by A. m Madden
“Trey, let’s call Leila’s friend Ace. He has his own security company and his friend, Lee, is a private investigator. They helped us with the Danny mess. Maybe he’ll know what you should do,” Jack offers.
I stare blankly at Jack. After a few seconds, he takes matters into his own hands. He makes a series of phone calls, first to Leila, then to Ace, then to Leila again. His last call is to the police.
“Dude?”
“Trey, she was kidnapped. You can’t do this alone. You need professionals to back you up. They’ll probably call in the FBI based on the crime.”
“All because of me,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” Jack asks.
“All. Because. Of. Me. This is why I have no business falling for someone. This is FUCKING why I need to be alone. I’m toxic.”
“Knock it off,” he demands, not buying my pity party.
I sit heavily on my couch, staring down at my hands. What does he know? He’s known my story for all of an hour. I’ve been living with it my whole fucking life! No one knows what I’ve been tormented with. No one has a clue. There isn’t a person on this earth who can convince me otherwise. I deserve to be alone. I deserve to suffer through the rest of my life. For whatever goddamn reason, the universe decided I wasn’t ever going to find happiness, and I always accepted that, especially after I lost Taylor. I accepted my fate, and I was fine with being alone.
Then Tara had to enter my life. It’s not her fault, but it is. All that I carefully planned is being threatened because I got involved with her. All that I purposefully changed and altered in my life is about to come crashing down around me, because of her. None of this would have fucking happened if I had never met her!
I’ve spent the last decade worrying it was just a matter of time before I would have to deal with all this fucking shit that I’ve been running from. But then it never did. Even with the success, the bottom never fell out. I fucked up, and the bottom is about to fall out. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I lost focus. I got complacent. I started to feel.
My apartment has become the command post for all this fucked-up-ness.
My place won that fucking lottery because the notes were delivered here. If he were to make contact, either by phone or another note, it would be here he would do so.
Lucky me.
Because of it, there are people coming and going. The same goddamn questions are asked of me over and over. Several sets of suspicious eyes measure me up and judge me as I respond. My phone lines are tapped. Crabby looking men have set up shop in my kitchen with a truckload of gadgets.
Jack and the guys never left me. They stayed during all of the interrogations. They were my logic when my own brain wouldn’t work right. Their own lives were put on hold to be here for me.
What we knew so far was that Tara called her office on Memorial Day saying she was taking a leave of absence due to a family emergency. She left the message on her editor’s voicemail. I was asked about her family, friends, anyone who may know where she is. I said I only knew of her one friend, which was Leila. I also informed them that she doesn’t speak to her family.
The head agent then drilled me on what I knew of Tara’s situation with her family. I filled him in with the few details that Tara told me. He called them after my rundown. I listened as he gave them the facts of what we knew so far. I could hear her mother’s sobs over the phone. They told him that they were coming to New York immediately. They can stay at a hotel, because they aren’t staying here. They are fucking hypocrites. They haven’t spoken to her in years and now they think that they’ll just sweep into her life pretending they care about her? I’ve become protective of Tara in a way, and I’m not letting those people near her.
All day long my thoughts go to her and what she’s going through right now. I can only imagine how terrified she must feel. She has no idea why this would be happening to her. Did he fill her in as to why she was taken? Or did he not give details and is adding mental anguish to any physical torture he’s probably inflicting on her?
This cocksucker went through great lengths to ensure her life went on without any red flags of her disappearance. She’s holding Monday’s newspaper in the picture. When I received the first random note this morning, he already had her for two days.
There are special agents at Tara’s place as we speak, scouring for clues. A fingerprint, a sign of a struggle, a witness, anything they can find to aid in this investigation. Her cell phone was tracked back to her laptop bag. The calls to her family and office were from her cell, which means he held her in her apartment for a while before he took her. So with luck, he left something behind to implicate him and place him there.
The FBI now has all the discs holding evidence of my father’s illegal activity, as well as my Uncle Abe’s. Taylor’s case file has been reopened to assist in this investigation. My mother will be brought in to the FBI headquarters in Utah to be questioned within the next few hours. They know my real name, my history with my father, and my whereabouts for the past ten years. I did not tell them I’ve kept in touch with the Rappaports. I need to spare them all this, even if for just a little while.
The feds are now aware of my uncle and his antics. There is no concrete evidence that Abe is even behind this. Agents are visiting my old house, my dad’s church, and their business office searching for him. With each update, my initial fear of him knowing I went to the police intensifies. When I voiced my concern, the only time I did speak without being spoken to, Agent Farley said to leave the investigation to them. He is the ringmaster in this circus. The dude looks like a hot movie star right out of a cop show. He barks commands, curses worse than me, and has no patience with anyone but himself. As his guys fill him in on updates, he rolls his eyes and scrutinizes every word they utter. Half of these assholes are afraid of him. The other half can’t stand him. The females drool over him. Therefore, Agent Farley has earned my respect.
I like him. He’s a cocksucker. It’ll take a cocksucker to find a cocksucker.
