by Holly Hart
Carson doesn’t sit, so much as collapse. He drops where he stands, straight to his knees, fists balled in his lap. “What, then?” His voice cracks. “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know.” She half-rises, leaning over the table to glare at Carson. “You know what? I do know. We’re turning him in, end of story. We’ve been ducking responsibility all our lives. Time we faced up to—”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Carson—”
“What? I’ve got two kids set to lose the roof over their heads if I go away. I’m not fucking doing that.”
I straighten up, finally finding my equilibrium and my voice. “We don’t even have him yet. No point fighting over what to do with him, while he’s out there deciding what to do to us.” Fuck—my head’s pounding. “Let’s just concentrate on getting our hands on him, huh?” I squint against the pressure building behind my eyes. Carson’s scowl turns blurry, but I can smell the desperation wafting off him. And this day started out so well....
Kate looks from him to me, and back again. There’s worry in her eyes—worry and determination. “There has to have been a time when he cared about us. I think he still does, on some level.” She squeezes my hand. “We can use that. Reason with him.”
Carson huffs. “That should be entertaining.”
“Whatever.” Kate grabs her phone. “I’m texting Wes. If I can get him to talk—”
“Wait.” It’s the only plan we’ve got, but I hate it. Hate the idea of Kate in harm’s way. Wes is a killer, and she’s already pissed him off. One mistake, one word out of place—who knows what he might do? I close my hand over hers. “What are you going to say?”
“Just that I’m worried, to start with.” She wiggles her phone out of my grasp. “I’ll get a conversation going, and once I’m sure he’s eating out of my hand, we can set up a meeting.”
“Which you’ll never go through with.”
“Of course not.” She smiles. “Thought we’d bring him to your place. Lock him in the panic room.”
Not a bad idea, but.... “He won’t go in willingly. I mean, you can tell it’s a panic room.”
“So we’ll push him. Drag him. Whatever it takes. If I can fight him off on my own, the three of us shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Assuming he’s not armed.” Carson struggles to his feet, stiff movements betraying his exhaustion. “And we need a better location: somewhere with cover for an ambush. And it needs to be remote. In case he tries to shoot his way out.”
Kate snaps her fingers. “Picnic Island.”
“Huh?”
“He used to love it out there. It’s where he went when he’d skip class.” She squares her shoulders. “It’s perfect: trees everywhere. Plenty of cover. And nobody’s out there this time of year. As for going willingly...he’ll probably think it’s romantic, me remembering after all this time.”
“Picnic Island, huh? Not a bad spot for a shallow grave: quiet, woodsy, no dogs to dig it up....” Carson grins wolfishly.
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Relax. I’m joking.”
“You’d better be.” Kate holds up her phone. “So? We doing this?”
I nod reluctantly. Feels like this conversation got away from me—but Kate’s plan is the only one we’ve got. And we can always call it off if a better idea comes along.
Carson just shrugs: whatever.
Kate’s phone whooshes—message sent—and I guess this is happening.
Chapter 49
Kate
* * *
Talking to Wes is like trying to grab an eel. Two days, and I’m no closer to establishing a rapport. Maybe I’m in the wrong frame of mind: I have another problem to deal with, one I can’t keep to myself. I meant to tell Max yesterday, but it was his first day back at work. He came home at midnight and fell straight into bed; I didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Tonight, though: I’m doing it tonight. Shouldn’t be so hard: Hey, Max? Remember that crappy old condom you had in your wallet? Well, surprise. Ready to be a daddy?
Yeah...no. Not like that.
My phone buzzes. Wes again: I’ve been thinking about Sonia a lot. You going to tell her what I did?
Really? She’ll find out, either way.
He types and stops, types and stops. And...nothing. Damn it—I’m striking out on every front. Wes, at least, won’t be able to help himself. He’ll text back eventually. Max, on the other hand—What if he thinks I’m lying? It’s hasn’t quite been a month: he’ll think there was someone else, someone before him. That I’m just like Wes, trying to snare him into....
