by Merry Jones
He lost the smile, the pose. Sat forward, hissing. “The hell we will. If anyone gets arrested, Elle, from what I hear, it’s going to be you.”
I didn’t bite. Didn’t react.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He was trying to shake me up, divert my attention. “We’re talking about the kiddie porn.”
“Yes.” I stared him in the eye, not flinching.
He watched me for a moment, shifted positions in his chair, leaning forward. “Elle, clearly, you have no idea what you saw. Or what the images mean. You have no context in which to put them.”
“Context?” Was he kidding? “Sick is sick no matter how you frame it.”
“Again, you’re dead wrong.” He sat farther forward, too close. I could feel his breath on my face, smell the sweet chocolate. “Poor Elle. So confused. Just like your pain in the ass husband—sorry to speak ill of the dead. But you see, the world is far larger than what your narrow provincial views can imagine. Full of a vast array of cultures whose norms, rites, and traditions you in your self-righteous, ethnocentric naïveté would find revolting.” He leaned back, finally, lecturing, gesturing professorially. “Did you know, Elle, that there are communities who stretch their women’s lips to the size of their heads, and their necks to the length of their femurs? People who pierce pubescent boys’ penises with quills and feathers. Chinese who still bind and stunt the growth of women’s feet. There are people who circumcise their girls—often without anesthesia, using shards of glass. Mothers who circumcise baby boys with their teeth. Does any of this offend or shock you? I can go on—people who eat monkey brains and dogs. Men who practice polygamy or marry children or wed their brothers’ widows or take their nieces’ virginity—”
“What’s your point, Derek? That sometimes having sex with children is normal?”
He didn’t answer. Simply leaned back, watching me. And let his snaky grin slide across his face. “You know, Elle, it’s too bad that you were so quick to give that flash drive to the police. Given, I mean, that your own livelihood still depends on the success of this firm. Charlie wouldn’t want his former clients to be involved in a scandal.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” My voice trembled. I tried to control it. “But Charlie had limits. He wouldn’t stand for exploiting and abusing kids. That’s what you were fighting about, wasn’t it?” Suddenly, I could imagine what had happened. Derek coming after Charlie, trying to convince him to give back the files on the flash drive. Charlie refusing. “Is that why you killed him? Because he wouldn’t stand for his company sponsoring pedophilia?”
“What?” Derek’s mouth opened wide, revealing two gold caps on the lower left. A coughlike laugh erupted from his belly. “Really? That’s what you’re saying? That I killed Charlie?” He shook his head. Stood, checked his watch. “Look, Elle. Nice try, but we all know who killed Charlie.” His eyes pierced me as if my guilt were an established fact, as if there were no doubt.
Derek walked back to his desk and took a seat. Folded his hands. “This has been fun, but I have an appointment in a minute. So let’s wrap this up. You’ve made entirely false assumptions, Elle. What you saw on that flash drive was merely a record of a worthy attempt by well-meaning clients to rescue some exploited children from abroad.”
What?
“Those sex shots showed the children’s former lives as child prostitutes. Our clients were attempting to pay cash for their freedom—essentially to buy them from their pimps—and to legally adopt them and bring them here to the U.S., so they could develop normal, or at least seminormal lives.”
I blinked at him, silent. Remembered the photos. Some had seemed purely innocent. Men, holding hands of kids eating ice cream. Walking with them near the Kremlin. Not all the photos were sexual. Could Derek be telling the truth? Had I misinterpreted everything? I couldn’t be sure, couldn’t remember seeing adult faces in the sex shots. If their faces weren’t shown, there was no proof that Derek’s investors had actually abused the children.
“I can see where you’d jump to the conclusion that you did. But, in fact, by causing all this ruckus, you’ve probably done nothing more than embarrass and frighten off some very wealthy, well-intentioned potential adoptive parents, costing the firm a ton of money.” His tone was condescending. Cold. “Hell. I’ll be lucky if none of them sues us. That is, if you leave any of them alive long enough to sue us.”
Derek watched me, waited for me to apologize and go away. But I did neither. Instead, I leaned my elbows on my knees. “So these men, the clients who went on your trip—they were philanthropists.”
