by Unknown
“Shhhhh,” that same gruff voice hissed again, close to his ear, close enough so that he could feel the warmth of the man’s breath and smell the garlic he’d eaten for lunch.
Or maybe dinner. It was pitch-dark in here, wherever here was. And it was hard to tell how much time had passed since Shelly had first awakened, groggy, with his head pounding, to find himself being turned over so that his hands could be tied uncomfortably behind his back. Whoever had flipped him over restrained his feet, too, before the trunk hood slammed shut, plunging him back into darkness.
He’d been imprisoned in the trunk of a car for hours, he knew that much. Sometimes the car had been moving, but most of the time, it had been parked.
When he’d woken up again, less groggy this time, but his head still hammering, he’d been thirsty and hot. Still he knew immediately that this car was parked in a garage, probably underground. If the car had been left in the blistering Florida sun, he’d already be dead.
He’d tried to get out, but this was not your average car trunk. This one was made to contain. He’d been tied—via those plastic restraints on his wrists—to an anchor that was bolted to the body of the car.
He tugged on it now—it was still holding him firmly in place.
He was still a bit foggy on exactly how he’d gotten here. All he knew for sure was that Aaron had been in danger. There’d been gunfire at the house—lots of it. And, God, Berto had been there—Sheldon remembered that, too. It had been ten years since Shel had last seen his half brother—who’d hit him, hard, in the head. Knocking him out. After …
This was weird, but Shel distinctly remembered Berto punching him in the stomach, but pulling it at the last minute, so that the blow hadn’t hurt.
It was Berto’s hand that now covered his mouth, Shelly knew that with certainty, even as disappointment gripped him. Because although he’d been expecting to be awakened by a hand over his mouth, he’d been hoping the surprise would come from Aaron, in the form of a rescue.
Aaron was coming for him—of that Shel had absolutely no doubt.
“Shhhh,” Berto said again, and Shelly nodded his head emphatically in the darkness.
Four years older, Berto had spent most of his childhood living with his mother, who had been Daddy Davio’s first wife. Sheldon had been seven years old before he’d realized that the sullen older boy who visited once a year wasn’t just another random cousin, but instead his own half brother.
Their family had been the Brady Bunch 2.0—with Berto’s divorced father marrying Pauline and Francine’s widowed mother. They’d then had Sheldon. He was half brother to all three of them—although Pauline was much older and had been sent away to boarding school before Shelly could even talk. He couldn’t remember a time when she, too, lived at home.
But when Shel was twelve, Berto had turned sixteen, and he’d moved in with them, full-time. He’d gotten into trouble for stealing a car and was flunking out of school, so his mother washed her hands of him and passed him over to their father.
Despite their age differences, Berto and Shel and Francine became unlikely allies, in part due to Berto’s instantaneous crush on fourteen-year-old Francie, who was blond and ethereal and sweet. It had seemed a little creepy at first—like Greg Brady having a thing for Marcia. But, like Greg and Marcia, Berto and Francie weren’t really related, so Sheldon gave Berto a pass.
Who was he to judge, anyway?
They’d stayed close—all three of them—right up until Shelly was a senior in high school. Until the fiasco with the video.
Berto now released his death grip on Shel’s mouth. As he did, Shel remembered—all in a rush—that he’d been unarmed and taking cover on a neighbor’s lawn when two of the attacking gunmen had spotted him. Instead of killing him, they pulled him to his feet, and he’d realized immediately that they recognized him.
“Where’s Ian Dunn?” one had asked. “Is he inside the house?”
It had been easy to answer with complete honesty, because Shel had had no clue if Ian was, in fact, inside of his house. Although it didn’t surprise him one tiny bit that this situation had something to do with Aaron’s notorious former-SEAL brother.
Back when Shel and Aarie had worked with Ian, as part of the support team for his private-sector information-gathering business, the world had revolved around the man—and rightly so. As smart as Sheldon was, Ian was smarter. And as strong and tenacious as Aaron was, Eee was stronger and even more tenacious. The monsters that drove the man were meaner, with far sharper teeth—mostly because Ian had spent his life shielding Aaron from them.
