Do not worry about your friend. He is doing as well as can be expected. For the time being.
You will await further instructions from me.
And do nothing, absolutely nothing, until you hear from me.
You wouldn’t want to do anything stupid would you, Christine?
Of course, you want to see your friend again and we wouldn’t want Wilson to end up like dear old sis now would we? …
Sam closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. She saw Wilson in her mind, remembering how he’d come in each day and made it a point to acknowledge each of his reporters as he passed through the newsroom to his office. She missed seeing him sitting at his desk, with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, typing in his usual way, pecking away at the keyboard with his index fingers and often a ballpoint pen clenched between his teeth.
Sam had started to enjoy reporting again, working for Wilson Cole Jr. She envisioned him in the office last Tuesday, smartly dressed in a crisp gray suit. He was a tall, handsome man with a thick shock of silver hair, combed neatly away from his face. She remembered the stark white of his shirt that day and how it had deepened the gray in his hair.
Sam thought Wilson Cole Jr. looked like any other businessperson, yet he managed to project something more comfortable.
Perhaps it was his face. At fifty-eight, it had begun to fold softly under gravity’s pull. Perhaps it was his manner, described by those who knew him as very direct, but low key and, most of all, calm. People were attracted to Wilson because his style was thoughtful and methodical. He had tact and knew how, where and when to use it. Being overbearing, rude or callous was not part of his collective personality. Wilson generally liked everyone. He could sit for hours just observing them and could engage almost anyone in conversation.
Best of all, Sam knew Wilson to be placid and slow to anger. Qualities she knew would be valuable when it came to dealing with his kidnappers.
Sam had been so deep in thought she was unaware that other reporters had started to file into the newsroom. She jumped when she felt a hand lightly on her shoulder. Startled, she looked up.
“Sam?” It was David Best. Of all the reporters, Sam liked him the most. He was soft-spoken, tall, easily four inches over Sam’s 5-foot, 6-inch frame and thin with a runner’s build. He was just a few years out of college and Sam guessed him to be about twenty-five. He was always clean-shaven and had a full head of dark brown hair that he kept neatly trimmed. His boyish, mild-mannered disposition had a way of putting her at ease. And, he had defended her on more than one occasion to Nick Weeks. She was grateful for that.
“David, don’t do that! You scared the daylights out of me.” Sam said, her heart thundering in her chest.
He was holding an empty coffee cup and had a genuine look of concern on his face. He was still so freshly showered and his hair still damp that Sam could smell shampoo.
“Sorry,” David said. “I was going to get a cup of coffee and I saw you cover your face. Everything okay?”
Sam nodded and didn’t want to draw David’s attention to her computer screen. She grabbed her cup and pulled him with her to the kitchen.
“I need another cup, too,” she said. “This one’s cold.”
“Boy it is freezing outside,” David said as they entered the kitchen. “I did my usual two laps around Wash Park this morning and it never really did warm up. But I love to run outside on a cold day.”
He waited while Sam dumped her coffee in the sink and then he poured her another cup.
“Thanks, David,” she said and watched as he poured his own.
“But I sure wouldn’t mind being on whatever beach Wilson’s on now,” he said. “I bet it’s a heck of a lot warmer than here.”
Sam looked at David over the rim of her cup, considering his comment. She sipped her coffee without saying a word.
Ten
My Dear Sweet April,
I am moving to the ranch in a few weeks. You know, sweetie, how much Nona loves the ranch, we all do, really. Nona only leaves long enough to go to the grocery store and to run an errand or two. She has often told me that there is no other place she’d rather be than there on the ranch. She says there isn’t anything she wants to see or visit badly enough to leave for any length of time.
I think I know what she means, honey. I have always felt her home to be my place on earth too.
The first time I became aware of being alive, my first memory of life was in a bedroom in her home. I remember waking up and Nona was standing over my bed holding a small juice glass with coffee, milk and sugar.
That was some thirty years ago and I still smile whenever I think about it. Sometimes I don’t think I would have made it this far in life had she not been part of it. In fact, I am sure of it. If that were the case, then you wouldn’t be here either, sweetie, and I simply can’t imagine my life without you in it.
Auntie Robin and I would spend summers with Nona on the ranch. The last summer stretched into two years, simply because our mother was in no position to care for us. I wasn’t quite fifteen when we came to stay that summer. After all the troubled times that have followed, I return to the moments of that summer and find it easier to smile again.
We planted gardens and picked green beans. Your aunt and I would stand at the stove and watch Nona cook and I can remember more than one morning when we woke to the smell of bread rising in the oven.
Even from my youngest days, I remember that Nona’s house always seemed to be filled with a sense of peace that I not only have found hard to explain, but seldom felt anywhere else. Even today, words escape me. It is just something I know is there and I can feel. Perhaps how one might feel recalling a rich, warm memory and walking alongside it as though it were a river, letting it warm you as though it were the sun.
I loved sitting on the back porch in the summer, enjoying the late afternoon breeze that came in off the fields. We looked off into the distance, seeing for miles as the vast sky spread out above us like a giant blue blanket. My favorite times on the porch were and still are watching thunderheads build up high in the sky with the smell of rain on the way. I know that is something special for you too, sweetie.
