by Ted Dekker
Consider how my days went and you’ll get the picture. I usually got up around eight and drank sixteen ounces of bottled mountain-spring water to flush out my system. Then I took a very hot shower and cleaned the bathroom while steam still covered all the walls, the sink, the toilet, and the bathtub. Only when the entire room was squeaky clean would I dress and head back out to the kitchen.
There I made myself a healthy breakfast using vegetables and fruits cut into small squares and arranged neatly on a plate. No sugar, no breads, no eggs, no animal products of any kind. Lamont used to cheat from time to time, but I didn’t dare. My body had taken a beating from the drugs, and I was obsessive about keeping it clean. He’d taught me well.
After I wiped down the kitchen and mopped the floor tiles using vinegar and warm water, I sat down at the desk and turned on my computer. This was usually around ten thirty in the morning.
The moment I began to research any topic, I would find so much new information to occupy my mind that it was impossible to stay on track. I would start with police procedures, for example, and upon learning that the police used stun guns to stop criminals, I would do a search on stun guns and soon be lost in an article on the electrical charges in such guns, which would lead me to the inventor of that device. I might lift my head at one o’clock having just read an obituary of a scientist in Lincoln, Nebraska.
None of this brought me closer to breaking Bourque’s neck or kidnapping him and holding him in my closet for a month while he slowly confessed to every evil deed he’d committed. Worse, my memory was still a bit foggy, and much of what I might have learned about my initial topic—such as police procedures—seemed to evaporate in the haze of digital information.
Feeling hungry from my heavy research, I would make myself a salad, eat it with a fork, brush my teeth, check to be sure the suite was clean, and return to the computer around two unless I had some shopping to do.
Gradually I did learn, I suppose. Sure I did. I learned many things, but I’m not sure I learned in those first two months to be a very good criminal.
It was then that I decided to change my approach. Instead of reading about the ins and outs of the underworld, I would focus on the man I would bring to justice. I considered enlisting the help of Cyrus Kauffman, the dealer who’d first put me in this predicament. For a healthy sum he could show me the ropes and get me the lowdown on Jonathan Bourque. But I was quite sure he would rob me, let his friends rape me, and then shoot me full of drugs and kill me.
So I worked alone and started to peel back the layers hiding my target.
I might as well have tried to peel a pool ball. Public information about Bourque was readily available, naturally. But this was worthless. I quickly realized that if I wanted to get to the truth about the man, I would have to do it in person.
I had to meet people who knew him. And I had to meet him. I needed to look him in the eye and ask him about Lamont, because then I would really know. A flicker in his eye would betray him. A shadow over his face would confirm his knowledge of my husband’s fate.
Meeting someone as secretive and protected as Bourque turned out to be even more daunting than pull-ups. I was sweating like a sauna the first time I set foot in the bank, pretending to be a respectable customer considering her options. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, only that I spent five minutes wandering around in a complete panic, telling myself that my fear was silly. I had to do this.
But I did not belong in that bank building. I wasn’t dressed right. I didn’t speak right. I did have a carefully rehearsed cover story about representing a new charity for recovering heroin addicts, and I planned to use this when I eventually met Bourque, but there in the bank I stood out like a ketchup stain on a white tablecloth.
It took me two days to settle on an outfit I was comfortable wearing and that I thought would allow me to blend in at the bank. I chose a white blouse and a gray skirt suit from JCPenney that fit nicely around my thighs without hugging them too tightly. My legs were fluorescent white and I thought about wearing hose or trying a spray-on tan, then rejected the ideas. The thought of suffocating my legs or spraying them with chemicals made my skin itch.
The saleswoman, a nice lady named Kelly who had large breasts, insisted that if she could fit into a suit like the one I’d chosen, she would definitely wear black stilettos with it. But I perched awkwardly on the high heels she brought for me to try on, and I had a sudden and terrifying vision of trying to run away from Bourque and breaking my ankles. I settled for a pair of black flats.
The next time I went back to the Wells Fargo bank building, I assured myself that I was only there to practice fitting in. I kept my eyes trained ahead, walked directly to the elevator, and rode it to the top floor.
There were two others on the elevator and neither stared at me. I looked like any other businesswoman coming to inquire on charity business. There was no reason not to be fully confident. Still, I was sweating, and although I wasn’t wearing any makeup but the lip gloss, because Lamont insisted cosmetics detracted from my natural beauty, I was afraid someone might notice.
But no one did.
The foundation’s lobby was furnished with a long marble counter, behind which sat a red-haired receptionist in a bright blue suit, answering phones and filling appointments. Two large brass doves sailing over waves and the words THE BOURQUE FOUNDATION decorated the rear wall.
“May I help you?”
It took me a moment to realize the question had been asked of me. I froze, then turned my head to the receptionist in the blue suit.
One of her eyebrows went up. “May I help you?”
I was stuck on the top floor with nowhere to flee but back to the elevator. All of my careful research and preparation vanished in a puff of proverbial smoke.
“Hi,” I said.
She smiled. “Hi.”
