She let her slice of pizza drop to the plate. “So you’re taking his side now?”
“Come on, Scottie. We’re not in middle school anymore. I’ve never even met the guy, so of course I’m on your side. All I’m saying is that sometimes you set the bar too high for any human to live up to. Things are not always black and white. In this case, the way I see it, there’s a lot of gray matter in the middle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Most guys I know would’ve gone viral with those images right away. But this guy didn’t do that. He considered your feelings. Hell, he even went on this little adventure with you, to help you search for your mystery man.”
“Only because his job depended on it. Don’t get me wrong, Will. He wanted to identify this man as much as I did. Unfortunately, his reasons were entirely self-serving.”
“Have you spoken to him since you left the beach?”
Scottie shook her head. “I blocked his number.”
“That’s real mature, sis.” He gnawed on his pizza crust. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I haven’t seen you looking all glowy in a long time. If ever.” She rolled her eyes, and he added, “Seriously, you should see your face. You’re shining like a million-watt lightbulb right now. I would hate for you to miss out on a chance for happiness over a simple misunderstanding.”
26
After seven or eight beers, Will declared himself too drunk to drive and stretched out on the sofa. “I hope you don’t mind if I sleep here tonight.”
“Why don’t you get an Uber?” Scottie asked, more than a little tipsy herself.
“Because I have an early meeting in the morning and I need my car.”
“Okay, then.” She removed the afghan from the back of the sofa and spread it over him. “Thanks for the pep talk, Will.” She tucked the blanket under his chin and kissed his forehead. “Sleep tight. And be careful not to let the Russian mobsters bite.”
Scottie dragged her suitcase up the stairs and stopped outside the nursery. The cleaning crew must have left the door open. She toured the room, smelling the baby powder on the changing table and giving the mobile of zoo animals on the crib a twirl. She brought the soft flannel blanket to her nose and sniffed the faint sweet odor of Mary that still clung to the fabric. She lay down on the daybed and curled up with the blanket. As soon as she returned from Rio, she would donate the baby furniture to Goodwill and paint her new office a dramatic color. Maybe eggplant. Or teal. On second thought, maybe a subtle gray like her rooms downstairs would provide the right atmosphere to calm her mind and allow her imagination to flow. She drifted off to sleep thinking of sleek Lucite desks and fluffy white shag carpet.
Scottie woke to the sound of the television in the family room below her, the smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. Footsteps pounded the hardwood floors and Will appeared in the doorway.
“We have a really big problem,” he said.
“Let me guess.” Scottie swung her legs over the side of the bed. “You have a hangover?”
“A hangover I can deal with.” He crossed the room and pulled her to her feet. “You better see this for yourself.”
He led her down the hall to her bedroom where he clicked on the television and tuned into CNN. The image of Mikhail Popkov kissing Catherine Caine filled the screen. The caption underneath read: Senator Caine’s Steamy Love Affair with Russian Mobster. Will turned up the volume, and they listened to the morning show anchors rip the Democratic candidate to shreds.
Scottie went to the window, making sure the FBI agents were still stationed out front. The stakes in the dangerous game she was playing had just ratcheted up a hundred notches. And her life had become the biggest reward. Popkov would surely come after her now.
“I don’t understand. Who would’ve leaked the images? No one had copies but me.” The realization hit her like Barry Bonds striking a home run. “Rich! That asshole!” Scottie darted from the room and flew down the stairs to the kitchen. She found her iPad in her electronics bag and clicked on her messages. Sure enough, yesterday during their meeting, Rich had texted the images to a Washington number, presumably his own, right before he deleted them.
“Who is Rich?” Will asked, joining her in the kitchen.
“Guy’s coworker and partner in crime.” Scottie explained how Rich had commandeered her iPad during their meeting yesterday. “He acted like he was doing me a favor by making sure they were deleted from the hard drive, but what he was really doing was texting the files to himself.”
“How can you be so sure Guy was involved in leaking them to the press? Maybe this Rich dude acted on his own.”
“Please, Will, don’t start defending Guy again. You don’t even know him.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t.” Will cast a nervous glance at his watch. “Listen, I hate to leave you alone in the middle of this crisis, but I can’t miss this meeting. The division heads from all the different branches are coming in to discuss policy change. I’ll be back around noon, as soon as the meeting is over. If you need me, call the main number and tell the receptionist you have an emergency and to interrupt me.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, showing him to the front door. “I have plenty to do to get ready for my trip tomorrow. Anyway, nothing’s going to happen to me with the President’s Men guarding me.” She opened the door wide, revealing the nondescript sedan parked on the curb.
“But I—”
Scottie gave her brother a gentle shove out the door. “Go to your meeting, and stop worrying about me.”
She bolted the door behind him and went to the kitchen for coffee. She found her cell phone vibrating its way across the island with text messages and notifications of breaking news from several major networks. She picked up the phone. As she was scrolling through the messages, the screen lit up with an incoming call from a private number. She answered, “Scottie Darden.”
“Please hold for a call from Senator Caine,” a female voice said in a clipped tone.