No.
Max isn’t like that. Wouldn’t think that way. Not after everything we’ve been through.
I scroll back through my message history, needing a distraction. Wes is all over the place, jumping from subject to subject. Searching for something—something I’m not giving him—but what? Thought I was hitting all the right notes.
Wes? It’s me. You OK?
Head hurts. As you know.
Why are you asking? You don’t care.
Of course I care. We’ve been friends since high school. But you must’ve known it’d upset me, finding out about you.
Are you still mad?
Yes.
I won’t lie.
What you did was terrible. I’ll need some time to forgive you.
I’ve forgiven you already.
He went quiet after that. Took me the better part of a day to hook him back, and he’s been bouncing from one extreme to the other ever since: he loves me. He’ll destroy me. He’s sorry, so sorry—and killing Matt Danbury was a public service; I should thank him.
Matt. I hug a pillow to my chest, feeling sick. Wes did change, after the locker room incident. He got quieter. Thinner. Was there a window where we could’ve pulled him back to himself?—Or was it already too late? The rot could’ve set in with the dead bird Matt rubbed in his face. The time he set his hair on fire. Skidmarks.
Maybe it was all of it, a critical mass of jabs and jibes and sucker punches that ground his humanity to a stub.
Maybe that sickness was part of him, all along.
A new text pops up: I have dirt on her, too, you know.
Of course he does. You’re not going to use it, though. You were always good to Sonia. You’re still a good man, deep down.
His next text’s a picture message: his wounded hand, blood soaking through the bandages.
You’ll want to change that dressing every few hours. Get it looked at if the skin starts to feel warm. If it starts to smell bad.
He doesn’t respond to that. We’re getting way off track. I need him thinking about happier times. Remembering when life was good. I hesitate: what would inspire nostalgia in Wes? Probably not sun-soaked afternoons on the raft or silly office Christmas parties. Wes likes misery: his own, other people’s, doesn’t seem to matter.
My skin crawls as I start to type: Hey, remember that time I got plastered all to hell and couldn’t stop crying? Never really thanked you for being there....
And I’m not thanking him now. Ew. But let him think I am.
His reply comes through in seconds: <3
Gross—so gross.
And another: I’m kind of texting and driving right now. But thanks for remembering. I’ll be in touch.
So he’s on the move—coming back to New York? Or is he home, wrapping up his life in preparation for some great escape? I’m itching to ask, but I can’t push it. Not when I’m finally getting somewhere.
Downstairs, the elevator whirrs. Max is back. I guess this is where I tell him. I could put it off till I’ve been to the doctor, but four home tests, all positive... It’s time to come clean. After that, well...either he’ll take it in stride or he won’t. We’ll go from there. Or I will.
Voices echo through the foyer: Carson’s with him. Relief and frustration war in my gut. Can’t do this with an audience, but the uncertainty’s killing me. I even dreamed of the big moment, last
night: dream Max laughed in my face and promptly turned into Wes. Not sure what Freud would make of that, but it can’t be good.
Screw this. It’s happening tonight, one way or another. I make my way downstairs. Max meets me at the landing, pulling me in for a kiss.
“Want to get dinner somewhere? Carson’s got a night shift; figured we’d give him some quiet.”
Bingo. No Carson, and a public setting. Max can’t be too cruel with half the city watching. Though, the way he’s smiling at me, it’s hard to picture him being an ass about it. He was there too, after all. This isn’t just on me.
“Kate?”
“Yeah—dinner.” I smile and take his hands. “Where were you thinking?”
We end up at Gramercy Tavern. It’s quiet, and I find myself relaxing. The conversation’s drifting from its goal, heading down memory lane, but New York’s been nothing but chaos. This is the first time we’ve sat down for a proper meal, just the two of us, and... Can’t I enjoy that for a second? Can’t he? I’m about to upend both our worlds. Surely we can get through our appetizers first.