“Um…Does Jonathan Bourque…Is here?”
I was barely aware that I’d butchered the question. I was far more concerned with the fact that I’d asked it. I have no idea what I was thinking.
“And you are?”
I pushed through my panic and stepped forward. “I’m sorry, I’m just…Could I see him?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr. Bourque doesn’t take unsolicited appointments. What did you say your name was?”
I knew I couldn’t use my name, because he might see that I was Lamont’s wife and kill me on the spot.
“Mary,” I said. “I’ll just come back.”
The receptionist dismissed me with a half nod and answered a call. I descended in the elevator and exited into the lobby, where I stood for full ten seconds, realizing that I hadn’t set fire to myself or the building. I had come, fit in, spoken, and now it was time to leave.
So I did, feeling elated. I caught a cab and rushed back to my room.
But as I paced the kitchen and thought about my first visit to the Bourque Foundation, it occurred to me that I really hadn’t accomplished much. If anything, I’d only learned what I already knew, namely that Jonathan Bourque was inaccessible. I might have even ruined my chances of getting a meeting with him.
The next day, I called and tried to make an appointment, but again I was dismissed. Jonathan Bourque did not take unsolicited appointments. In fact, no one at the foundation did, not without a reference. Evidently there were far too many people looking for handouts, and being snobby was part of the foundation’s screening process.
Two days later, I went back to the Wells Fargo building, rode up to the top floor, and this time spent three hopeless minutes trying to make a case for an audience with anyone at the foundation regarding my new charity, which I’d named Recovering Addicts Anonymous—a silly name in hindsight, but I thought it was pretty clever at the time.
Over the next week I tried on five different occasions to find a way through their firewall, as I began to think of it. But in their eyes I was only one of many bothersome advocates for worthy causes, and with each attempt I was si
mply sent away.
I was starting to think that Bourque was untouchable. I began to panic, and then I began to consider an entirely new approach.
Fitting in was no longer my concern. If anything, my problem was that I fit in too well. I was like every other gold digger out for an audience with the king. Maybe the only way in was to stand out—not as a nutcase, but as a potential threat. They would have to take me seriously then.
This idea was absurdly dangerous, of course, but the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that if I really did want to force Bourque’s hand, threatening him might be the only way to get his attention.
My harebrained scheme began with a trip back to the foundation’s receptionist and ended with my captivity in the basement of the Hilton.
I presented the redhead with a note stating I had information that would hurt the Bourque Foundation. I demanded an immediate meeting with Jonathan Bourque. I was begrudgingly escorted to the Hilton and introduced to Simon Redding, who guided me with a steel grip down into the basement, shoved me into the chair, and began his interrogation as if I was a prisoner in a war camp.
This is the short story of how I came to be handcuffed to a chair while Bourque’s right-hand man paced in front of me. I was terrified. I was sweating. I was a skinny recovering drug addict pretending to be someone else in a gray suit.
I was also furious, which surprised me a little—not because I didn’t have a reason to be angry, but because of how it affected me. Instead of being shy or timid, my determination to defend Lamont’s honor was absolute.
I finally had my proof, you see? I admit it: Up until this point, I hadn’t been perfectly positive that Bourque was as evil as I’d imagined. But Simon Redding’s threats exposed Bourque’s ugly underbelly. In this regard, my plan was working flawlessly.
“You’re going to cut off my fingers?” I asked, unsure if I understood.
“Not all of them.”
“Only one of them?”
“I’ll start with one, yes. Your thumb, up to the first knuckle.”
The thought scared me enough to make my fingers tremble. But my mind filled with an image of this man standing over Lamont, threatening my husband with something even worse before eventually killing him.
They’d done it. I knew this all the way to my bones, and my fear gave way to outrage. Three months of obsession and frustration boiled over. I spoke without thinking clearly.
“Do whatever you need to do. You killed the only man who ever loved me!” My voice was tight and high and I was more shouting than speaking. “You can’t get away with this! People like you will rot in hell, which is exactly where I would send you if—”
His hand slammed into the side of my head, nearly knocking both me and the chair over. “Keep your voice down,” he said. “Who are you talking about?”
I spit blood from my mouth. “So you’ve killed more than one? You don’t even know who I mean?”
“You obviously think I’m capable of doing some real damage. Listen to yourself. Be smart. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“You’re just going to kill me the way you killed him?” I cried.
“Who?”
I wanted to shout Lamont’s name, but it occurred to me that knowledge was my only leverage; knowledge was king in the underworld. They wouldn’t kill me until they knew everything I knew.
“Kill me and you’ll never know.”
He stared at me for a moment, then pulled out a large pocketknife and extended the blade.
“Okay, honey. We’ll do this the hard way.”
Knuckles rapped on the door. “Hello?”
Redding slipped his knife into his pocket.
“Hello?” The door swung open and a man dressed in a black shirt with a white priest’s collar stood in the door frame.
The priest’s round eyes went from me to Redding, then back again. “What’s going on?”
12
THE WAY DANNY saw it, he had two choices: to save the girl or to walk away.
