Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  “Yeah.” He laughs.

  “Clint and I…” It’s only Brody and me in the room. I look everywhere. A warning slithers up my torso. I swallow.

  Brody waits with a patronizing snarl. “You get yourself a boyfriend?”

  “No. A cop.”

  Brody’s upper lip shrinks into his nostril. “What are you doing bringing a cop around?”

  He’s so angry, I’m almost relieved I can’t find Clint. Did he go to the bathroom or something? Brody’s broad chest heaves with short agitated breaths.

  “Cori tried to kill herself.”

  “Tried?”

  “She’s at Renown.” I can’t help it. I want to be stronger than I am, but a sob jumps out and leaves me alone with my tears. “She left a note about you and me.” I’m so alone without her.

  Brody reaches around me and holds me so tenderly it feels like my tears will never dry. I’m not weak. I push back and try to speak, to point—my fists just curl and I choke back the release. I will not fall apart.

  “Good girl. Buck up.” He walks across the stage and slips behind the bar. “A note about me, huh?” He grunts a little as he reaches. “Top shelf. Let’s drink to Cori. Cognac was her favorite.”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “Of course, Baby. And she’s not going to die. We’ll drink to her health.” Brody reaches high then sets the bottle of shimmery amber liquid next to two shot glasses. I slide my backpack off my shoulders and set it on the barstool next to me. He pours both, fuller than normal, and holds one up to me. “You don’t mind drinking it in these glasses, do you?”

  I’m not really sure what other glass we’d drink it in, so I shake my head. “You don’t drink, Brody.” I take the shot and raise it as high as his.

  “Desperate times, you know.”

  “Desperate measures,” I say and tilt back my glass.

  “Was your cop friend the guy with the roses?” Brody holds the bottle out, offering me another drink. I hold it up while he pours.

  “You and Clint are probably friends.” I roll my eyes at myself. Is this a joke? “The first time I met him was the night we went to that art benefit.”

  “I remember that guy. The stalker.”

  I can already feel warmth spreading from the first cognac. I’m sorry, but it feels better than thinking about everything that’s happened since last night. Betrayal from Cori, fear at my apartment, seeing Cori limp on the carpet, Brita… I toss back the second. I still remember all the events of the past twelve hours—but I just don’t care as much.

  “He invited me to his church.”

  “What?”

  “Your cop friend.”

  Oh, Hayden. “Yeah, he does that.” I look around again. What if Clint and Brody are together on this? “But no, I’m talking about a different cop. I met him here.”

  “How many cops you know?” Brody laughs, but he would be a terrible actor. He’s ticked.

  “The night after we went to the benefit, Clint was here. He’s bald. He’s a cop…” Duh, they have to know each other. Have I walked into another trap? I try to think of all the times that I’ve seen Clint here—it’s hard when I feel a little floaty. “I thought he was there, in the dressing room, when you told me I was going to be the next billboard model.”

  “A guy was in the dressing room with you?”

  Man, am I sleepy. “He came in with you.” I wish the room wasn’t so spinning.

  “I don’t know a single cop.” Brody says. “And I certainly wouldn’t bring one with me into the changing room. You know the bouncers aren’t even allowed in there, unless there’s a problem.” Brody keeps talking forever and ever and drifting away from me. He sounds like he’s in a tunnel. “Are you seeing Cori’s friends?” He laughs again, but this time his humor is real.

  “You ridiculous me?” My words are not cooperating. I try again. “Ridicule me?” I could fall asleep. “I know you were up to something with Cori. The note said.”

  Brody holds up the bottle, but I don’t want anymore. I’m horribly drunk. My arms are not moving where I want them to go. “You were doing something; Cori’s note said she helped you.”

  “Where’s the note?”

  I reach for my backpack, but it’s not where I thought. I reach again, and this time I grab it. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to go upstairs and lay down? Sleep it off?” Brody walks around the bar and stands before me.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. You steal girls.”

  “Oh, that kind of a note.” He smiles and takes my hand. I stand up on shaky legs, but I don’t want to. I hear a noise behind the bar and glance around. Clint stands with his arms crossed and the lights shine off of his bald head.