He asked me about her parents. I explained what Tara told me and said they weren’t welcome in my apartment. I’m not interested in proper protocol and respectful formalities. Farley agrees with my sentiments. He said now isn’t the time for drama, and they’ll be told only the info they need to know.
“You okay?” Jack asks when he finds me hiding in my bedroom. Hunter left a while ago, as did Scott. My guess is they are tag teaming to babysit me.
“What do you think?”
He doesn’t bother responding. He pulls up a chair and sits facing me. “This is some fucked up shit you’ve been carrying around with you. How did you do it? I don’t think I’d have it in me to keep it all together like you did.”
“You learn how to survive. You become a robot. If you were to slice me open, you’d probably see wires and shit.”
Jack laughs at my analogy. “Leila always knew there was more to you.”
“Your wife is a pain in my ass,” I respond, only half joking.
He laughs again and nods, “She can be, but I’m not complaining.”
“You’re a lucky dude.”
“Stay the fuck away from my wife,” he threatens, pointing a finger at me for emphasis. He is a very lucky dude. Not only in the fact that he found love, and he found happiness, mostly because he is obviously allowed to have it.
“No worries.” My toneless response causes him to apologize. “Jack, I’m really glad you found her. You deserve to be happy.”
“So do you, Trey.”
I flinch from his words. “No, I really don’t. It’s fine. I’m fine with it. As long as no one else is punished because of me, I’m happy to go about my business just as I have for years.” A flash of pity crosses his features, causing me to add, “Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. Save it for Tara. She didn’t deserve any of this.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he denies my claim. “I’m in awe of you.” He stands and places a hand on my shoulder. “Trey,
I meant what I said. You’re a brother to me. I would do anything for you, whether you like it or not.”
He leaves my room, shutting the door on his way out to give me privacy. That man knows exactly what I need, even when I don’t know it myself.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I received the last note, and still nothing. With every passing hour, with every passing minute her absence affects me more and more. The investigation is top secret, classified, blah, blah, blah. It’s not like I have anyone to tell. My friends all know. They come and go, checking up on me. There’s absolutely nothing they can do to help me, which causes them pain. The Rodstons tried to meet me on several occasions, and I blatantly told them I’m not interested. They are staying at a hotel nearby. Their updates are all communicated through Farley.
I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m slipping back into that haze I retreated to when Taylor died. Back then I depended on alcohol and painkillers to keep me going. This time my drug of choice is self-loathing.
I’m surrounded by obnoxious assholes that drink too much coffee, eat too many donuts, and smell like crap. They are all sitting around my apartment, waiting. I’m a prisoner here until whatever it is we are waiting for finally happens. I hide in my room while they make themselves at home. For the most part, they have no use for me. So I’m a prisoner in my room, by myself, with nothing but my thoughts.
I’m in fucking hell.
At the twenty-fifth hour, hell finally takes pity on me.
As I’m being grilled by an agent on the exact - “word for word” details of my last conversation with Tara, a knock on my door stops everyone in their tracks. They all look as if they are playing a childhood game of freeze-tag. Every time someone knocks, these idiots all freeze with their coffee cups midway to their mouths, or their donuts suspended right before they bite into them. If I weren’t so fucking angry, I would laugh out loud.
So far, every knock has been a friend coming by or an agent to relieve someone.
Just like all those other times, Farley points to me and to the door in his commando way of telling me, “Fucking answer it.”
Just like all those other times, I drag my feet toward the door, holding my breath in anticipation of who it could be.
This time it’s the scruffy kid.
I grab him by his shirt and drag him into my apartment, slamming the door closed. Like vultures on a carcass, agents are all over him within seconds. The kid can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. He is so terrified that he actually pisses himself.
The envelope the kid was delivering is handed to a gloved agent and opened immediately. Then one of the asshole agents hands it to Farley in a clear plastic bag. He scans it quickly with his calculating eyes and hands the letter back to the asshole. Those eyes then focus on the kid.
“Weren’t expecting us, huh?” Farley asks, facing him with arms folded, his eyes now drilling holes into the kid’s head.
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Farley counters.
“I’m Jimmy.”
I feel like I’m in a bad cop sitcom. Farley circles the kid, torturing him more than necessary. With every question he asks, the kid squirms more and more. Tears come. Whimpering at the things that can happen to him if he’s not telling the truth. Downright sobbing when Farley tells him what happens to skinny guys like him in prison.
By the end of this Emmy-worthy interrogation, we find out that Jimmy, aka James Lawrence Miller, lives in this building, has two siblings, is currently in his fifth year of college, and is working as a cashier at Pizza Hut.
He said that a dude in his mid-twenties approached him as he was getting off work. He wore a hoodie, baseball cap, and sunglasses. He never saw his eyes. Told him a story that his girlfriend’s ex lived in his building and was bothering her. He wanted Jimmy to deliver these letters to scare him off. Jimmy thought I was the ex. He was paid a hundred bucks for each delivery.
“So if someone asks you to jump off a fucking bridge, you’d do it?” Farley asks with a sneer.