He’d been a worthy team leader—right up to the day, about a year ago, that he’d disappeared.
“I honestly didn’t know Ian was back,” Sheldon told Berto now. He spoke quietly, quickly, suddenly scared that Berto was going to use him as bait to ambush Aaron. “And Aaron didn’t know either. I’m certain of that. He still might not know.” Guilt gripped him, as it always did when he thought about the whole mess with Francine, and Ian being in prison, down in Northport.…
His half brother’s words surprised him. “Yeah, I know, Shel, just … keep your voice down, aight? Dunn was released from prison this afternoon. Davio’s shitting bricks that he made some kind of deal with the feds, and with Manny in the hospital—because he had a heart attack … A mild one …”
Holy God, was Berto actually cutting …?
He was. Sheldon’s wrists were released from the plastic restraints that held him, and he moved his stiff and aching arms up across his chest, rubbing his shoulders and biceps as Berto used his pocketknife to cut Shel’s feet free, too.
“Can you walk?” his brother asked, closing and pocketing his knife, and then helping Sheldon up and out of the trunk.
“I think so,” Shel said, but he had to lean heavily against the car.
They were in a garage of an undetermined size, in what had to be some McMansion. He could smell the new construction—the wood, the paint, the sharpness of mulch from a freshly opened bag—even though he couldn’t see anything.
Berto was a shadowy shape. “You sure?”
“I could use some water.”
Berto opened the front door of the car without a light going on. Shel heard him close it with an almost silent click. And then a bottle was pushed into his hands. It was both already opened and warm, which was better than nothing, but just barely. He took a sip, afraid if he guzzled it the way he wanted to that he’d throw up.
His legs were wobbly, and not just because he’d been locked in a hot trunk for hours. His head still pounded to the point of dizziness.
As if he’d read Shel’s mind, Berto explained. “I had to do it. Hit you. Quick and easy. You had to be contained. If you’d fought back, you might’ve gotten badly hurt. More badly.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t thank you.”
Berto laughed, a short burst of air. “Believe me, I didn’t expect it.”
“Where are we? Is this your place?”
“No, it’s Davio’s.”
“Jesus! We’re up in Clearwater?”
“Shhh! I had to,” Berto said. “Bring you here. I live here, too—part of the time, anyway. When I’m not in Miami. And with Manny in the hospital, I’m not in Miami. He’s gotten even more paranoid—Davio. There’s GPS tracking on all the cars and … I couldn’t risk him getting suspicious. I would’ve been out here sooner to cut you loose, but I had to put out about a hundred fucking fires first.”
“So now what?” Sheldon asked. The water, as awful as it was, was actually helping. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” Berto admitted. “I thought we’d start with the-fuck-outta-here. Get you someplace safe, and then regroup. Figure out our next move. I’ve got a car—with no GPS signal—waiting out at the edge of the estate.”
The rush of gratefulness that Shelly felt was almost instantly replaced by disbelief. “Why would you do this?” he asked, taking a step forward to try to see his brother’s face in the shadows. �
��Davio’s going to find out. Those men who grabbed me—”
“Were mine. They’ll keep their mouths shut.” Berto took a step back, maintaining his distance, and Sheldon stopped. Berto may have been willing to help him, but the man still didn’t want him to come too close, maybe get some of Shelly’s gay on him.
“So you’re going to drive me back to Sarasota and just take me home?” Shelly asked.
“No, you can’t go there,” Berto told him. “The police are still all over that shit. Plus Davio’s got a team watching. I’ll take you to wherever your … whatever-you-call-him is.”
“Husband,” Shelly said. “Partner. Lover. Spouse. Love and light of my life. I’ll let you pick whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
Berto smiled at that—Shelly could see his teeth gleaming, straight and white. He’d worn braces at age sixteen, when he’d first arrived. He’d given tips to Shel and Francie on how to handle the discomfort, when they, in turn, had gotten theirs.
