Aftershocks

by Damschroder, Natalie J.

  “For how long?”

  “As long as necessary. Please, Kellen, come into the house.” She held out a hand, the giant anniversary emerald on her hand winking in the light through the glass panels next to the door. “I’ll have Genovese get us some drinks.”

  Her hand shook right before he took it, and he realized she was pale. He should have noticed sooner, but he was exhausted after several sleepless nights and overwhelmed with worry about Zoe—whom he couldn’t reach—and even Grant—whom he also couldn’t reach. There’d been so many ugly scenarios running through his head, he hadn’t been paying attention to anything else.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Dealing.”

  That was not how his mother typically described things. What the hell was going on? But as soon as she settled him on a settee she swept out of the room, no doubt to ask Genovese, the household manager, to get the drink Kell didn’t want.

  The antique mantle clock ticked loudly in the silent parlor. A few dust motes floated lazily in the sunbeam angled at the floor in front of Kell. His nose twitched against the scent of lavender, his mother’s favorite. He sat back, then immediately lunged forward again, checked his watch, and tried not to bounce his knee, because his mother hated that.

  Waiting was intolerable. He pulled out his phone and dialed Zoe’s number again. Voice mail, of course. For the sixth time. He disconnected and dialed Grant’s cell. This time, the man answered, sounding every bit as frustrated as Kell felt.

  “What the hell is going on?” Kell asked without greeting. “Where’s Zoe? She’s not answering her phone.”

  Grant hesitated only a moment. “She played us. Jumped our plane too late for me to get off. Your sister okay? My guys told me she flew somewhere with your aunt and uncle, but they weren’t able to determine where.”

  “I have no fucking idea.” Alarm jumped through the phone connection, and he hurriedly corrected himself. “Yes. I think so. My mother sent her to Europe. Something’s wrong here, but she hasn’t told me what yet. I think she went to collect herself or something.” God forbid she show any emotion to her son. “Where’s Zoe?” Because for damned sure by now Grant would have tracked her. “And why didn’t you call me?”

  “I didn’t call you because your sister is your priority.” There was no judgment in his tone, but Kell felt his face redden with shame nonetheless. “She’s in Ohio.”

  “Fuck!” He’d never said that word so often in so short a time. “What the—” He didn’t need to finish the question. After seeing Carling’s photo, there was only one thing she could be doing. “She’s offering herself up for us.”

  “I talked to Henricksen. He told me about Carling.” Grant’s voice was measured, unaccusing, but Kell knew the guy had to be as much a roiling mess inside as he was. He was just more practiced at hiding it.

  “Zoe didn’t tell you? She was supposed to be texting you from security.”

  “She did, to tell me she was going back to Boston with you. Didn’t mention Carling.”

  Kell cursed again. How had she played them both so smoothly?

  Grant went on. “Henricksen said there was a note with the picture. Did you see it?”

  “I saw the picture. Carling, injured, trussed. No words. I assumed it was meant as a message.”

  “It was a message, all right. But he spelled it out for her. It said ‘Which of your boy toys is next?’ ”

  The roiling mess in his gut hardened and sank heavily. “And she took it to mean us.”

  “Who else?”

  Kell paced, fuming, holding up a finger to his mother, who’d come back into the room with a tea tray. “So she’s trying to protect us. But how? She doesn’t have the totems.” The realization hit him before Grant said it. Pat and Freddie had the totems already. The message they sent hadn’t been about the damned gold statues.

  It had been about her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Zoe hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

  As soon as she crossed through security, there he was. She didn’t remember his name, couldn’t recall the names of any of Pat and Freddie’s followers, but he’d guarded her enough that the years and hard living didn’t make him unrecognizable. She had a brief flashback to a smelly, stuffy room, the rasp of a rope around her ankle, and a stoic, unmoving presence in the corner.

  He spotted her as she walked past the scanners and strode over to her, twitching and fidgeting as if he didn’t know what to do without a cigarette in his hand. His jeans bagged between his knees, and he hitched them up over his butt as he stopped in front of her, a grin showing two missing teeth among the yellow ones that remained.

  “He was right.” He giggled. “He’s always right.”

  Zoe clenched her teeth, not trusting herself not to say something stupid. Stupider than what she was doing.

  “Well, come on then. You don’t have any checked baggage, I’m thinkin’. Too bad if you do.” He giggled again and turned to walk beside her, grabbing her left arm above the elbow hard enough to create another flashback. She flinched, startled at both the memory of violence she didn’t think had happened and her brain’s automatic suppression of it. Had she forced so much of her experience into a locked box that there were things she actually didn’t remember? A cold, hard rock rolled in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she’d be sick.

  The moment passed when Kell’s face popped into her head, reminding her why she was doing this. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and asked, “Where are we going?”

  He glanced askance at her and shook his head. “You better not be dumb enough to be wearin’ a wire. Pat said you weren’t that dumb.”

  “I’m not.” Not exactly. She faced forward so he couldn’t read anything in her expression and didn’t press the subject. “What’s your name?”

  He worked his mouth around a little as he maneuvered her through the door to the outside, then finally said, “Stew,” as if he wasn’t sure he could trust her with it.

  “I’m Zoe,” she told him, thinking that trying to humanize herself to him, make him think twice about whatever they were going to do to her, wouldn’t work. It was pointless, since she’d willingly gone to them, was about to walk right into their lair. She shuddered and clenched her hand around the strap of her bag to keep from touching the inner jacket pocket her phone was in.

