Scare Me

by Richard Parker

  “One of you want to swap seats with me?” he said, about to lose his temper.

  The couple exchanged a slow glance.

  “You could even try talking to them then.”

  “Fuck’s it got to do with you anyway?” Dad started undoing his seatbelt.

  But his wife placed a hand across his lap. She recognised something in Will’s eyes. “We’re good here. Swap places, Paul.”

  Tam gritted his teeth and allowed a nervous belch to disperse itself in his throat. He’d scrambled underneath the lorry and was lying in a pool of pungent oil just behind its cabin. He couldn’t see what was going on. His position only afforded him a view to the edge of the loading bay and not what was happening on the gantry above.

  Skinny Man was pacing back and forth along it, his feet making the metal tremble. He was talking to someone the other end of a phone. He recognised only a handful of the English words he used from his days in the market with Songsuda and his parents.

  The conversation ended and Tam held his breath while the man caught his.

  “Puki mak kau!”

  Tam flinched from the curse and scrambled further back on his stomach. He heard Skinny Man stride back along the gantry and descend the steps to the cage again.

  As soon as he was clear of security at Chicago O’Hare, Will called the number to confirm his arrival. This time they answered. “Don’t hang up. Listen to me.” He waited. They were silent, but Will was sure he could hear the sound of breath under the clucking and babbling.

  He ducked into a bathroom off the concourse. “We want a photo. Something dated.” A father and son pushed past him as he stood inside the swing door. He lowered his voice. “Post something on the site and let us know they’re unharmed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The sibilant Asian voice seemed to hang in the air.

  “What are you talking about?” Will hissed back. “We want a photo of them both.”

  “Choose one.”

  Will could feel the sound of the man’s breath moving the hairs in his ear. Now he wanted him to hang up. He shook his head, not willing to concede to what he might be asking. Frantic birds’ wings buzzed within the clamour.

  “My choice then.” The hushed voice was impatient.

  “Wait. What are you asking me?”

  “Which one you care about the most?”

  “I’m her father for God’s sake. You don’t need to ask me that.”

  He was amusing himself, relishing his misery. Will tried to visualise himself there, standing by the cages, next to the man with the phone in his hand. He imagined what he’d do if he were there.

  As if in response, the sound of metal chair legs scraping ended the conversation.

  What had it meant? He wandered to the exit, disturbed by the implication of their exchange. Was he being asked about the subject of the picture he’d demanded? Or had he been forcing him to make a choice between hostages? He’d been using his desperation for entertainment and Will prayed he wasn’t abusing Libby and Luke’s emotions in the same way.

  He joined the lines of people waiting outside for taxis. He’d considered renting a car, but suspected a cab would be quicker for getting into the city. It was a half hour drive from the airport.

  The wind cut through him as he opened the laptop against the chrome rail. The pop up hadn’t been revised. As the line moved steadily, he slid the casing along it. Soon it was his turn. A car pulled up and a Jamaican woman with a mouthful of tarnished gold was smiling at him.

  “You gonna be OK with all that luggage?” She nodded at the laptop.

  He climbed into the back of the yellow taxicab and pulled the door shut. It moved off immediately. “Downtown, but we may be detouring on the way.” He looked at his watch, 3.33pm.

  “First time in the city?” There was a note of peevishness in the question.

  He looked up from the laptop, registering it was the second time she’d asked him.

  “Sorry,” he said absently. “Flown through before.”

  “Business or pleasure today?”

  “Neither.”

  As he remained riveted to the screen, he could feel hostility from the front seat.

  “Well, whatever you’re here for, you’ll find a truckload of it in Chicago.”

  The city rocketed upward before them, skyscrapers jostling for position as they folded out across a powder blue horizon. It felt like the cab was shrinking and soon they were dwarfed in the buildings’ cool shadows. They jerked through traffic lights and over pedestrian crossings while the driver used one muscular arm to navigate the wheel. Her other hand, fingers tipped by multi-coloured nails, attempted to coax something satisfactory from the radio.