In this matter Danny wasn’t sure which choice was the moral one, because he didn’t have time to fully consider the consequence of each choice. So he did what came naturally.
As a fighter in the Bosnian war, he’d learned a hundred ways to kill a man, and most of them involved leveraging tactical advantage over brute force. Although Danny could wield a knife and handle a gun like few could, his keen mind was what had appointed him to the most difficult missions behind enemy lines.
He knocked on the door. “Hello?”
Before they could answer, Danny opened the door and took in the small room.
It was another utility closet. Redding stood over a young woman handcuffed to a metal chair.
“What’s going on?” he stammered as any priest stumbling upon such a scene might.
The girl’s eyes went to his collar. The fact that he was a priest rarely played to his advantage, but it might today if he played his cards correctly.
Upon immigrating to the United States, Danny had become a priest for one reason: to cleanse his mind of all the evil that kept him awake nights. The fact that he’d since gone from being a messenger of peace to a dispenser of justice was the fault of that pedophile whose penis he’d severed.
Although Danny was many things, chief among them a vigilante who killed the worst offenders, at that moment he had to remember that he was only a priest—a priest who’d heard sounds of distress and, like any priest worth his collar, gone to investigate.
“Hello, Father,” Redding said, smooth as a good cognac. “I was expecting the police.” He flashed an official badge that read PRIVATE SECURITY. “Just a small security situation. We’re holding the girl until the authorities arrive. If you’ll please excuse us, I’d rather this not disrupt the dinner, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“Of course. Of course.” Danny turned as if to leave but then looked back at the blood on her lips. “My goodness, does she need a doctor? She fall down the stairs or something?”
“If you leave, he’s going to kill me,” the girl said.
“She’s high on something,” Redding said with an apologetic shrug. “Kids today.”
“You really should stay away from those drugs, dear,” Danny said. For Redding’s sake, naturally.
The young woman looked like she was in her midtwenties, skin as white as a lightbulb but spotless. No signs of abuse. She was thin though not emaciated like a junkie. Her hair looked too light to be natural, likely bleached. If he were to guess, she was a shut-in who rarely saw the light of day, not a woman battered by the street.
Redding nodded. “Thank you, Father. I have it under control.”
“Sure.” Then Danny said to the woman, “Could I get you a glass of water or anything while you wait?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
Redding lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Father, but really, it’s my responsibility to secure—”
“She’s parched,” Danny said. “A glass of water given to the least of these honors God. Surely you’re not worried she’ll use it to escape?”
He’d stalled the man, but Redding was no fool. The wheels were spinning behind his dark eyes, weighing his options.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I’m going to have to ask you to go. I’ll get her some water, but this is a security issue involving a sensitive situation. The police are on their way. I assure you, everything is in good order. Now please leave us.”
Danny could have left the room, called hotel security, and waited outside the closet until they arrived. Redding wouldn’t risk complicating matters by escalating the violence. But Danny saw an opportunity to better understand Bourque’s machinery.
“Of course. Of course. There’s nothing worse than injustice. I’ve always believed that those responsible for it should be brought to their knees even when they come in small, frail packages.”
“Then you should stay, Father,” the girl said, staring directly at him. “The injustice here isn’t mine, it’s theirs.
”
“Oh? And what is your name, young lady?”
“Renee,” she said.
Redding’s face darkened a shade. “You’re overstepping your bounds, Father.”
“Am I?” Danny took a step closer. “Perhaps I could offer Renee here some spiritual counsel while we wait for the police to arrive. She looks properly restrained. I’m sure neither of our lives is in jeopardy.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“But I insist,” Danny said. “Why do you do drugs, Renee? You see what kind of trouble it brings you?”
She spoke quickly before Redding could object again. “If you cared anything about justice you would demand he uncuff me. My only crime here is that I have accused Jonathan Bourque of killing the man I love. They’re afraid of what I know.”
“Enough!” Redding thundered.
Danny looked at the man. “What are you going to do, cuff me to the chair as well? It isn’t the first time that Jonathan Bourque has been accused of injustice.” He let the comment sink in, then backpedaled just enough to give himself an out. “The world is full of crazy people who mistake kindness for wrongdoing. In the end, we will know them by their fruit, isn’t that right?”
Redding’s jaw was firm. His suspicions had been piqued.
“You think I’m crazy?” Renee asked Danny. There was a certain naïveté about her voice.
“I think you’re cuffed to that chair because you’re meddling in affairs you should leave to others,” Danny said.
“If you don’t leave now, I will be forced to restrain you,” Redding snapped. “I have a job to do.”
Danny held up a hand. “Let’s just calm down. As you said, the police will be here any minute.”
“You should take your own advice,” Redding said. “Leave matters like this to the proper authorities.”
“Is that a threat?”
No response.
“Sir, I only opened the door at the top of the stairs looking for the bathroom, and I heard the commotion here. However unusual it might be to find a woman restrained in a basement, your explanation makes perfect sense. But now your threats make me wonder if you’re being entirely honest with me. Speaking may not be your strong suit—you should think before opening your mouth.”