  “He’s right there.”

  Clint waves at me with eyebrows cocked.

  “Oh?” Brody doesn’t laugh. “Cori saw people too.”

  “He’s right there.” I point to Clint, who leans against the inside of the bar, right next to…Brody’s full shot glass.

  “You didn’t drink.”

  “Never do, Baby, you know that.”

  “Not even to Cori’s health?” Brody lifts my backpack and then bows in front of me. The room spins as his shoulder drives into my stomach and I’m folded over his collarbone. Hoisted like a sack o’ ‘taters.

  “Course not.” Brody says, as he carries me toward the back room. Clint laughs at us. “Baby, you never know what someone could put in your drink.”

  Chapter 21

  The worst sensation I’ve ever had is lying on my back, asleep, while vomit erupts into my mouth. As a reaction, I turn and spew the stinging acid across silver satin. I lay fully clothed in Brody’s bed. Propped up on an elbow, the pounding in my head increases. There are two cameras on tripods set up at the foot of the bed.

  I vomit again.

  Pounding in my head tries to keep time with the thumping of my heart, and it’s all I can do to slide out from the covers. Squatting next to the bed frame, I use the mattress for balance and try to take stock of my situation. I’m in deep. I keep looking at the cameras, afraid they’ll blink or somehow confirm that they are on, watching. If ever I needed help—it’s now.

  “Jesus. If you know where I am…” The words don’t finish. But my mind cries out. The couple with the rose; they said God knows.

  Stupid, stupid me. My limbs are jelly on popsicle-sticks. When I try to stand—I end up landing back on the bed, on my seat. One thing is clear. I’m never dancing for Brody again. I’ll call Rodrigo as soon as I get home. I had control over the situation with him. I won’t work for someone: he’ll work for me. I’ll make the decisions. Pornography is where the control is. I won’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. In fact, why didn’t I think of this when Brody had me do that first lap dance?

  I think that my new plan will give me the stamina needed, but I end up on my knees crawling away from the hideous bed. After a few inches I lay on my side suppressing the urge to puke again. If my body wants the poison out of me, maybe I should allow it. I try to relax—nothing. I try to induce—only dry heaves. The carpet stinks like feet. It’s scratchy on my cheek, but I like the rough sensation breaking through. My skin feels puffy and deadened everywhere else.

  The iridescent face of Hayden’s watch studies me. I can’t remember how many times the second hand has traveled around when I focus in on the time. A few minutes after five. I’ve been asleep all day. Such a beautiful watch. Would Hayden come for me? If I can even get myself outside—I don’t think I’ll be driving anytime soon.

  I pull my legs under me and sit cross-legged. I’m drugged, but I know where I am. I’m trapped, but still clothed. I think Brody has something pretty bad planned, but…there is a keypad to his office.

  With a little internal coaching and some clearing breaths, I pull myself up and make it to the keypad. 5-9-7-3. The tiny bulb turns green. Brody’s number works. I pull the door and a flash of heat blanches me. I didn’t wait to see if the room was emp
ty. I could be walking right into Brody’s arms.

  I stand with the door open an inch for several seconds, trying to decide what to do. Here comes the panic, if it continues I won’t be able to do anything for myself. I don’t have Hayden’s brown paper bag to breathe into. My breaths echo through the quietness. It doesn’t matter now, either Brody is inside his office, or he isn’t. I force my steps to match the cadence of my panting so I can control it.

  It isn’t working.

  My backpack. The contents of it litter Brody’s desk and Cori’s note caps the top. Exhaustion, nausea, difficulty breathing—my mutinous body wars with my determination. A stack of photos supports Cori’s suicide note. I thumb through them, they are of me. All. Of. Me.

  Entering and leaving my apartment.

  Dressing alone, before Rodrigo took pictures.

  Washing in the bathroom room sink.

  My hands go slack and the pile tumbles to the floor. I scoop them up and start cramming them into my backpack, taking back the things that are mine.

  I open drawers, slamming them shut several times until a voice in my head tells me to hush. The phone on Brody’s desk catches my attention and I remember why I’m here. Even though I have never called Hayden, I have his number memorized from the note. I dial quickly into the handset of the cordless phone. He answers before the first ring is complete.