  No address was being displayed, but Will’s heart was thumping against his ribcage. In one tiny zone of this vast sprawl of civilisation, people were about to die. Or had already been butchered.

  “You just tell me where I can let you out,” she said above This Old House. She was obviously eager for a more talkative fare.

  The details could arrive any moment and he didn’t want to end up stranded when they came through. But there was no way of knowing how long that would take and he couldn’t drive round with her indefinitely.

  She dropped him outside The Honky Tonk Barbecue on the corner of 18th Street and Racine Avenue. As he stood on the sidewalk, he felt more alone than any time since he’d left the UK. There was a small coffee house opposite so he dodged the traffic to get to the other side. Cars beeped and he hoped there wasn’t an officer nearby to stop him for jaywalking.

  When Poppy heard the key in the lock, she knew the rest would be plain sailing. There had been no guarantee he would make the stop off, only a damn good chance.

  She was hidden behind the bar, her arms encircling her knees. Her new sushi knife was on the carpet with the Taser next to it, lithium battery fully charged. With so much to do, it was unlikely he would stop for a drink. Maybe he would want to pour himself a stiff one afterward, but it would be too late by then. She listened to his laboured breaths as he entered the apartment and passed the den. Not exhaustion, panic.

  She knew where he’d go first and the door opening and slamming confirmed it. The mini fridge in front of her started to hum, the beer bottles inside jingling against each other. Redundant stock now, he’d never put any of them to his lips. She wondered which movie he’d seen last and hoped it was a good one.

  She swiped her cherry balm across the smooth tightness of her dry mouth. Patches of heat radiated from her cheekbones and numbed her ears. She listened to the activity in the other room for a while longer and then tensed her legs. Poppy grabbed the knife and Taser and pushed her back up the wall. She slid off her suede boots and padded barefoot down the hallway to where he was.

  They met as he left the back room and he had his arms full. Two heavy cardboard boxes, which meant he was unable to defend himself. His eyes were wide before she Tasered him. As he lay shuddering at her feet, Poppy looked down at the middle-age spread hanging over his belt and the grey roots in the dyed black bowl of his hair. Just an oblivious heap of skin and bone now.

  This had been the gamble, but he’d behaved in exactly the way she’d envisioned. She was back in charge of the schedule again. Events could unfold at her pace now. She had the rest of the day and nobody to disturb her.

  The door to the cage opened and Libby heard the creak of knee joints as someone crouched over her.

  Moments later she’d forgotten Luke and Mum and Dad. The place where the needle had been jabbed into her became an indistinct coordinate on a map of what little remained of her. The narcotic in her veins washed away her prison, her predicament, the hands upon her and everything else.

  Normally the scent of coffee beans was like a magnet to Will, but the potent wall of arabica he’d walked into had made him feel nauseous. Garish paintings by local artists covered every inch of the walls. He’d squeezed himself behind a table at the rear of the tiny café and hoped nobody would wait on hi
m. They had, so he’d ordered a coffee he didn’t want to drink.

  He called Carla and told her he’d demanded the photo evidence. He didn’t tell her about the choice he’d been asked to make. He was still convincing himself he’d been choosing who was to be photographed. She asked if it had been her he’d spoken to. Will said no – it was a male voice, Asian. He said he’d contact her when he was at the next location.

  He opened up the laptop so he could watch the address box. Now he had to sit, wait and speculate.

  Even when it did appear, he didn’t feel confident about finding the address himself. Interstate driving was all well and good, but he didn’t rate his ability to navigate the traffic of such an immense and unfamiliar city. A taxi still looked like his best option.

  He clicked through to the photos of the interior again. Thankfully, none of the rooms looked as if children occupied them. He studied the minimalist furnishing of the space with the circular bed in it. He wondered if she was inside, waiting. Or if there was blood already spilt over the oatmeal carpets.