“Why are you doing this?” Shel asked his former big brother again. And big brother was exactly what Berto had been, to both him and France, too. Mentor. Teacher. Protector. Friend.
But that had changed. Dramatically. Drastically.
Back on the day that the sex tape blew up not just his world, but Aaron’s, Francine’s, and Berto’s worlds, too.
God, he’d been dreaming about it again, just moments ago. It still haunted him, and probably always would.
“Let’s go,” Berto said now, instead of answering him. “Be silent when we’re outside of the house—you remember how to be silent, right?”
“Just go. I’m right behind you.” Berto had taught Shelly a lot through the years. But after his time as a Marine, he could probably teach Berto a thing or two about stealth.
Together they moved soundlessly out of the garage, through a door that led into the humidity of the evening. Shel had been in that trunk for hours—it was dark outside.
There was plenty of time to think while he followed Berto into the dense brush—wherever it was that Davio was living these days, the property was huge and private. A vague flickering of distant lights marked the house of his closest neighbors—well out of visual range and earshot.
It didn’t take much imagination to wonder if his half brother wasn’t, in fact, leading him to some deserted part of some swampy land, to kill him and dispose of his body, in a warped retelling of the Snow White fairytale. But if Shel was Snow White, and Berto was the huntsman, well, that would make Davio the crazy Evil Queen, which was pretty damn funny. Or it would’ve been funny if he wasn’t worrying about Aaron and Rory—forget about the potentially impending execution-style double-pop of bullets to his own head.
But they finally reached a clearing where a car was parked, just as Berto had said. His brother got in first, sliding behind the steering wheel. At that point, Shel could’ve run, and he knew from the way Berto was looking at him through the front windshield that he half-expected him to do just that.
But there were more dangers in a swampy Florida jungle than gangsters with guns. There were alligators. Poison ivy and oak. Rattlesnakes or water moccasins or copperheads or cobras or whatever the hell else lived out here. Brown recluse spiders and black widows. Mosquitoes carrying West Nile virus …
Shelly got into the car. And it was only then, as Berto turned the key, as the car lights went on and the dash lit the older man’s face, that he turned and looked at Shel. Even though his hairline was receding at warp speed and his face was lined and tired, his brown eyes were the same as ever. Slightly amused, slightly pissed off, slightly kind, slightly crazy.
“I owe your sister,” Berto said quietly. “Big time. This is me still desperately trying to make amends. If I can.”
He put the car in gear and pulled away, eyes now on the dirt path ahead of them.
Out of all the reasons and all of the excuses Berto could’ve given, Shelly bought this one. Almost.
“So, where to?” Berto asked. As if Shel would just take his word for it—that this wasn’t a ploy to get him to lead the Dellarosas directly to Aaron and Ian.
Still, Shel played along. “Let’s head for Sarasota and get to a Kinko’s,” he told Berto. “There’s a twenty-four-hour branch on Forty-One, near Bahia Vista. Unless you know of a closer one in Tampa or St. Pete?”
Berto nodded. He knew what Shel wanted—access to a computer to get a message to Aaron and Francine. “There’s an Internet cafe right in Clearwater—we’re about fifteen minutes north of town. We’ll drive right past it.”
“I’d rather not stop in Clearwater,” Sheldon said.
“You know you can use my phone to send an email,” Berto said, anticipating Shel’s headshake no. “Yeah, I wouldn’t use it either.” He glanced at Shel again. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m not an idiot. I’m not expecting a miracle—I know there’s no happy ending to my story. I don’t get the girl. I know that. It’s not gonna happen. She’s never gonna forgive me. Shit, I don’t forgive me.”
Shelly had a flash then, of a memory from Christmas morning, this past year, when Aaron was on the floor with Rory, helping him tear open presents. He’d been laughing at their antics—it was hard to tell who was more excited, Rory or Aarie. When Shel had caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror over the sofa, the delight and joy that shone from him had made him pause. Take stock. Be thankful for his life and his beautiful family.
He’d come far since that awful night when his world had exploded.
