Safe and Sound

by Fern Michaels

  Ben’s eyes popped wide. He had money to buy one now. One of those they called burner phones that couldn’t be traced. The Rite Aid drugstore in the neighborhood was open twenty-four hours a day. When he left here, he could buy one. Problem solved.

  Sort of. Kind of.

  Ben looked around his room, trying to decide what to do. His computer said it was twenty after nine. Time to gather up what he would need, make sure he didn’t leave anything incriminating behind, then wait another hour or so and leave.

  But . . . how was he going to defeat the gizmo on the doors, the robotic voice that announced each opening and closing? He closed his eyes and brought up a mental picture of the front door and where the little square was positioned. Top or bottom? Middle of the door? The bottom! His fist shot high in the air. How many times had he stubbed his toe on it? All he had to do was peel it off. He’d seen Connor replace it many times when he’d knocked it loose. Good! Good! He knew the code to turn off the alarm. No problem there since it didn’t make any noise, either, when turned on or off. The only thing that happened was that the red light would turn green, and vice versa. Escape was almost guaranteed.

  Ben emptied out his backpack and stacked the books neatly on his desk. Since he had no plans to go to the Institute tomorrow, there was no sense in loading up his backpack. If he changed his mind about showing up, he could always use the Institute’s books. His biggest worry was that they might call the house to see where he was, but he brightened almost immediately because Connor and Natalie never answered the phone because the only people who called were bill collectors. He decided he was safe on that score.

  Ben removed the reports he’d paid for, rolled them up, and put them on the bottom of his backpack, along with clean underwear and two clean shirts and socks with holes in them. He could wear the same jeans for a few days, then buy some new ones. He ran into the bathroom for his toothbrush and toothpaste and threw them in the backpack.

  Ben ran to the closet, removed his grandmother’s credit card, and put it in his shoe. The slim stack of hundred-dollar bills was wrapped around his ankle, with his sock pulled all the way up to his knee. He stopped for a moment to think. He still had the remaining twenty-dollar bills that had not been used to pay the pizza deliveryman in his pocket, so he could use them at Rite Aid.

  Before he turned off his computer, Ben looked down at the corner of his computer to see the time. It was ten fifteen. He’d wait fifteen more minutes, then leave. He quietly opened the door and peeked out into the dim hallway. He looked down at the end of the hall, where the master suite was. He could see light shining under the door, and the door was closed. No sounds could be heard. No point in waiting. He backed up into his room, shrugged into his windbreaker, and slipped his backpack over his shoulders. His breathing sped up. He turned off the light, closed the door softly, and tiptoed down the hall to the steps.

  In the foyer, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by the minilight on the baseboard before he bent over and pulled off the small electronic device on the bottom of the door. He dropped it into a vase on the little table under the alarm keypad. Ben sucked in his breath and punched in the numbers. He sighed in relief when he saw the red light turn to green. He was out the door in a nanosecond and running like his life depended on it, which, in a way, he supposed it did.

  Ben half ran and half jogged to the Rite Aid. He was sure someone would question what a little kid like him was doing out at ten-thirty at night. But no one did. The young girl behind the counter was too busy reading a romance novel to pay attention to him. She simply rang up the phone, the mini Maglite, and a carton of milk, then bagged his purchases and handed Ben the receipt.

  Ben flew out of the store and headed for the Circle. He was getting tired now, so instead of running, he simply walked and tried to whistle, but the gap between his teeth wouldn’t allow any sound to escape. By the time he reached the Circle, he was exhausted. It seemed to take him forever to find the key in his pocket that would unlock the main gate, but eventually he found it. His hand was shaking so badly, it took him three tries before he got it open.

  The three sodium vapor lights cast a dim yellow illumination over the entire Circle. He walked as fast as he could to Rita’s house, where he walked around the back until he saw the basement window. He knew it would be locked, and it was. No one other than maybe a midget or he could squeeze through the opening if the window were open. Straggly, overgrown bushes all but hid the window. With no other option available, Ben kicked the glass until it shattered. He carefully poked all the glass away, crawled through the opening, and dropped to the floor. He turned on the Maglite to see nothing but emptiness, which was good. He looked back at the window, wondering if anyone would see or even think to look at it. The bushes would bounce back into place and likely cover the broken window.