There we would sit watching as the sun colored the highest parts of the clouds white as cotton reflecting the direct sunlight and forming a blinding contrast against the deep blue of the sky above. The clouds below were cast in their own colors of reflected light. So black they seemed blue. The rains would come as they often do on hot summer afternoons, filling the air fresh with smells of sagebrush, alfalfa and arid country weeds.
Many of the conversations Auntie Robin and I had with Nona came over the dinner table, a long one made of oak. Robin was just a little thing, just like you! She’d have to sit on the chair with her legs folded under her to reach the table. She’d lean over the table resting on her forearms, listening to Nona, while picking at the last of the food on her plate with her tiny fingers. I’d sit back against the chair, happily full from dinner and just enjoying being with the two people I loved the most.
After dinner we would clean up and sing Old MacDonald.
E-I-E-I-O
Auntie Robin and I would sing and Nona would make all the animal noises.
E-I-E-I-O
Then you were born. I came to know what it truly meant to love. My love for you, sweetie, comes from a different part of my heart.
You are the image of Robin in every way, looks, mannerisms and actions. There are times now, honey, when you move your head in certain ways, that I could easily mistake you for your aunt at that tender age. Memories bring me back to places long forgotten. I want to scoop them up and hold them close, never letting go.
You know, sweetie, you have taken Robin’s place at Nona’s dinner table and your aunt had become like me, sitting against the tall back of the chair, arms folded easy over her chest, listening and absorbing; taking everything in. It has been almost a year since the last time since the four of us have shared the din
ner table at the ranch.
It seems that I am aware of time at every moment of the day. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing; running an errand, I’ll look at my watch, filing a story, I’ll look to the clock on the lower right of my computer screen, in the car, to the digital number display on the radio dial.
And I know it is one hour earlier in the Pacific Northwest.
At 7 a.m. here, I know that you have another hour to sleep before having to get up for school. At one in the afternoon here, I wonder what you’ll be having for lunch today. At 5 p.m., when I am on my way out of the office for the day, I imagine that you must be playing after school or doing homework. At 9:30 p.m. here, I pray …now I lay me down to sleep …
Somewhere on that island in the Pacific Northwest, it is your bedtime, baby. I try not to think that I can’t be there to help you with your math or to tuck you in. That I won’t be able to kiss you on your nose and rub your little belly and say, “Mommie loves you.”
Mommie does love you. Right now, Mommie can’t have you. I want nothing more than for you to understand. Not so much why you’re there, but that I will come for you. I won’t leave you there forever. I want nothing more but for Nona’s ranch to become the kind of home for you as it is for me, your place on earth.
Nona told me that you called the other night and said how much you missed being at the ranch and having good things to eat. “I miss your panny-cakes, Nona,” you told her. “Grandma Church makes hers from a box. I like when you make the little ones.”
I smiled, feeling the tears beginning to work their way up from the deep canyons inside of me to the surface, scratchy and old. Nona’s homemade panny-cakes are the best. And I like the little ones too, the half-dollar size all covered in butter.
You told Nona you wanted to build another windmill with Howard in his workshop. I know how much you like to watch him put the pieces together and then you get to paint them and Howard lets you. I know how happy you get using whatever colors you want. Baby, I know how much you miss riding in the old Scout with Howard on late afternoons, when the sun is low in the sky and he has gone to check the lakes one last time before evening comes.
“The last time we went out, Nona,” you had said into the phone, “Howard had to stop and put out another salt lick for the deers!”
“My goodness,” Nona returned. “I bet they had been hungry!”
I could imagine your laughter, sweet and bubbly. I know how much you love riding with Howard in the Scout, especially on warm evenings when Auntie Robin and I could ride in the back, too, making sure that you didn’t fall out.
I only want that for you and more, baby. But I am the reason you cannot do those things now. I am the reason you are with grandma Church. It hurts me so much, sweetie knowing you’re there and not with us, that sometimes it seems I can’t even draw a breath.
I am not embarrassed to say, my dear sweet baby, that I cried at your words and that Nona let me, until I fell asleep in her arms.
Goodnight, sweetie, Mommie loves you, now and always.
Eleven
It was 11 a.m. and Nick Weeks still was not in the office.
Sam could hardly sit still at her desk since the e-mail from Wilson’s kidnappers had arrived. She looked toward Nick’s office every few minutes, willing that the light would be on and he had come in without her noticing. The office remained dark.
Sam tossed a pen over a stack of papers on her desk. She opened her e-mail and double clicked on the message from the kidnappers. She had been torturing herself by rereading it over and over all morning. She had lost track of the times she had read the last sentence.
Of course you want to see your friend again and we wouldn’t want Wilson to end up like dear old sis now would we?
Sam felt irritation at Nick and dread for Wilson as she pushed away from the desk and headed up the stairs toward the reception area.
Anne Misner was on the phone when Sam reached the front desk. She busied herself going through the mail as she waited for Anne to finish her conversation.