“Seemed harmless, and it was easy money,” he shrugs as if he’s stating the obvious. “Do you know how many hours I have to work the Hut for this amount of money?”
“Do you know how much trouble you would have been in if those envelopes contained drugs?”
“They were too thin for drugs,” Jimmy smirks. He’s gaining confidence. If it weren’t for the fact that I want to pummel this kid and put his head through a wall, I’d be impressed.
“Tail him,” Farley orders the room. He points at Jimmy and says, “You’re now working with us. You cooperate and no one gets hurt. You just got yourself a roommate until we plan our next move. Now get the fuck out of here,” Farley spits in his face.
Jimmy scrambles for the door, never looking back, and one of the agents follow.
“Get those security tapes from that Pizza Hut. NOW!” Farley barks. He snatches the paper off the table and walks toward me. Wordlessly, he hands me the letter.
YOU HAVE A TYPE. SHE’S VERY SWEET.
WHAT’S SHE WORTH TO YOU?
“His next contact is crucial. The middle guy could be watching the building. They may already know we’re here. If they do, your next letter could hint that they took out their anger on her.” He picks up one of the satellite phones and starts shooting out questions in rapid fire. “Did you get anything? What time? You put a tail on him? Finally, someone is using his brain. Trace it? Fuck. Same place…have him sitting idle. Put another one on both cross streets in case he keeps walking.”
He may as well be speaking Chinese. He returns to where I’m still standing and says, “The van saw the exchange.”
“What van?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“The surveillance van out front. They tailed the fucker. He walked around the corner and was picked up by a car with Jersey plates. They ran the plates, stolen. Next time he shows, we’ll be waiting for him and ready to chase.” He stops long enough for me to absorb what he said.
“So, now what?”
“We wait.”
I retreat back to my room. I can’t stand these people.
My head is fucking killing me.
The noise level in the other room increases enough to wake me up out of a deep sleep. The voices are muffled, but something is riling them up. When I walk into the room, there is a different crop of assholes sitting around. In Farley’s place, an ancient dude with hair whiter than snow is now barking the orders. I guess there was a shift change.
“Where’s Farley?” I ask no one in particular.
The old dude spots me and says, “He’ll be back. I’m George Whitney.” He measures me up from head to toe. “Your girlfriend is a smart girl.”
“What happened?”
He holds up a plastic bag holding a tiny recorder. It’s the same one Tara used the day she interviewed me. “She hit record at some point during the abduction. It was found under a chair in her living room.”
Hopefulness causes me to utter, please, repeatedly in my mind. “What’s on it? Do we know where she is? What he did to her?” I ask, torn with whether I want to know what she endured when that prick took her.
“He didn’t say much. Babbled a lot of scripture bullshit. She did get him to admit why he was taking her. He said her boyfriend did some bad things and she needed to pay the price for his sins. He referred to you as Trestan Barton. On the recording, we can hear him…” Whitney avoids my gaze and then finishes his sentence. “He was hitting her.”
My hands clench into tight fists. “It’s my uncle, Abe Barton,” I mutter, barely audible. I always knew he had her, but knowing that he does have her clogs my throat with pure rage. I actually have difficulty swallowing because of the golf ball lump stuck in the base of my throat. It restricts my airway, making it necessary to swallow gulps of air.
Whitney waits until I make eye contact with him. “Your mother said Abe told his congregation he was going on a spiritual retreat. We pulled all domestic
flight passenger manifests. Abraham Barton flew out of Salt Lake on the twenty-seventh of April, arriving at LaGuardia the same day. He’s here. We just don’t know where.”
“He’s been here for weeks. He’s been watching me. I’m sure he knows you are all here.”
Whitney nods again and hands me another note in a plastic bag.
THINK YOU’RE SMARTER?
“Who delivered it?”
“It was taped to your mailbox.”
My hand clams up. Whitney notices it trembling as I hand it back.
“Kid, our only advantage is he doesn’t know that we know who’s got her. Your mother’s letter put him on our radar. You could have suspected him, but having that info up front saved us precious time.”
This guy’s demeanor is much more pleasant and comforting than Farley’s. It wouldn’t matter if Santa Clause were here right now. The facts are the facts. They still make me sick to my stomach. They still make me feel as if a toxic sludge runs through my veins. I’m still having trouble pulling in enough air to breathe.
“We need to find her,” I pant through my erratic breathing. I can’t lose her. I can’t be responsible for another Barton killing another girl that I love.
He pats my arm and says, “We will.”
“You scared me so much,” I whisper into her ear. The smell of her hair overwhelms me. It’s a mixture of coconut and vanilla. The texture is like silk as it gently blows in the breeze. She shivers in my arms, the air suddenly turning chilly. The more I hold her, the more she resists.
“Tara, stop fighting me. You’ll fall,” I nod toward the cliff that appears behind her. I search her face, trying to understand why she’s pushing me away. She watches me, her warm brown eyes melting my heart. At the same time they stir me in ways I haven’t been in a long time. I ache for her. I cling to her.
“Tara, don’t scare me like that. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”