  There was one more obstacle, and it hit Ben like a ton of bricks falling on top of him. What if Rita had locked the door in the kitchen that led to the basement? If she had, how was he going to get into the house? He climbed the steps, praying and crossing his fingers as he made his way to the top. He shined the Maglite on the doorknob and turned it. He almost fainted in relief when the door opened into the dark kitchen. Ben aimed his light at the floor as he moved around.

  He knew this house, Rita Dolan’s, as well as he knew his grandmother’s.

  The time on the grandfather clock on the landing of the stairs said it was twenty after eleven.

  Ben headed straight down the hall to the guest bedroom. He shed his clothes, then opened one of the dresser drawers, the one that used to hold pajamas for when he slept over. They were too small now, but he didn’t care. He pulled them on and crawled into bed.

  “You did okay, you’re safe now,” he muttered to himself, before he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Ben Ryan’s eyes snapped open. He instantly knew that the time was 6:42. He knew this because he woke every day at the exact same time without the aid of an alarm clock. He also knew where he was, as well as all the events that had transpired before he crawled into the bed in the guest bedroom at Rita Dolan’s house.

  Ben bolted upright and reached for the burner phone he’d purchased the night before at Rite Aid. He was glad for the limited light on the phone to help him dial the numbers of the Institute. He pressed in the digits and waited. Dr. Montgomery usually had desk duty until eight-thirty, at which point all calls went to voice mail until lunchtime.

  “This is Benjamin Ryan, Dr. Montgomery. I’m calling to ask you to inform Dr. Evans that I will not be in today. I either have a twenty-four-, forty-eight-, or seventy-two-hour stomach virus. I’m leaning toward the forty-eight-hour virus, which means there is a ninety-eight-percent certainty that I will not be in class tomorrow either to pick up my assignments. Possibly not even Wednesday. Please tell Dr. Evans I completed all my assignments and took the liberty of moving ahead on my own, which means I will not fall behind.”

  “Very well, Mr. Ryan. I will relay your message to Dr. Evans,” the brisk voice on the other end of the line said. A moment later, the connection was broken.

  Ben turned off the phone and dived back under the covers. He was asleep within seconds and didn’t wake up again until ten-thirty. What to do first, eat or take a shower? He looked down at the pajamas he was wearing, knowing they were two sizes too small and that he looked ridiculous. Not that he cared. He was hungry but not that hungry, so he opted for the shower. He soaped up and washed his hair. He liked the flowery scent of the shampoo Rita had, which reminded him of her. He felt sad for a moment, but it didn’t last.

  Ben dressed and combed his curly hair, which fell in wet ringlets all over his head. He really needed to get a haircut before people started to mistake him for a girl. He put it on his mental list of things to do.

  The bed beckoned. He knew at some point the cops would search all the houses on the Circle, but not until Connor realized he’d gone missing. But that would not happen for a while
yet. Good old Connor wouldn’t notice his absence until about three or three-thirty. Natalie wouldn’t notice his absence for a week, if then. He giggled at the thought. Then he made the bed. He stood back and tried to view it the way he thought a cop would. Neatly made, no creases anywhere, the sides hanging just the way they were before he went to sleep in it.

  The cell phone went into his hip pocket. His backpack was zipped. There were no stray socks or underwear anywhere. The room was clear. As far as anyone could tell, no one had been here since Rita had left.

  The bathroom was a different story. Wet towels. The shower stall was wet. The shower mat was wet. Well, that’s why GE made dryers! First, he reached for clean towels and dried down the shower walls and the floor. It took three big towels to complete the job. Since he couldn’t reach the showerhead, he swung one of the towels up and across it until he couldn’t see a speck of water anywhere. He even dried off the bar of soap and the soap dish. He made sure the shampoo bottle cap was dry and tight.