“Exactly.”
“Rescuing children.”
“As I’ve said.”
“I see.” I waited, letting him breathe. “But, if that’s the case—If they were trying to do good works—why were you upset that Charlie took the files? Why would Somerset Bradley go so far as to search his apartment for them?”
For a nanosecond, Derek sputtered. “Well, it’s obvious.” He cleared his throat, stalling, shifting in his chair, trying to come up with an answer. “We were all upset, foreseeing the possibility that what’s happened could happen. Someone could make copies. Could distribute them. The images could be taken out of context. People could draw false conclusions just as you did.”
He went on, forming phrases repeating his theme, until an intercom buzzed on his desk. His secretary’s voice declared, “Your four o’clock.”
Derek told her to tell him to wait, but the door swung open, and the four o’clock appointment strolled in.
“Good news, Derek, we got it. But it wasn’t easy. That fuckin’ bimbo—” When he saw me, Joel froze, closed his hand around the small object he’d been holding up. Twisted his face into a smile. “Elle, I didn’t know you were here.”
Eyeing Derek, he walked over to me, bent to kiss my cheek, and, as seemed to be his habit, from nowhere, produced a rose.
Okay, the rose thing was getting old. I stood, telling myself to get out of there. To act normal. Smile. Take the rose. Thank him. Not let on that I’d seen the flash drive in his hand. Or that I’d heard what he said about the bimbo. No. I had to leave, had to act as if I hadn’t seen or heard anything, as if Derek had convinced me that I’d imagined the whole pedophilia thing. That the clients were a bunch of wealthy do-gooders who wanted to help children. That everything was fine.
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Well, thanks for explaining things, Derek. I guess I got it all wrong.”
Derek stood, didn’t return the smile.
“So.” I looked from him to Joel. “Okay, then. You guys go ahead with your business. I’ll be on my way.”
Derek moved closer.
“No, don’t bother to walk me out, Derek. I’m fine. I’ll be in touch, okay?” I was talking too much. Chattering. Told myself to shut up. I turned toward the door. Wanted to run, made myself move slowly. Calmly.
Joel stepped in front of me. “Elle, don’t hurry off. I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were—”
“Oh, you didn’t. Really. We were pretty much finished.” I moved to the door. “No problem. So, I’ll see you later.”
The change in his face was sudden. His mouth opened as if to say something. But no sound came out. His eyes shifted to look at something behind me. Seemed to be asking a question.
As if from above, I saw Derek standing behind me, a brass statuette in his hand. A voice in my head screamed: Run.
So, I threw my body forward, shoving Joel, diving for the door.
Through the fog, from far away, I saw Charlie’s brother. Ted walked into our kitchen, unexpected, unshaven, smelling damp and oily like a subway station. I wondered why he’d come, how he’d managed to get from Virginia to Philadelphia without money. Probably by using his thumb. Getting rides from truck drivers. He was drinking a beer, whining to Charlie. “Come on, man, you’re my brother.”
I couldn’t hear Charlie’s answer, but it agitated Ted. He winced. “Why don’t you just say it—you think yo
u’re better than me.”
Another muffled response from Charlie.
Ted slammed the beer bottle onto the counter. “For real? I’m not worth a few grand to you? Your money’s more to you than your blood?”
Charlie’s words faded away, as did Ted’s, their fight drowned out by other voices. Closer and clearer. A tenor and a baritone. Pain clanged in my head, and I tried to remember where I was, to locate my body parts. Too groggy to move, not alert enough to make a sound, I took silent inventory. Found one arm sprawled out to my side, the other twisted uncomfortably underneath me, my weight pressing my fingernails into the still tender cut on my hand. My hips faced the heavens. My legs lay limply, separated from each other at an indelicate, graceless angle.
I drifted back into shades of gray, hearing the voices dimly as, gradually, I came awake. My skull raged where it had been hit. My neck ached, turned at an unnatural angle. My cheek burned against wool carpet. None of me felt stable enough to move.
