, gazing out at the horizon, and the heel of my right hand bumps against my hunting knife. I close my hand around the hilt and pull it out, examining it. Here’s something I could do to pass the time. I walk to a nearby tree, about three meters from the cabin’s porch, and use the knife to notch an X shape on the trunk. Then I step back. Gripping my knife by the handle, I aim and let fly. A split second later, I’m rewarded with the satisfying thunk of the blade burying itself in the trunk.
My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Page 4
