by Julia Gray
Matt Haskell gives me the stare down. I feel remorse for what I did. I lost track of the man I was responsible for, and now his worst fears are coming true. His wife has been taken, and I am to blame. My brother Dan was right. I started digging my own grave when I agreed to work for Mr. Haskell. I don't think the money is worth it anymore.
I don't want to be tied up and beaten to a pulp.
I eye Matt's fists. They are clenched just like his jaw. He could knock me out with one swift punch. I left the airport yesterday wondering how soon Matt would be at my place asking for my last words. I contemplated jumping through the back window when I heard a knock on my door this morning. If Dan hadn't have come home pissed last night, he could have answered the door for me to say that I left town.
"I know." I speak first. "I effed up real bad yesterday."
"You should have called me the minute he got on the freeway," he replies.
"My mistake," I gulp.
I nearly piss my pants when his thick hand drops on my shoulder. It feels like an anchor forcing me to stand still. I can't run while he has a grip on me. I am forced to wait while he decides how to deal with my disobedience. He is going to punch me right in the face for sure. Maybe he'll rip one of my piercings out?
"You are coming with me," he finally says. I cringe when he takes a step. "Right now."
"Yes, Sir." I will probably regret this when I'm hanging upside down without my teeth. I reluctantly walk out the door and follow him to his truck. I willingly slide into the passenger's seat and sit with tense leg muscles the entire drive.
Matt doesn't say a word as we drive towards the industrial part of town. We pass a few warehouses and the rail yards until we are in an area with lots of abandoned buildings. I gulp and feel my chest start to pound. I am glad I never confessed that I was seeing his daughter too. I would be dead already.
We stop at a giant warehouse with broken windows and a chain link fence blocking the front. It is early in the morning. The sun is shining overhead, but the shadows of surrounding buildings make it feel like it is evening time. Matt gets out of the car and waits for me to do the same.
This is it. This is where I'm going to be murdered, and I am making it easy for him.
I rub my face as I get out of the car. Matt pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the bolt on the chain link fence. A feeling of panic begins to kick in. Matt glares at me as I walk through the fence. The muscles in my arms are so tense they might start cramping up on me.
"Walk faster," Mr. Haskell instructs. We enter the warehouse. A good portion of it is empty except for a mess of stuff in one of the far corners. I hear clicking as we walk towards it. I tilt my head and hear music playing at a low volume. There is a light, a desk, and a dozen computer monitors. "This is Skip."
A guy wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie glances at me in between keystrokes. He is typing feverishly on his keyboard. His hair is long and oily. He's dressed as if he's planning on attending a Sunday brunch later. Next to his keyboard is a pile of empty chip bags and soda cans.
"We've almost got it," Skip replies. He keeps his eyes glued to his monitors. "I have a guy in Chicago who knows a guy in Detroit who knows a guy in Amsterdam who-"
"Did you trace it or not?" Matt says impatiently.
"You betcha," Skip answers.
Matt studies my expression as I try to put together the pieces. When I realize today isn't my day to die my shoulders relax a little. I fold my arms and take a closer look at Skip's equipment. I have never met a computer hacker. If I saw Skip on the street, I would never have expected him to be one.
"After you called me," Matt says quietly. "I received a message about paying a ransom to get my wife back." He takes a long breath. "I wired them the money immediately."
My eyes go wide. I didn't think he would be one to give in so easily.
"Why the hell did you do that?" I respond. His jaw clenches. I clear my throat. "Sir," I add.
"To find them," he responds. "They contacted me right away which means that they knew I had been informed that my wife was missing." He looks at me until I make eye contact with him. A shiver runs down my spine when I do. "Which means they were watching you."
"Impossible," I gulp. "I wasn't followed. I made sure of it."
"And bingo," Skip shouts. "The money was transferred to an account in New Zealand to a Mr. . ." He sits up suddenly in his chair. "Hang on." He stares intensely at one of his screens before he begins typing even faster. "No. No. No!"