So I lay motionless, waiting for my brain to rewire. Hearing fuzzy conversation. Maybe one of the voices was Ted’s? Was he actually here, asking Charlie for money? Wait, no. Of course not. A sharp pang reminded me: Charlie was dead. Seeing Ted in the house—it must have been a dream. Not real.
So what was real? I tried to remember. Listened to the voices. Picked up random phrases.
“—out of control.” I knew the voice. Not Ted’s. Joel’s.
And I remembered where I was.
Joel went on. “—didn’t sign up for this—where’s it going to stop?”
“—messier than expected.” Derek sounded condescending. Miffed. “—in it together—”
“—body count—”
“—no surprise—Ms. McBride chose—hardball with the big boys—shouldn’t have—against Ogden—”
More fog. The voices drowned in blurry waves. In my haze, I wondered how badly I’d been hurt. If I was dying. Were they going to just let me lie there? I tried to open an eye, took a while to find the nerve circuit connected to my eyelid. Concentrated on lifting it. Saw shadows, vague shapes. Closed it, opened it again. Concentrated. Saw a fuzzy expanse that slowly took definition. A fibrous flat surface and a nodule of red. A carpet. And, in front of my face, a rose. The rug was plum colored. I hadn’t noticed that before. Derek must have picked the shade himself, was a master of the details of appearances. Men’s cologne. Manicures. Hair gel. Shoes.
I could see those now with my one opened eye. Expensive, soft leather. Black slip-ons. With black silk socks. Charcoal pinstripe pants. They were all I could see of him. The rest was hidden by the bulk of the leather easy chair. I closed my eye, let my face rest on the plum-colored carpet, and listened.
Joel sounded urgent. “—can’t just leave her here—”
“Obviously not.” Derek snapped. Impatient. “She has to go.”
To go? My eye opened again, looking for the door. I wondered if I could unobtrusively crawl out.
“Go? What are you going to do?”
“I? What am I going to do?”
“You’re the one who knocked her out—”
“Get it straight, my friend.” Their voices were loud, easier to hear. “We all have a vested interest in the outcome.”
“No, man. Not me. I haven’t done one illegal thing.”
“Spare me, Houdini. Who was it again who arranged the trips?”
“But that’s all I did. You can’t prove that I did anything else.”
“Let me remind you that your entire business venture depends on this firm. I own you.” Derek’s feet moved. He placed them flat on the floor, backed against the base of the easy chair. I pictured him jabbing his finger at Joel. “If I go down—if any of us go down—you go with us. Understood?”
Silence.
“And don’t pretend you had no part in this. Your girlfriend Elle gave Charlie’s file to the authorities. So go ahead. Try telling an overzealous DA that, although you planned and arranged every detail of every travel package, you had no idea whatsoever what was going on—or any culpability in the subsequent murder of Ms. McBride. Or any part in concealing evidence in the death of Mr. Bradley. Please. You’re as much in this as the rest of us, and the only way out is for us to stand united.”
More silence. I opened my other eye. Derek’s feet stretched out again, rested on their heels.
After a while, Joel said, “I don’t like it.”
“Really? How surprising. The rest of us think it’s ducky.”
Some shuffling. Repositioning of feet.
“How long do you think she’ll be out?”
“No idea. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s not stirred. I didn’t think I’d struck her with much force.”
I closed my eyes, in case they looked at me.
“Do you think she did it?”
“Did what?”
“Charlie.”
Wait. Didn’t they kill Charlie?
“I never doubted it.” Liquid sloshed. Drinks being poured? “Not until today.”
“And now?”
Derek hesitated. “And now, I realize how little tolerance our friend Ogden has for scandal. And what great lengths he’ll go to in order to prevent one.”
So Derek didn’t do it. Ogden killed Charlie? But who was Ogden? Was he the fourth man in the photo? He had to be. Except Stiles had said that everyone in the photos had alibis that checked out, and that would include Ogden.
“Charlie. Somerset. The bimbo. It’s got to stop, Derek.”
Liquid sloshed again, more drinks being poured. “It will. You have my word. This is the end. It stops here and now.”
There was a long pause. What were they doing? “To those we’ve lost,” Derek toasted. “And are about to lose.”