“Speaking of Nick, where the hell is he?” Sam asked when Anne put the caller through to his voice mail. “It’s almost noon and he’s still not here.”
Anne thought a moment. “Beats me,” she said and then glanced to a black magnetic board on the wall next to the reception area that listed the whereabouts of all the reporters and account executives. Someone was always coming and going from the office and they would position colored markers by their name to let the receptionist know whether they were in or out. When they were out, there was enough space in a joining column to write in a general idea of when they planned to return.
Sam looked with Anne at the board. Wilson’s name was listed first. His yellow marker was positioned in the out column.
Sam swallowed hard trying to ignore the fear that had gripped her since the morning she woke in the hospital. It felt thick, moving like mud through her veins. Sam glanced at the next column. Wilson’s familiar handwriting showed the date he would return to the office. Sam remembered watching him slide his marker to the out column last Tuesday night when they left the building together. She could still see the big grin on his face.
“My only worries for the next few days,” she remembered him saying, “will be where’d I put the sun block and what’s for lunch?”
She wondered what he had eaten over the last seven days.
Nick Week’s name came below Wilson’s. His green marker was still in the in position from yesterday.
“Oh,” Anne said, grumbling with clear irritation in her voice. “I hate when you guys don’t take two seconds before you leave to come up here and slide your markers over. Or at least call and have me do it.”
Sam looked at Anne sheepishly, knowing that to be her biggest pet peeve. Sam was one of the worst offenders. Her name was listed at the end of the editorial staff. Her blue marker still showed out from yesterday when she had left the office for a few hours in the afternoon to do a story interview. It still showed that she would return to the office at 3 p.m.
“Sorry, Anne,” Sam said. “I must do better at that myself.”
Anne waved her off as if to say never mind.
“Don’t know what to tell you ’bout Nick,” Anne said glancing at his name and then back to Sam. “I thought I heard him mention to one of the reporters yesterday he was going to attend some kind of meeting. But I don’t know if that was supposed to be this morning or not.”
“I guess I’ll just wait ’till he shows up, then,” Sam said.
Sam collected several pieces of mail that were addressed to her and turned to head back down stairs to the editorial department.
“Wait Sam,” Anne said. “Have you heard anything?” Anne looked hopeful. Sam considered telling her about the e-mail, but decided to wait to tell Nick first. Instead, Sam shook her head slowly and said, “Nope, nothing yet.”
Sam had been back at her desk only a few minutes when she caught Nick from the corner of her eye entering his office. She walked quickly to his door, but stopped just short of going in.
“I need to talk to you,” she said and noticed that he hadn’t yet removed his jacket.
“I don’t have time for a budget meeting right now,” Nick said, staring at her as if she was an inconvenience.
“This isn’t about stories, Nick, you already know what I’m working on,” she said, wondering if she could ever get beyond her dislike for him.
Sam stepped inside Nick’s office and slightly closed the door.
“I heard from the kidnappers,” Sam spoke firmly, but just above a whisper.
Nick stopped removing his jacket when he heard her words. He motioned for her to close the door completely. “When?”
“This morning,” Sam said. “By e-mail.”
Sam stayed at the door and watched as Nick hung his jacket on a hook behind the door. He sat down at his desk and immediately picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
“Calling th
e police,” Nick said without looking at her.
Sam lunged for his desk and the telephone.
“Are you crazy?!” she said and placed her index finger down so firmly over the receiver her fingernail turned white. “That’s the last thing they want us to do. At least read the e-mail first, Nick. They told us not to do anything foolish. As if we need to be told that.”
Their eyes locked and they stared at each other for a long moment. Hers were narrow slits as if to say ‘don’t challenge me on this.’ She could tell by the look in his eyes that he was slightly shocked at her actions. She knew he considered her to be weak and passive, without the assertive and sometimes bold personality that reporters need to do their jobs. Sam had to bite her bottom lip to suppress a smile of satisfaction at how little he really knew her.
“Are you going to move your finger?” Nick asked and there was a slight edge to his voice.
Sam waited a moment then took her finger off the receiver. She stepped away from the desk, her anger at Nick starting to boil. She sat in the chair facing his desk and took a deep breath. She held it for several seconds before exhaling, trying to gain control of her emotions.
“At least read the e-mail first before you call the police,” she said.
“Forward it to me,” Nick said and dismissed her by turning his attention to his computer.
Sam left his office and walked slowly back to her desk. She returned moments later to Nick’s office having forwarded the e-mail.
“Did you get it?” she asked, closing his office door again.
Nick was focused intently on the screen before him. He was rubbing a finger over thin, even lips, his way of concentrating. She guessed that he must have read the message several times.
“How’d they know your middle name?” he asked, looking at her.
Sam shrugged and said nothing. Nick went back to reading. When he finally finished, he settled back against his chair. He removed his glasses and tossed them over a pile of papers on top of his desk. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose hard between two fingers. For a long moment silence filled the room. It was quiet enough that Sam could hear Nick’s stomach growl. She wondered again if the kidnappers had given Wilson anything to eat.
Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery, Book 2) Page 7