"What is it?" Matt asks.
"The money is jumping," Skip mutters. "No. No. No. I haven't seen work like this since the Thailand job."
"Explain," Matt commands.
"Someone must have known the money would be traced, so they transferred it to not just one fake account, but hundreds."
"Hundreds?"
"Yes, hundreds." Skip grabs a headset and throws it on. "The money is bouncing from account to account like it's been thrown into a pinball machine. By the time it settles into the real account, I might have lost it."
"Don't lose it then," I say frustrated. Skip briefly looks at me and rolls his eyes.
"Zawg!" Skip yells into his headset. "I need your help with a jumper. I'm linking you up now. Are you ready?" He stops for a minute and watches one of his monitors before nodding. "If anyone can keep up with it my buddy Zawg can."
Skip continues typing. He mutters a few things into his headset.
"Come on," he mutters. "Come on. Yes!" He throws his hands in the air. "Got it!"
"Excellent." Matt nods as if he never doubted that Skip could do it.
"The money went to an account originating in Paris to a Miss Penny C. Zuwella."
"Are you sure?" Matt responds.
"One hundred percent positive," Skip says, matter of factly.
"Damn." Matt shakes his head.
"What is it?" I ask.
Matt places his hand on my shoulder.
"You are coming with me," he says. "We are taking a little trip." He looks at Skip. "Run that name against as many passenger lists as you can for flights from anywhere in the United States into Europe."
"Anywhere in the United States," Skip responds. "That'll take-"
"Hang on," Matt interrupts. He scratches his chin. "Try a few of the smaller regional airports in Idaho."
"Okay." Skip shrugs. "You are the boss."
"Call me when you find her," he instructs. He nudges me, and I follow him back outside. I don't know what is going on, but I am happy that I'm still breathing.
Chapter Seventeen
"My wife is sending me a message."
Mr. Haskell heads for the freeway and starts driving up the coast away from the city. I am tempted to say something, but nothing good ever comes from opening my big mouth. Instead, I wipe my nervously sweaty palms on my pants and wait for him to say something. This silence could last for a while.
I am not like Matt. I'm not patient like he is unless it's part of my plan to get what I want. Besides that, I like the sound of chaos going on around me. I like to see the way other people live their lives. Some people are downright idiots.
I glance out the window. Dan might be awake by now and drinking another beer to calm his hangover. He won't even notice I'm gone until he needs a ride into town. And even when he sees that I'm gone, he won't care if I'm gone for five hours or five days.
"You look about my son's size," Matt finally says. He eyes my t-shirt and ripped jeans. "You might have to take all those piercings out.
"What?"
"It will help you blend in better," he responds casually. "It'll give people less of a reason to look a second or two longer at your face. You do want to blend in, don't you?"
Is he giving me tips now?
"That depends."
"We are going to my family's beach house." Matt keeps his hands on the wheel and periodically glances in his rear view mirror. "I know you were wondering that."
"Wouldn't anyone?"
"We are catching a
plane overseas," he informs me.
"To where?" I match the tone of his voice. Strong. Firm. And yet, still casual.
"We will know sure enough."
He keeps his eyes straight ahead until his phone buzzes. He reaches into his pocket and answers. I can hear Skip's voice shouting something on the other end about the technique he used to find Penny C. Zuwella.
"Thanks," Mr. Haskell says. He hangs up the phone and shakes his head. "I can't believe she had the nerve to go there."
"Sir?" I question.
"Gavin, have you ever been to London?"
"No," I admit. My scope of travel has been limited to the western United States. I don't usually have the cash to roam too far. "What's in London? That Penny lady?"
"Penny C. Zuwella is a code name," he replies. "Zuwella is the name of a little apple orchard in Washington. Penny was my sister-in-law's first child who died as an infant, and the C stands for Cora, my wife's great-grandmother."
"I don't get it."
"My wife is sending me a message." He clears his throat, and for the first time, he looks a little uneasy about sharing so much with me.