They were quiet as they drank.
They stood over me. I felt the air stir as they approached, smelled woodsy cologne, Derek’s dry-cleaned wool and polished leather.
Someone knelt beside me, pushed locks of hair off my face, felt my skull. Hold still, I told myself. Do not twitch. Do not shiver or stir. I felt Joel’s eyes on me, his hand lingering on my face. Tender. Comforting.
“She’s got quite a bump on her head.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The hand left my face. The air swirled as Joel stood. “So. What now?”
Derek let out a long sigh. “It’s a sad turn of events. Elle Harrison came to see me. She was despondent over her husband’s murder.”
I was? Past tense?
“Guilt-ridden, she confided that she’d killed both him and his girlfriend.”
Wait—his girlfriend? Charlie swore he was never involved with Sherry. Another lie?
“Elle was terrified of going to prison. When she left here, I was troubled about her state of mind. My worries, it turned out, were valid. Bereft and overwrought, the poor woman committed suicide.”
Oh God. They were going to kill me. Joel? Joel was going along with it? No. Of course not. He’d never allow it. My face still tingled from his touch. He must be playing Derek, just so he could stall him. I remembered his kiss, greeting me as he’d come in, lips lingering and gentle. And the kiss after our dinner date. No question, Joel cared about me. Ultimately, he’d stand up to Derek and protect me. Or magically make a gun appear in my hands. Or make me disappear out the door.
“And the file? Those photos—what will we tell the cops?”
See? He was stalling. Coming up with a rescue plan.
“Ogden’s foundation will confirm the adoption stories. He’s had paperwork drawn up, proper applications. Even proposals for building schools in two or three of the countries.”
A pause. I tried not to tremble. Waited for Joel to slip me a letter opener, a scissors.
“Suicide, huh?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Are you serious? People don’t kill themselves by hitting themselves on the head. No one will buy that it’s suicide.”
“Joel, please. No one will see the lump.”
; “Of course they will—look at it. You’d have to be blind—”
“Trust me. There won’t be a lump. The bullet will blow away half her skull.”
Even lying down, my knees melted. If I’d been standing, I would have fallen down. It was time for Joel to perform his magic, but he didn’t. He didn’t take a stand to protect me, either. I was on my own. Had to get the hell out of there. But how? I hadn’t moved anything but an eyelid yet, would probably be dizzy and sluggish, clumsy and slow getting to my feet. And they were both right there, fit, strong, and agile. Watching me.
Maybe, at the last minute, Joel would fight Derek off.
But maybe he wouldn’t.
Derek opened the door, said goodnight to Roxy. When she was gone, he said he’d bring his car around. Told Joel to wrap me up so I couldn’t move if I regained consciousness and to bring me down in the elevator.
Good. I’d be alone with Joel. Could talk to him. Get him to help me escape.
But Joel said, “No. You bring her down. We’ll take my van. There’s more room and no windows.”
No windows? Oh God.
Apparently, Joel wasn’t planning to rescue me.
Unless—maybe he was waiting. Planning to knock Derek out and shove him, not me into the back of the van. Maybe?
My heart was pumping too loud, too fast. They’d probably hear it and figure out that I was faking unconsciousness. Which would mean I couldn’t take them by surprise. Not that I knew what sort of surprise. Not that I had any coherent thoughts at all. Even the pain in my head was dull. All I could feel was fear of having half my skull blown away.
The door closed, Derek’s long, lanky arms slid under me, squashing a breast, jostling me, rolling me over onto some kind of fleecy fabric. A blanket? An afghan? Then, gracelessly, Derek wrapped, shoved, rolled, lifted, tossed me over his shoulder, swathed in cloth. Through all of it, I remained limp.
He slapped my butt, jabbed me with elbows and fingers. He grunted and cursed, complained that I was too big, that I weighed more than he’d thought. I did not react. Did not stiffen or resist or let on that I was aware of insults or pain. Or of blood dripping from my head, getting bumped against the edges of desks and the frames of doors. I didn’t tense up even though his sharp shoulders dug into my belly and, more than once, his grip slipped, threatening to let me fall.