Catherine Caine came on the line ten seconds later. “I trust you’ve seen the morning news. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t release the photographs.”
“We did, and I didn’t. Trust me, Senator Caine, I have just as much to lose as you do. I don’t know who is responsible, but I assure you, it isn’t me.”
“If not you, then who?”
“The GOP gets my vote.” Scottie explained her theory about Rich Cartwright. “I’m so sorry, Senator. I wish I’d never taken the photographs in the first place.” Her voice shook with unshed tears.
“I do too, Scottie. But I learned a long time ago not to waste good energy worrying about things you can’t change.” An awkward moment of silence fell between them. “If everything I’ve heard about Popkov is true, and I have no reason to doubt the FBI, this new development places you in a dangerous position. Do you have protection?”
“Yes, ma’am. There are two FBI men stationed outside my house as we speak.”
“Well,” the senator sighed. “I guess all we can do now is damage control. I’ve got a call in to Roger Baird. I’ll let you know when I hear back from him.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Scottie said, and hung up.
She poured cream and sugar in her coffee, and then dropped down on the nearest bar stool. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, but herself wouldn’t listen. She needed to know whether Guy was in on the decision to leak the images. She unblocked his number from her phone. Several minutes later, a stream of messages appeared on her screen.
I don’t know who did this, Scottie, but it wasn’t me. Please believe me.
She texted back: Rich did this. He texted the digital files to himself from my iPad during our meeting with the senator yesterday. I have the proof.
A minute passed before he responded: Thank God you unblocked me. I’ve been crazy with worry. I don’t know what to say about Rich. I’m gonna drive down there so we can talk in person.
Scottie: Don’t bot
her. The FBI won’t let you in.
Guy: Please give me a chance.
She went back into her phone settings and once again blocked his number. No matter what he said, she would never believe he had nothing to do with leaking the images.
Her phone rang again—Senator Caine calling back. “I’ve spoken with Baird, and we’ve agreed on a plan of action. I don’t have time to explain right now, but in about an hour Baird and I will lay out our plan in a press conference, which will be broadcast on all the major networks. Popkov has no chance of getting away this time.”
*
At noon, with her husband by her side, Catherine Caine held a press conference denying all accusations of an extramarital affair. She explained the situation as diplomatically as possible— that an overeager reporter had photographed a private meeting with a potential donor, a man Caine had never met but who promised a sizable contribution to her campaign. The senator turned the podium over to Agent Roger Baird who appealed to viewers to help the FBI locate this dangerous man. He outlined the charges Popkov faced and offered a substantial reward to anyone who could provide information leading to his arrest. Neither the senator nor the FBI agent mentioned her name, but by the time the news conference concluded, Scottie had been identified by social media as the overzealous paparazzo.
*
The FBI’s sketch artist, Helen Joyner, arrived a few minutes past two. She was pretty and young, about Scottie’s age, and very talented with a graphite stick. She declined Scottie’s offer of iced tea and they got right to work.
As they settled in at the dining room table, Scottie said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, using a pencil and paper to create the sketch seems archaic considering our modern technology.”
Helen smiled. “Many police agencies use computer software programs designed specifically for this use. But the FBI believes the pencil and paper method produces more accurate results.” She lined up several graphite sticks on the table alongside her sketch pad. “Now, tell me what you remember.”
Scottie sat back in her chair. “His size is the characteristic that sticks out the most in my mind. He’s huge, easily six and a half feet, if not taller, with massive hands. He could’ve choked the life out of the vice grip he held me in if he’d wanted to. I never really saw his face. He was behind me most of the time.”
“Tell me any and every thing you remember about his face, no matter how big or small the detail,” Helen said. “I need something to work with.”
Closing her eyes, Scottie tried to summon an image. “His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he had a full beard on his long face.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Dark, almost black, like his eyes,” Scottie said.
“What shape was his nose?” Helen asked.
Scottie was unable to stop herself from smiling. “I’m not sure what his nose looked like before, but after I broke it the other night, I imagine it is crooked now.”
They went back and forth for more than an hour as Helen sketched out a reasonable likeness to the beast on her pad.
“I’m sorry for your ordeal, Scottie,” Helen said on her way out. “I’ll scan this composite into our system and see what matches we come up with. I’ll be in touch.”
*
Will stopped by with a bag of groceries around five o’clock, but much to Scottie’s dismay, he’d made last-minute dinner plans with his out-of-town executives to continue their discussion on policy changes. Her bodyguards, the FBI agents stationed on the curb, checked in periodically, prior to and after every shift change. She was eating a salad for dinner when Kennedy and Nixon knocked on her door. They assured her there’d been no signs of Popkov and that arrangements had been made for her transfer to the airport the following afternoon. The President’s Men checked on her again during their changing of guard at eleven, and Scottie went to bed right afterward with thoughts of the summer games occupying her mind.