  Then it struck him that the images hadn’t been taken through the windows. They had to have been photographed by somebody standing inside the rooms. If it was an apartment maybe it wasn’t at ground level. Had they broken in to get the snaps?

  How could he be seated here when he knew what was about to happen? Every shred of him felt as if he should be moving, feet pumping while he hunted for the place so intimately photographed for him. He knew it was futile. The city was colossal.

  Or maybe the location was one block away.

  Weaver picked up after one ring. “I’m clear.”

  “Are you in a cab?” Pope tried to balance his considerable frame on a chrome barstool in the window of the juice bar.

  “Just left the pick up zone.”

  Having sat six rows back from him on the flight Pope had easily tailed Frost from the airport while Weaver recovered the camera from the carousel. “18th and Racine, I’m in the Vita-Shakes bar. Frost is sitting tight in the coffee shop opposite. He got the better deal.” Pope looked down at the green wheat grass drink on the plastic orange shelf in front of him. “He could move anytime. Tell your driver he’s got a fare for the day.”

  “Be there soon as I can.”

  Pope positioned Weaver’s iPad on the shelf. He skated his finger over the next house, but no box appeared. Where the hell was the poor bastard being sent next?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Apt 17,

  144 East Went Street,

  Chicago,

  Illinois,

  60510

  Relief and panic collided as Will inputted the coordinates into his online map. The apartment was in the Gold Coast area between Cabrini Green and North Lake Shore Drive. It would take him sixteen minutes to get there.

  He was just yanking the coffee house door when a hefty guy in a hairnet grabbed him by the arm.

  “You haven’t paid your check.” His fingers pinched bone.

  “OK!” Will rapidly pulled out his wallet. “But you’re going to have to let go of my arm.”

  Hairnet Guy unclamped Will’s bicep and put a meaty hand against the exit.

  His limb freed, Will plucked some single dollar bills from inside and thrust them at him. “Keep the change.” He turned to leave, but Hairnet Guy didn’t budge.

  “This isn’t enough. It’s for six seventy-five.”

  He parted his wallet folds, but there was no other money within. Hairnet Guy looked at the ceiling.

  Pope was already out in the street looking for a cab when Weaver pulled up. He jogged to the passenger door as his maroon-faced partner swung out.

  “Get back in. Frost should be leaving any second.” He narrowed his eyes at the coffee shop and wondered why the new coordinates hadn’t made him emerge.

  Weaver slammed the car door and thrust some dollars into the driver’s window. “Keep the change.”

  The cabby nodded and pulled away.

  Pope was momentarily stunned. “Weaver? We’ve got the new address…”

  Weaver shouldered past him into the juice bar and Pope quickly followed. He dumped his camera onto the shelf and unstrung his kitbag from over his head. “Just after I spoke to you I got a text from the channel. I thought it was kinda weird that they’d be sending me an assignment for tomorrow so I called the desk to tell them there’d been a mistake.” He widened his eyes, a cue for Pope to explain.

  Pope had been preparing for this conversation, but all of the bullshit he’d rehearsed seemed pointless given Weaver’s current demeanour.

  “So I find out that the Monday assignment is my actual assignment and that I’ve been dragged onto two planes under false pretences by someone who doesn’t have a job at 55 anymore.”

  Will clawed in another pocket and found more change. He counted it out onto the six dollars already in the man’s palm. Each coin another second wasted. He just managed to make it up. As soon as the last quarter landed, Hairnet Guy dropped his arm like a release mechanism.

  Will shot out into the street and headed for a taxi that was idling in a line for the lights.

  “They’re firing me?”

  “And me along with you unless I’m back at work tomorrow morning.”

  Pope watched Frost cross the street to the taxi. “We can argue the toss later. He’s moving.”