  Ben looked around, trying to view the huge bathroom with grown-up eyes that would be searching for clues as to whether anyone had been here or not. He gave himself a mental slap to the side of the head. The shower door. It was open when he first got here. He’d closed it, and it was wet. He ran to the linen closet and pulled out a clean towel and set to work. He even dried the bottom metal strip until it felt dry to the touch.

  Now he was good to go. He settled his backpack more firmly on his back, bundled up all the wet towels, and carried them downstairs to the dryer. He plugged it in and set the time for thirty minutes.

  Now he could eat. Ben headed straight for the pantry, where Rita stored all her canned goods and staples. The number of items he had to choose from was not particularly large. Some canned soup, canned tuna, canned pineapple, sugar, flour, and cracker meal in airtight jars. He almost jumped for joy when he saw a box of Raisin Bran, the kind that had two scoops of raisins, and a box of Frosted Flakes. He reached for the Raisin Bran. Then he remembered why Rita probably bought it in the first place. He didn’t need that kind of problem while he was on the run. He settled for the Frosted Flakes and ate two big bowls, almost emptying the box. He finished what was left of the milk he’d bought by drinking it from the carton. He rinsed it thoroughly, then crushed the container and stuck it in his backpack. He emptied the rest of the cereal into the sink and ran the garbage disposal, ripped the box apart, and put the pieces in his backpack. Back in the kitchen, he unplugged the refrigerator.

  “I think I would make a pretty good criminal,” he muttered to himself as he washed and dried the bowl and spoon and returned them to their proper place. He then dried the sink with paper towels that he found under the sink and stuffed them in his backpack. Leave no clues behind was his thought.

  Now it was time to call Izzy. It took him a good five minutes to find the business card she’d given him. Everything he needed was on the card: the name of her business, the address, the firm’s telephone number, and, on the back, her private cell phone number, which she had told him he could call day or night. He punched in the numbers and was stunned when the call went directly to voice mail. He waited ten minutes and hit REDIAL. The call once again went to voice mail. A blossom of fear fluttered in his stomach. Maybe she was in a meeting and had turned off her phone. He decided to give it another few minutes before he called again. When his third call went to voice mail, he really started to panic.

  Ben took a deep breath, then another, until he calmed down. He picked up the phone and called the main number of Isabelle’s office. A cheerful voice offered a greeting.

  “This is Ben Ryan, ma’am. I need to get in touch with Isabelle as soon as possible. She gave me her private cell phone number, and I called it three times, but it went to voice mail each time. Can you please get in touch with her and tell her it’s urgent that we talk?”

  “And are you a client?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Isabelle is my friend. Just tell her to meet me at . . . at number three. She’ll know what that means. I’m in danger. Tell her I didn’t go to . . . to school today. Also, tell her I can’t stay here long. Will you please do that?”

  The voice on the other end of the phone turned hesitant. “Did you say school?”

  “Yes. It’s complicated, ma’am. Just tell her I’m in danger.” Ben broke the connection before the voice could question him further.

  Ben was about to sit down at the kitchen table when the dryer pinged. He ran into the laundry room. He pulled out the towels and folded them, then placed them in the yellow laundry basket at the side of the dryer. Then he pulled the plug on the dryer. He felt certain that towels in a laundry basket wouldn’t send up any red flags.

  Back at the table, Ben sat with his hands folded. He needed to fall back and regroup. How much time was he going to give Isabelle? It was noon now. At best, he had three, maybe four hours before Connor would realize he was missing. The big question was: What would Connor do about it? Would he call the police? Unlikely. Would he call the Institute? Unlikely. What would he do? He’d probably wait a little while longer. He’d notice that Ben’s bike was still there. When it got dark around a quarter to five or so, and the streetlights came on, he might start to feel some concern. Maybe. Or he’d wait it out. But for how long? Would Connor even entertain the idea that he, Ben, might have run away? He had to admit he didn’t know. Natalie would be all for letting him stay out as long as he wanted to, saying he’d come home when he was hungry, and that’s when you beat the living hell out of the little snot. She’d tell Connor he was a weak, sniveling man, and she was going to take over. Ben shuddered at the thought.