At some point during the night, long after the bars had closed and the busy streets in the Fan had quieted down, two men broke into her house. She’d never seen one of them, but she recognized the beast, his beady eyes like black marbles leering at her from their purple sockets, the result of a broken nose. She was powerless to fight against their size and strength. They gagged her mouth, and duct-taped her ankles and wrists. The beast tossed her over his shoulders like a bag of horse feed and hauled her down the stairs and out the back of the house to a small moving truck parked in the alley. “You’re gonna pay, bitch, for breaking my nose.” He flung her onto the metal floor of the cargo compartment, and tugged a cloth bag over her head.
Scottie screamed into the darkness, but her cries were muffled by the gag. The night was quiet. Something was missing. What had happened to the Yorkie Terrors next door?
27
Scottie heard the truck door slam followed by retreating footsteps, the sound of one of them running away. The engine started and the truck began to slowly move, bouncing over the bumps and potholes in the alley. As soon as he hit the pavement of the adjacent street, the driver accelerated like an ambulance operator rushing his dying patient to the nearest hospital.
With her hands and feet bound, Scottie had no way to protect herself on the reckless ride. Every time the driver made a sharp turn, she was tossed across the hard metal floor to the opposite side of the truck. As they sped through Richmond, presumably on their way out of town, she rolled around like a steel ball bouncing off the walls of a pinball machine. Once the erratic driving leveled off, she realized they were probably on the interstate, headed someplace far from home. She listened intently for sounds from the passenger cab, hoping for a clue as to where he was taking her, but she heard nothing, not even the music from the radio.
She found a comfortable position, curled up on her side. As the reality of her destiny sank in, Scottie cried a river of tears, but her sobs could not escape the duct tape covering her mouth and the cloth bag over her head. She’d been kidnapped by one of the most dangerous men in the world. Best case scenario—he’d torture her, then chop her up into pieces and feed her to the sharks. Worst case scenario—he’d sell her to a wealthy foreigner who would turn her into a junkie and use her body to perform unimaginable acts. Either way, Popkov would make certain she died a painful death.
The drone of the truck’s tires on the pavement eventually lulled her to sleep. She dozed off and on for what seemed like hours, until the driver slammed on the brakes and sent her crashing to the front of the cargo hold. Next came a long period of weaving and swerving, and by the time the truck finally slowed to a stop, every bone felt bruised and every muscle in her body ached.
Scottie heard the driver’s door slam, then a screen door bang shut somewhere off in the distance. Sometime later—she didn’t know whether it was minutes or hours—the sound of a car pulling up beside the truck invaded the silence. The engine died and the car door closed. The cargo door rolled open and a pair of strong hands grasped her by the arms and hauled her across the floor.
“I warned you what would happen if you released the photos.” Popkov yanked the bag off her head. Licking his lips, his eyes traveled her body as he took in her pajamas—the shorty bottoms and see-through tank top. “We can finally finish what we started in North Carolina, except that now I won’t give you the choice of whether or not to sleep with me.”
“Mmmm.” She tried to talk, but the tape prevented her lips from moving.
“Let’s take this off,”—Popkov ripped the duct tape from her lips, peeling the skin off with it—”so we can see what you have to say for yourself.”
Licking her lips, she screamed, “I said, I’m not the one who released the photos, you bastard!”
Popkov clamped his hand over her mouth. “Shh! You’ll wake the neighbors.” He laughed a menacing sound that made her blood run cold. “Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? We don’t have any neighbors way out here in the middle of nowhere.”
The beast appeared at Popkov’s sid
e. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“That’s all right, Felix. I was just welcoming our guest.”
Felix grabbed Scottie and dragged her down from the cargo hold. He wrapped his powerful arms around her from behind, holding her tight, his hot breath on her neck.
Popkov tilted Scottie’s chin. “Tell me, little one. Who leaked the photos if it wasn’t you? Did your boyfriend have something to do with it?”
As mad as she was at Guy, Scottie shivered at the idea of these evil men hunting him down. “Leave him alone. This is between you and me.”
“Calm down, little one. I have no intention of hurting your lover boy. He’ll suffer enough pain when he realizes you won’t be coming back.”
“You won’t get away with kidnapping me. The FBI is hot on your trail.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I plan to get away with a whole lot more than kidnapping.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “I haven’t decided what to do with you. Whether to sell you or keep you for myself, although your mouth might get tiresome after a while.”
Jutting her chin out, Scottie said, “You don’t scare me.”
Popkov slapped her hard across the cheek. “You’ll be plenty scared of me when I finish with you. Felix, show our guest what sort of games we like to play.”
With one arm holding her still, Felix produced a syringe with his opposite hand and jabbed a needle in her thigh. Within seconds, everything went black.
*
Scottie awakened sometime later, blinking her eyes into focus as she surveyed her new surroundings. A single lightbulb in the ceiling cast a dim glow over what appeared to be a basement room with cinder-block walls, a concrete floor, and no windows. A toilet stood in the corner of the room next to a single porcelain sink. Relieved to discover her wrists and ankles were no longer bound, she scrambled to her feet and scurried across the floor, anxious to relieve herself.
Breaking the Story Page 16