But he’d also seen Francie in that mirror, on Christmas day. His sister had been sitting beside him, and although she’d been smiling, there had been a sadness on her face—a sorrow that she couldn’t disguise.
And Shel realized now, at this moment in this car with Berto, that the last time he’d seen France alight with true happiness … had been back before the disaster with that video, before Francine had gotten sucked in, so to speak, before Berto had turned on her, and in one violent and irreversible moment, embraced the life that he, Sheldon, and Francine had all been desperately trying to escape.
Now, the best Shelly could offer was, “I’ll tell France you said hi.”
“Better not to even mention me at all,” Berto said, and with that, they drove in silence through the night.
* * *
The FBI safe house was in a trendy part of Sarasota, relatively near the bay. Modest concrete block houses built in the 1960s sat beside enormous, recently built mansions. It was an eclectic neighborhood, for sure. But one thing was uniform: regardless of house size, the yards were all lushly planted and neatly maintained. And nearly every house boasted waterfront property, thanks to the series of canals that snaked through this part of town.
Phoebe knew the neighborhood well. In fact, the house that the FBI had rented was on her jogging route. She lived just a few blocks to the south, in a luxury condo complex that overlooked one of the wider, deep-water canals.
As she got out of the car, which she’d parked out of sight in a driveway that looped back behind the safe house, she had to stop and hike up her too-large borrowed jeans. She longed—desperately—for the chance to run home to shower and change into her own clothes.
Ten minutes was all she’d need, she was that close. Okay. Realistically? It would take more like twenty-five.
Still, it didn’t seem too much to ask, considering her day had included very nearly getting killed. More than once.
“I live around the corner,” she told Deb, the goth-disguised FBI agent who was wearing Martell’s shirt. But Deb held up one ebony-nailed finger, turning purposely to show Phoebe that her phone was to her ear.
There was another FBI agent already at the house, a dark-haired Asian American man with a deadpan yet friendly face, who held open the back door to help hustle them into the house. Aaron had his towel back over his head, and he went in first, clutching his bag.
“Are Francine and Rory here yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” the new FBI guy
answered.
“Shel’s bag is in the trunk.”
“I’ll get it,” the agent said, nodding a greeting at Phoebe, who let herself get herded inside by Deb, who was all huge gestures and wide eyes, with her phone still to her ear as she indicated Phoebe should go through the door first.
But once inside the kitchen, Deb beelined into the main part of the house, heading for a distant corner or maybe a room with a door as Phoebe heard her say, “Sir. I understand, but … No, sir, that’s not the case. Sir, this would be much easier if I could just speak directly to Mr. Cassidy, the agent-in-charge.…”
This house was one of the smaller, nonrenovated ones in the neighborhood. It was a single-story structure, built close to the ground as if to hug the earth in the event of hurricane-force winds. The ceilings were low and claustrophobic. The small rooms jammed with ancient motel-style wicker-and-overstuffed furniture added to the effect. The windows were old-school Florida jalousie-style—and all securely covered by blinds or curtains.
Which was the reason this house had been chosen over the vast number of upscale rentals in this area. Most of the newer places had crescent-shaped windows cut high into the walls and kept uncovered because no one could see in.
Unless they really wanted to.
The male FBI agent lugged Shelly’s bag in from the car, closing and locking the kitchen door behind him. His expression—or lack thereof—hadn’t changed. But when he spoke, there was a certain quizzical note to his voice. “We’re missing one person,” he said. He was a slow-talker, as if each word was carefully chosen. “There should be three of you, plus Deb.”
Aaron had dropped his own bag on the floor in order to open the refrigerator and the kitchen cabinets. Empty and empty.
“Ian—Mr. Dunn—had an … errand to do,” Phoebe answered, since Aaron was silent.
The FBI agent nodded. “Oh, good,” he said. “No wonder Deb’s head is imploding.”
“When my kid arrives,” Aaron announced. “He’s going to be hungry. There’s nothing to eat here.”
“I haven’t had a chance to stock the place with food yet,” the FBI agent said, looking from Aaron to Phoebe. “I’ll do that next. If there’s something you want in particular—”