  “Sparrow?”

  “How did you…”

  “Caller ID. Who else would call from the…slow down your breathing. Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m already getting in my truck.”

  “No, Hayden…drugged.”

  There is a pause. “Are you at the bar?”

  “Yes, the back door number is 5973.”

  “What happened?” In the background, his truck engine rumbles to life.

  “Cori tried to kill herself.” The words trickle. “Suicide note. My drink. Locked upstairs. Cameras. Pictures of me. I’m so scared.” Dizzy now, I stop pacing and I stand below Brody’s security camera monitors. After several blinks, I have to wipe the tears from my eyes to see clearly. Brody sits alone at the bar with several piles of papers in front of him. He looks like he is paying bills, writing or checking things off. Dark movement flashes at the back door. Two men, both faces I have seen before. One is the detective who interviewed me at the hospital. The other…curly hair, tied back like a pirate. He is the killer with empty eyes, and he looks right into the camera. I duck.

  “Sparrow. Why’d you scream?”

  “Hayden, I’m looking at Brita’s murderer.” I cup my hands around the mouthpiece of the phone while squatting. The killer makes eye contact with me in the monitor.

  “Father God…” Hayden prays. I don’t understand the words he says, but I can breathe again.

  Brody walks around the bar, looks into a monitor, speaks, and pushes a button. The killer wasn’t looking at me—he was buzzing Brody to open the door. They know each other. They all know each other.

  “Sparrow. Listen to me. This is what I want you to do.”

  All I can do is watch Brody shake hands with the man who killed Brita. He points to the door that leads to the upstairs. The enormous detective points to the bar. I guess he wants a drink first.

  “They’re here for me, Hayden.”

  “You have to look around you. Can you escape? Can you hide? Is there anything that can be used as a weapon nearby?”

  “I only see papers and pens, a CD. Desk stuff.”

  “You can use the pens to stab.” Road noise and the blaring of a horn drown out his voice. He comes for me.

  “You can roll a magazine or stack of papers real tight. It makes you look nervous, and then they won’t expect. Strike at the neck. Look in the desk for a gun.”

  I start scrounging again. The bottom right drawer is locked, so I fall to my knees looking for a key. There isn’t enough light so I feel along the underside with my free hand. My fingertips brush the slightest divergence in the cool wood. I crawl under the desk to inspect it closer. Something is taped there, if I could get it pried loose…

  The outer office door unlatches.

  “How’d this door get opened?” Several sets of footsteps careen through the “bedroom” door, which I brilliantly left wide.

  “Oh man, that stinks.” They must be talking about my vomit.

  Somehow Hayden senses, or hears. “Hide if you can, Sparrow.” He whispers in my ear. I’m afraid to speak or even push the off button on the phone.

  “She’s gone.” Brody throws blame.

  “We never lose girls.” Not Brody speaks.

  “The roofie couldn’t have worn off yet.” Brody again. All sorts of cursing and accusations grapple in the air.

  “Check the back door and outside, she won’t be far in her state.” Footsteps pound the floor, moving away.

  “Where’s her file? Birth certificate. Social.”

  “In the safe,” Brody answers. There are a few faint clicks and the sound of papers shuffling. “Here she is.”

  “This is her brother’s place?”

  Thom? I almost jump out, but the sound of a scuffle pulls me from my temporary insanity. The next voice incapacitates my frame—everything in me says it belongs to the killer. “You don’t get paid if we can’t find her.”

  “We’ll find her.” Brody’s voice turns sinister just before the door shuts it out. It won’t be this easy. After a minute, I can hear the echo of steps on the stairs and then other noises rumbling in the costume jungle across the hall. Who stayed to look for me?

  “I’m almost there.” Hayden’s voice strains with a grunt. I crawl out from under the desk and stretch across the floor to peer around the desk. The door is closed and I’m alone.

  “Okay. Come in the back, first door on your left,” I whisper. “Come upstairs. The code should work at every door.” From a crack in the blinds, I see the killer get into a van and drive away.