"But you paid the ransom," I say. "Didn't they let her go once you did that?"
"No one ever had her in the first place." He takes a deep breath. "She set the whole thing up to drain most of our savings for herself. I knew she wanted to leave me, but I didn't think she would do a moronic thing like this."
"Oh." I think of something consoling to say, but I'm not very good at this. Besides, Matt looks like he cares more about the money than the fact that his wife just conned him for all he's worth. "Couldn't she just have . . . I don't know . . . divorced you or something?"
"She wouldn't have been satisfied with half," he says in a low voice. I'm surprised he isn't angry. Maybe he is screaming inside, and I just can't see it?
"What are you planning on doing?" I am afraid to hear the answer to that question.
"My wife is on her way to her sister's." He readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. "I plan on meeting her there."
"You are going to confront her about it?"
"She didn't just take my money," he admits. "I am missing something else. Something that I assumed was stolen by a former client of mine until now."
"She did?" I chuckle. He sure knows how to pick 'em.
"Think of the item as a little black book of sorts," he continues. "It's a chip. The information it contains could cause unspeakable harm if it falls into the wrong hands. And if anyone discovers that she has it, she will be killed."
"Why are you telling me this?" I gulp.
"I need you to steal it back."
"How am I supposed to find out where she hid it?"
"I'll handle that," he answers. "I know it is with her. She doesn't trust anyone else but herself."
This is the biggest job I've ever had. I can't blow it this time.
"I won't let you down this time," I say.
"I'm not bringing you because you're the most qualified, Gavin."
I narrow my eyes.
"I'm bringing you because you know how my wife thinks," Matt adds.
"I've never even spoken a word to you wife," I reply, confused.
"You don't have to." He exhales heavily. "She thinks exactly like my daughter. Exactly."
I feel a prickle in my chest. My throat starts to close up. I force myself to stare out the window so Matt can't see the fear on my face. I don't know what to say. Should I confess that I've been seeing his daughter or pretend to be oblivious?
"Why-"
"I know you two have been sneaking around," he finishes. "We will have a discussion about that later. But first, you have a job to do."
PAIGE
Chapter Eighteen
". . . she is yesterday's laundry."
With a name like Victor, I was expecting to meet a man with a scruffy face and streaks of silver in his hair. Aunt Sheila smiles when a tall, thin man joins us at the dinner table. He is wearing a suit with a bowtie, and he has thin-framed, silver glasses. He kisses my aunt on the cheek before hugging his squealing daughter. The two of them have the same shade of auburn hair.
"Daddy!" Myra shouts as her dad takes the seat next to her.
"I missed you too, pudding pop."
I hold back a giggle and glance over at Dane. What is wrong with Aunt Sheila? This is so not the sort of man she usually goes for. He is almost as thin as she is and he dresses like he works at a teen gossip magazine.
"Everyone, this is my fiancé. He works in fashion." Aunt Sheila beams. "Victor, this is my niece Paige, my nephew Dane, and his girlfriend . . . um . . ."
"Mikki," I say before her long pause gets too awkward. "Her name is Mikki."
"Nice to meet you lot." Victor glances at the bouquet of flowers in the center of the table.
Our places are set with light blue china and silverware that is so well polished it practically glows. I remove my cloth napkin from the pearl napkin holder and place it on my lap. I see Mikki glance at me and do the same thing. When we are all settled, Dessie starts bringing our first course to the table. It looks like an assortment of hors d'oeuvres. I wrinkle my nose pointing to one of the foods.
"What is that?" I whisper to Dane.
"That is a quail's egg," Victor answers from across the table. "I hope you don't mind, but I had the chef prepare some options for the wedding reception."
"I love it, Darling." Aunt Sheila claps her hands together. She has been around Myra too long.
"Wonderful idea, Daddy." Myra keeps a smile on her face as she discreetly looks below the table. I hear the faint jingle of Princey's collar, and I roll my eyes. I watch Myra tear a piece of bread and slip it under the table.
Spoiled pup.