Max spears a bite of fish. “I was thinking we could go somewhere, once this is over. A vacation.”
“If we’re not in jail.”
“We won’t be.”
I raise a brow. “You sound confident.”
“I am.” He flashes me a cocky smile. “I’ve got it all figured out. Wes incited the murder of a US Congressman—a popular one, at that. You, me, and Carson, we’ll get immunity for whatever else we’ve done, in exchange for our testimony. Rachel, too—she might get her sentence reduced.”
“And if he confesses to Matt Danbury?”
Max chases a button mushroom around his plate, trying to coax it onto his fork. “Well, if he does that, we’re screwed. But he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because...optimism?” He offers up a crooked grin. There’s worry in his eyes, but I smile back anyway. He wants a good night, too. My news can wait: it’ll go down easier when he’s sleepy, content after a good meal. I’ll get him to spoon me; that’ll help, too, having my back to him. It’ll be fine.
We linger over our main course and stay for dessert. Max looks young in the low light: if it wasn’t for the six thousand dollar suit, this could’ve been our first dinner as husband and wife. We’d barely have afforded an appetizer here, in those days, but the fantasy’s a compelling one all the same. If I hadn’t invited Wes over that day....
Max looks up as the kitchen lights go out. “Think they’re getting ready to close. We should settle up.” He smiles. “It’s a nice evening. Want to take a walk before we head back?”
“Yeah—sounds good.” Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind staying out all night. But, no. It’s time. And it’s too hot in here, verging on oppressive. I’m dizzy—breathless. Freaking out. I need air. Time. Someone to tell him for me—I can’t.
I stand up abruptly. “Could you grab our coats? I’m going to wait outside.”
“You okay?”
“I’m good. Just drank too much coffee. Need some fresh air.”
“Fresh air—right.” Max signals for the check. “I’ll hurry.”
“Thanks.” I kiss him on the forehead and hurry outside. It’s starting to feel like spring, downright balmy, even this late. I breathe in gratefully, tilting my head to let the breeze cool my face and neck. I’ll take a long shower when we get back. That always calms me down. A shower, a glass of water, and—
“Kate.”
Wes.
I take a quick step back. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t move. Don’t scream.” Wes lifts his hand, still buried in his coat pocket. A gun—he’s got a gun in there; I can see the outline, the indentation of the muzzle—he wouldn’t— “We need to talk.”
“Okay.” I hold up my hands. They’re shaking. I’m shaking. “Okay, you’ve got me. I’m listening.”
“Not here....” He gestures at his car. No way I’m getting in there.
“I, uh—where are we going?”
“Home.”
“I don’t have my passport.” I peek over my shoulder: no sign of Max. Maybe he’s calling the cops. Please, please be calling the cops.
Wes shuffles closer. He’s walking funny, like his left leg won’t support his weight. Maybe I hurt him worse than I thought. If I could get a good kick in—
“It’s all right. I’m getting us new ones.” A boyish smile lights up his face. “Think of it: new lives. New identities. All your stress, those late nights at work, all behind you.”
“What would I do instead?”
His smile widens. “Anything you want. You won’t be a prisoner.” He lowers his gun, as if to illustrate the point. “My feelings haven’t changed. I still love you. Always will. I’ll make you happier than Max ever could.”
“I—”
Wes hurls himself at me. My hands fly up—too late. He’s muffling my scream in one sweaty palm, knocking the breath out of me with the other. I struggle in his arms, thrashing wildly, beating him with my purse, to no avail. Something stings my neck, a deep, protracted pain, and I catch a flash of metal. Did he just...was that—
“What the fuck are you doing with her?”
Oh—salvation! I turn my head and the world keeps spinning. My feet go out from under me. I’m falling, twitching, helpless.
“My girlfriend—she’s having a seizure. Could you, uh—she needs to lie down. Help me get her in the car?”
I shake my head wildly and scream for help. Not a seizure! He’s dangerous!