  “Hayden, I have to call Thom. They know where he lives.”

  “I’ll do it. Let me get you first.” How will we get past whoever stayed? I finish shoving my scattered items into my backpack. It sounds like Hayden is running in my ear.

  I squat back under the desk and peel at the tape. It’s a CD in a paper sleeve. The disk goes with everything else, into the backpack at my feet. I tug the zipper closed.

  The door opens again. “That’s different.” It’s Brody who stayed. “It occurred to me,” he enunciates slowly, “that you would never go anywhere without your backpack.” An arrogant laugh slinks in. “And since I saw it a minute ago...”

  I don’t move, even though I know every step he takes is in my direction. Slow, methodical steps, like he is as hypnotized by the squish of the carpet as I am.

  “Get up.”

  He stands in front of me. His puffy, bleeding upper lip frames perfect teeth. “You’re going on a little trip.” I slide out from under the desk, and his eyes dart to the spot I vacated. “What were you doing under there?”

  The disk is valuable then. Brody is not immortal.

  “Who are you talking to?” He grabs the phone from my ear. “No one?” He looks at the phone and then me. “Let’s find out if you got a call through.” He pushes a redial and Hayden’s phone number displays, one digit at a time. “You didn’t even get a call off to 911.” He’s smug. “Baby, I’m gonna miss you. Cori will too.” He hangs up and starts to dial manually. “Eh, I can call them back in a few minutes.” Brody reaches around me and slides the phone into the receiver. With the reaching, he’s pinned me against the desk.

  His hands are everywhere at once. At first, his actions are so irrational; I can’t believe it’s real. I’m frozen, thinking it’s all a misunderstanding. His kneading becomes painful and I manage a sound.

  “No.”

  His response is a manacle laugh. “Consider this an interview for your new job.”

  “No. Stop. Don’t.” I s
quander my pleas. With his pressure, I create a backward arch over the desk. He lifts my hips onto the desk, grabs my backpack and flings it to the floor. He sets a knee on the desk, preparing to climb. My hand grips several pens or pencils.

  “Get off me.” With my right-handed fist-quiver, I strike him in the ribs under his left arm. He lifts off enough for me to get my feet between us. I stomp and pound and strike with my handful of pencils, aiming for his throat. And then, he’s gone.

  Chapter 22

  The terrible sound of flesh striking flesh causes me to open my eyes. My new view is Hayden’s back. Brody’s cornered, with an expression to match. Brody swings, a rounded cowboy punch packed with all the effort of his broad shoulders. Hayden catches it and spins in such a way that Brody follows the momentum of his arm and circles round with it. Brody falls to the ground, but his arm remains in Hayden’s hands. Hayden kneels and bends it backward over his own knee.

  I hear a crack, and Brody wails.

  Hayden drops the arm, kicks and strikes until the heap of Brody neither moves or moans. It’s finished. Still, Hayden continues to pummel limp Brody with kicks.

  “Hayden,” I say. He looks up. I think I expected the serene eyes of an African lion, a natural killer, or even revenge buoyed by hate. But the golden orbs of Hayden’s light brown eyes are filled with terror.

  This makes me burst into tears. He steps over my boss, the pile of a mean man, and hugs me close. He cries too. I feel his fear and sadness dripping on my forehead while he strokes my hair.

  “There are two more.”

  Hayden steps back and picks up my backpack from the floor. He pulls me the opposite way around the desk and my knees buckle. The world teeters. “Do you know what he gave you?”

  “I think I heard him say a roofie.”

  Hayden slips my backpack over his shoulders. “Then it will wear off. Can you walk?”

  I nod. “Where are we going?”

  “To the hospital, we need to make sure you’re okay.”

  Clint. “No, this started there—at the hospital.”

  I grip Hayden’s shoulders and, with weak arms, try to turn him to me. He complies. There is a cut on his left cheekbone. “A cop brought me from the hospital.” He looks surprised—not skeptical as though he doesn’t believe me. “Only, later, I’m not sure,” I continue. “When Brody gave me the drink, I thought the cop was a vision or chimera. I’m not even sure if he was there.”