  Where are you, Izzy? I need you. I really need you. He wanted to cry so bad that his eyeballs burned.

  * * *

  Less than three miles away, Isabelle and Nikki were sitting in front of a man whose name was Peter Olsen.

  “I guess you ladies are wondering about the spartan conditions here. Let me explain. My dad, Peter Senior, is in rehab because he had two hip replacements that went bad. His doctors are trying to decide their next course of action. I took a leave of absence to come here, wind things down, and help my dad. I’m a federal prosecutor. I know your husband, Jack, quite well, Ms. Quinn. We miss him very much. He’s doing well, I hope.”

  “He is. I’ll be sure to tell him I met you,” Nikki said.

  “What can I do for you ladies?”

  Isabelle jumped right in just as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She was torn for a moment. Nothing was more important than what she was doing right now. She chose to ignore it and quickly explained the reason for their visit. “I understand about attorney-client privilege, but this is a little boy we’re talking about. Will you at least call your father and ask him to have Eleanor Lymen call me. Ellie is a friend, and she has my number.”

  “This is about the custody case, right?” Both women nodded.

  “I followed it, and, of course, talked to Dad about it daily. Maybe it would be better if you talked to him directly. He’s at the Coastal Center, ten minutes away. We can walk it if you’re interested in the exercise, or you can follow me. I just came in today to check the e-mails and phone messages. In three weeks, this firm is shutting down. The other lawyers in the practice have already joined other firms. It’s killing my dad, but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. He’s looking at months of therapy, and there is no guarantee that it will work.”

  The sisters elected to follow Peter Jr. in their car.

  On the way out of the building and across the parking lot, Peter Jr. chatted a mile a minute. “I have a son Ben’s age. It would kill me to have him ripped away from me. It about killed my dad that he lost that case. Mrs. Lymen . . . well, she was inconsolable, as were her two friends, whose names I can’t remember right this minute.”

  “Rita and Irene,” Isabelle volunteered.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. Dad thought he had it locked up, but in the end, grandparents have no rights. That guy Con
nor had legally adopted Ben. And then he got married to seal the deal. From that point on, our side was dead in the water. Seriously, my dad went downhill after that.

  “It was all he thought about, talked about. He used to play golf and poker with that judge. To this day, he has never spoken to him again, meaning the judge. The other golfers and poker players came down on the side of my dad, and that judge resigned from the bench about four months ago. Maybe you saw it in the papers.”

  “No,” both women said in unison.

  “The thing is, the judge was correct in his ruling. He went by the law, but sometimes you have to bend the law. At least that’s how I see it, especially when a child is involved, and a special child like Ben to boot. My dad tried to console Eleanor, tried to get her fired up to take up the cause of grandparents. For whatever her reasons, it didn’t happen.”

  When they reached their respective vehicles, Peter Jr. laughed as he pointed to his minivan. “Hey, it runs. It’s great for taking nine Little Leaguers here and there and six hopeful ballerinas all over hell and creation.”

  “As long as it runs and gets you from point A to point B, that’s all that matters,” Isabelle said, opening the door of her Audi and climbing behind the wheel. “I know where the Coastal Center is, so if you lose us at a traffic light, we’ll meet you there,” Isabelle said as her phone vibrated in her pocket for the third time. Whoever was calling her was certainly persistent. She handed the phone to Nikki and asked her to check to see if she had any messages.

  “No messages, and the number comes up as restricted. They’ll call back, they always do. Whatever did we do before we had cell phones?”

  “It was another way of life. So what do you think, Nik?”

  “I think Peter Senior is going to help us. As much as he can. Will he break the law and betray that attorney-client privilege? I think so. It’s just a gut feeling. You?”