  Weaver turned briefly and then retrained his hostility on Pope. “You’re a son of a bitch. What were you thinking? No contract, no safeguards. Just string Weaver along and risk his livelihood because you think you’re a hotshot? The best moment of your career was getting caught in the fucking rain.”

  Pope held up Weaver’s iPad. “I can’t believe we were on top of this and you’re letting it drive away.”

  “You should have levelled with me.”

  “If I’d done that you wouldn’t have got on the plane.”

  “Damn right I wouldn’t have. This is us concealing evidence, not the channel. I could go to jail for this, Pope. So what was your ultimate plan?”

  “I hadn’t thought further than staying on top of Frost.”

  “Bullshit. Who are you taking this to?”

  “Taking what to? Every second we stand here it’s slipping through our fingers.”

  “You must have already positioned yourself with one of the big networks. It’ll be back to begging for a job at 55 for me though, right?”

  “You’re right. I should’ve levelled with you. But we can slug this out later. If we don’t move now you would have risked your job for nothing.”

  “Fuck you.” Weaver sat down and folded his arms.

  Rush hour meant they could only crawl through the traffic and Will considered getting out to walk, but sporadic surges through the lights moved them across town at a faster pace than if he was on foot. He perched on the rim of the seat and willed the vehicle forward.

  He knew getting there faster wouldn’t have any impact on the consequences for whoever lived in apartment 17, and his agitation kept tugging the driver’s attention in his direction. He had a flat cap and thick lens spectacles that both seemed too big for his head and his magnified gaze was becoming increasingly nervous. Will caught his own waxen features in the mirror.

  “You OK?” It sounded like concern for the interior of his cab more than anything else. Will nodded, but the driver wasn’t convinced. “You just let me know if you need me to pull over.”

  “That’s the last thing I want you to do.”

  East Went was like a tree-lined runway to the outer harbour of Lake Michigan with a mishmash of architecture that reminded Will of the street on the website. The apartment building was a relatively new structure slotted between two older buildings. He handed the driver his credit card, got out and stood by the window. He didn’t hear his wisecrack as he tossed it back. Will headed up a short flight of steps to the main entrance, sliding his hands inside the chequered gloves.

  He found the box and button for 17. It was the last apartment on the top level. He t
ried the heavy brass handles of the filigreed glass doors, but they were rigid. He trotted back down the steps and looked up at the blank windows, counting the floors. Seventeen. Looked like it was the penthouse. He only had one option so mounted the steps again and pressed the buzzer.

  The grille crackled. Will anticipated a woman’s voice. Then the door hummed and the front entrance doors unlocked.

  The elevator was a capsule of dread. Will had almost taken the stairs. Running up them seemed more appropriate than listening to the kitsch muzak inside the plush, mirrored box delivering him to the top level. He looked at his own reflection as the container rose and shuddered around him. Who had let him in? If it was her, why was she allowing him to get closer?

  The elevator lurched to a stop. When the doors eventually opened, a sickly sandalwood scent poured over him. He was standing in a private lobby. The carpets there were the same dark honey colour as in the elevator. There was an occasional table with a bowl of ornamental wicker balls beside the front door, which was ajar.

  The elevator started to close behind him. He put his body back in the frame. If he allowed it to descend, there was no quick escape. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from a bracket on the wall and positioned it on the threshold. The doors closed on it, bounced and opened. Closed on it, bounced and opened.

  He listened, no sound except for the elevator and his own internal percussion. He could see the glow of daylight on the plain white wall to the left of the cracked door. Somebody was waiting inside.

  Will placed his laptop on the occasional table. A set of keys was hanging motionless from the lock. He gripped the leather fob and pushed the door slowly inward. It glided open soundlessly and he was peering down a hallway he’d already seen. It had several doors off it; the one at the far end was the only one left open. Then he recognised what was lying on the bureau beneath the mirror to his right. It was a canary yellow clutch purse like the one he’d seen the girl carrying when he’d passed her at the back of the house in Ellicott City.