“Sure—should I just get her legs, or—”
No! Why isn’t he listening to me? Why’s no one coming?
“Thank you so much. I’m—I twisted my ankle playing tennis. Wasn’t sure I could hold her up.”
“No problem, man. You need her on her side, or what?”
No! Get me out of here! Where the fuck is Max?
I feel cool leather against my cheek, something heavy being thrown over me, and the lights go out.
Chapter 50
Max
* * *
Kate isn’t here. And the waiter locked the door behind me: she didn’t go back inside. I scan the street, the intersection—no sign of her.
“Kate?”
No answer.
I bang on the door. Fucking busboy—I can see him in there, policing up the salt shakers. Pretending he can’t hear me—“Hey! Got an emergency out here!”
“What’s the problem?”
I whirl. There’s a man leaning on the bricks, finishing a smoke. Guess he’ll have to do. “Did you see a woman around here?—tall, dark hair, late twenties?”
He butts out his cigarette. “Sure. She was having a seizure. Falling all over the place. Her boyfriend took her home.”
A seizure? Kate? “Her boyfriend?”
“Pale and skinny, dressed like Don Draper?”
Wes. Damn it. Here. What was I thinking, letting her out of my sight? “Which way did they go?”
“Uh, uptown? Maybe two minutes ago? Is there a problem?”
“Forget it.” I’m already on the move, scrambling into my car. Uptown—fine. They can’t have gotten far. I swing onto Park Avenue, tires squealing. Traffic’s heavy for this time of night: cars and taxicabs, a lumbering bus, all honking furiously as I weave in and out. I lean across the passenger seat to peer into this window and that: nothing. No Wes. No Kate. Where would he take her? If I were Wes, where would I go?
I’m on a fool’s errand: I don’t even know what he’s driving. He could’ve turned off anywhere by now, looped around—I should pull over and call the cops. But Wes could be halfway to Jersey in the time it’d take to explain the situation.
“Fuck me.” I tear through a light after a speeding green Civic. Not them. Too many shit drivers in New York. Where—where... The Plaza? Too obvious. But he must have a room somewhere. Whatever he did to give Kate a seizure, he’d need a safe place to take her afterward. Not the airport, nowhere
public...so where?
I pull up alongside a blue sedan. The driver flips me off—some old guy. Not Wes.
He must’ve rented a place. Somewhere downmarket, no doorman. No one to see him smuggling a victim inside. That could be anywhere—anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Crap. I’m never going to catch him like this.
I pull over. Dial Carson. He picks up on the first ring. “What? I’m at work.”
“Wes snatched Kate.”
“Jesus.” I hear muttering on the other end. Shuffling footsteps. The flapping of kitchen doors, the kind that swing both ways.
“Carson!”
“I’m here—keep your pants on. You call the cops?”
“Yeah. No. I’m about to. I need, uh—” What? Fuck. I called him for a reason. “You guys used to hang out—did he mention an apartment in the city? Somewhere he stays when he’s in town?”
“No apartment. But he stays at LaGuardia—there’s a Best Western there. Pretends he’s at the Plaza, but I’ve seen the keycards in his wallet.”
“Okay. Thanks.” A white car sails by and I whip my head around instinctively, catching a glimpse of gray hair. “Shit. I can’t—if you think of anywhere he’d go—”
“Yeah. I’ll call you.”
I resist the temptation to beat my head against the steering wheel. It’s too late. She’s gone. I could chase cars all night and be no closer to finding her, and where would he take her? Somewhere abandoned, unguarded? A junkyard? A construction site? Or somewhere private, somewhere he could—he could—
I beat my fists on the wheel, shouting as the horn blares.
Time to call the cops, for better or worse.
Chapter 51
Kate
* * *
Waking up feels like swimming through jelly. Every breath, every movement feels sluggish. And my eyes—they won’t open. Won’t stay open; won’t focus. There’s... I’m in bed. And it smells like Christmas. That warm, melted-wax smell: candles. Candles and roasting meat.