"I have amazing news everyone," Victor says before he tries any of his food.
"Daddy," Myra mutters. "I thought you were going to wait until dessert?" She smiles at Aunt Sheila as if proud that she knew Victor's secret first.
"I can't wait," Victor blurts out, waving his hands in the air. "I got a spot in Paris Fashion Week!"
"Darling, that is wonderful. You have been working so hard." My aunt bounces up and down in her chair along with a squealing Myra. Dane and I force a smile.
"I know," Victor replies. "But that means we may have to push back the wedding, love."
"How far?" Aunt Sheila asks. Victor casually takes a sip of the wine that Dessie just poured in his glass.
"A couple of months . . . maybe longer."
I can see the disappointment on my aunt's face. She purses her lips together like my mom sometimes does. For a second she remains quiet, probably giving Victor a piece of her mind in her head. Then she opens her mouth and responds to the news in what sounds like a well-rehearsed speech.
"Well, this chance might not come again, so I am very happy for you. We can postpone the wedding."
I see her fingers scratching at her cloth napkin, and it makes me smile. She composes herself well, but she is angry. The more accepting and understanding she appears on the outside, the more she is fuming on the inside.
"I knew you would understand," Victor responds. He sips more of his wine and takes a bite of the crostini on his plate. "I mean I have loads of work ahead of me. I need to finalize my designs, decide on fabrics, find my models . . ."
Aunt Sheila perks up.
"Oh honey, I'm flattered." Her face is beaming again at the prospect of gracing a catwalk once again. I glance at her tiny waist and long, thin arms. She still has the body for it.
"Actually," Victor chuckles. "My collection targets a younger audience, love."
"Does it now," she responds through her teeth.
"Yes." He looks up, oblivious to the fact that he just offended his fiancé by insinuating that she is yesterday's laundry. "In fact, I might be able to use you." I flip my hair over my shoulder and open my mouth to say thank you until I notice that Victor is not looking at me. He is looking at Mikki.
"Me?" Mikki responds.
"Yes," he says loudly. "Stand up, child."
Mikki follows his instructions and stands up. Victor nods as he looks her up and down.
"Um," I interject. "I don't mind helping out." Victor barely looks up at me.
"No, I need someone with more of a natural look."
My face feels hot, and my chest starts pounding. My fists clench on their own, and I want to scream when I see the look on Myra's face after her dad disses me. Now I know how Aunt Sheila feels.
Chapter Nineteen
"All those late night trips to Pukesville."
Mikki is all smiles as she tastes everything on her plate. I don't know why Victor chose her to model in his show, but I can't show anyone that it bothers me. I sniff my food and take a drink of water instead. I glance over at Mikki. I guess she does have somewhat of a modelesque look about her.
Myra tears another tiny piece of bread and slips it under the table. I hear Princey's collar jingle as he eats the scrap. Aunt Sheila clears her throat and looks at Myra. For a second they make eye contact, but Myra doesn't do anything about her dog under the table.
I watch my aunt take a few long breaths. She clears her throat again, but this time Myra doesn't bother to look in her direction. Aunt Sheila's cheeks turn red. She gulps down a drink and briefly closes her eyes to compose herself. A light bark comes from under the table, and it sets Aunt Sheila over the edge.
"For heaven's sake, Myra. Get that darn fleeball out of here!" she shouts. The entire table gawks at her. Myra frowns at Victor.
"Sheila," Victor responds. "Are you alright?"
All eyes are on my aunt, Sheila. I see a few wrinkles on her forehead as she frowns. She looks at Victor and then glances at me. She takes another gulp of wine and forces a fake smile.
"Just tired, I guess." Her voice is firm. She looks at my plate. I haven't tried a thing yet. I am too scared of having to run from the table all the way back up to my private bathroom. "Paige, are you still feeling ill?"
Now all eyes are on me.
"Ill?" Victor repeats. "From what?" He stops eating. "I can't catch a cold. Not at a time like this." He glares at me like I have an infectious disease.