  “I know who you are.” He chuckled. “We’re gonna be good friends. Not like last time.” He leered. Unable to help herself, Zoe shot him a glare. He cleared his throat and looked away to check traffic, then hustled her across the street to the parking area.

  Her mind raced with ways she could get away, a fruitless exercise since that would defeat her purpose. Just hold on. Shaun will come through. She repeated it, imagining the FBI swooping in shortly after she arrived in…wherever they took her. God, she hoped this worked.

  Pat had made a big mistake when he took Will Carling. Before that, he hadn’t done anything the FBI or anyone else could do anything about. Maybe parole violation, but they couldn’t prove that, especially if he was already back here. They couldn’t officially trace the threats, or the assault on Ozzie, or the theft of the totems to Pat or Freddy.

  But if she got to the shack—she knew they weren’t going to the original shack, it didn’t even exist anymore, but she couldn’t get that image out of her head—and could stall Pat long enough for Henricksen to track the location and connect him to Will’s abduction…then it could all be over.

  That was all that kept her feet moving forward.

  Stew stopped next to a squatting, rusting hulk of a car, something she guessed was from the seventies or maybe early eighties. The back door opened and he shoved her toward it. She slid in, squinting in the dim light at the person next to her. This one, she didn’t recognize. He was younger, probably even younger than her, and cleaner than Stew. He had all his teeth, and they’d definitely had orthodontics at some point. His clothes were good quality, his haircut a deliberately shaggy styl
e, and his smile reminded her of some of the young people at the Stones’ country club. She wondered what the hell made people like this kid follow someone like Patron Rhomney.

  “Well hell-o, Miss Ardmore.” He eyed her up and down and even stroked his hand down her arm. “Pat didn’t tell us how lovely you are. This is going to be much more fun than I expected.”

  Zoe couldn’t hide her disgust. “Can’t get it up for a willing woman, huh?”

  The cocky grin snapped off his face like it had been snatched away. “Drive, Stew. They’re waiting for her.”

  Stew didn’t move. “Fergettin’ somethin’.”

  Pretty-Boy grimaced and lifted his hip to pull a bandanna out of his back pocket. He wrapped it around Zoe’s eyes, tightening it just a bit more than necessary. She put her hand up to touch it, and he slapped it away.

  “Don’t make me tie you up.”

  Relieved, she let her hands settle into her lap. They wouldn’t bother blindfolding her if they were going to kill her. Of course, she didn’t think they planned to kill her, at least not yet. And there were worse things than death. But their attempt to keep their location secret from her meant they expected her to somehow have a way to relay that information to someone, and that made her feel better.

  They drove for a long time, and being blind made her unable to gauge distance. Everything felt longer than it probably was. The men didn’t talk, so she didn’t get Pretty-Boy’s name, and she decided silence, at least for now, was best.

  Finally the car bumped—a lot—down what was probably a rutted dirt road or trail. Zoe was glad they hadn’t bound her, because she needed her hands to brace herself on the door and seats to avoid injury. PB dragged her out of the car and across several yards to a few wooden steps, where she stumbled and had to catch herself. The planks felt dry and both flaky and splintery against her palms, like weathered painted wood. Just like the shack she’d been in sixteen years ago. Her heart thundered and she lay sprawled against the steps, frozen, unable to make herself rise and go inside.

  The door opened and mingled scents of unwashed bodies, pot, dirty dishes, and stale beer wafted out. Zoe squeezed her eyes shut and breathed through her mouth, focusing, thinking of Olivia and Kell and Grant and Jordie and her parents.

  You can do this. Her breathing echoed harshly in her ears, and she realized Pat would hear it and know she was afraid. She snapped her mouth closed and pushed to her feet. She was not a child anymore. She was a strong, brave adult, and she would not allow Pat to control her. Not like that.

  “Atta girl.” PB sounded strangely pleased, considering how eager he’d been to provoke her with innuendo in the car. His hand closed around her arm again, and this time he guided her, murmuring how many steps she had, and then “door” and even bending to help her lift her foot to step inside.

  Once the door closed behind them he whisked the blindfold away. His grin was the first thing Zoe saw. She latched on to it, comforted, but she’d been through enough therapy and read enough clinical articles to know what she was doing. He was not her friend. None of these people were. She could only count on herself to get through this.

  When she looked away, she saw a cluttered, ramshackle room very much like the old one, but empty of people. Weak sunlight filtered through boarded-up windows, and straw and droppings in the corners were evidence of tiny inhabitants. They’d taken over an abandoned house, their usual MO. She curled her lip. They didn’t have to live in squalor. They were just lazy and dramatic.

  Footsteps sounded from an adjacent room and Patron Rhomney appeared in the doorway. He looked exactly as he had in the car that had passed them, and he smiled when he saw her recognition.

  “Zoe, my dear, so good to have you back!” He held out his arms and stepped forward, as if he’d embrace her. She managed not to cringe. He’d never harmed her physically, not personally, so as detestable as he was, she could hide her response. As long as he was quick about it.

  But he never reached her. A screech came from behind him, and then billows of thin, fluffy red hair appeared under his arm, followed by Freddie, who looked so much like a Hollywood-style witch Zoe stepped back, bumping into PB behind her. His chuckle reached her ear under Freddie’s gleeful squeals, but his steadying hands only held her in place for Freddie to fall on her.

  “My child my child my child! You’re home you’re home you’re home!” Freddie crowded up against Zoe, long nails snagging her hair when she tried to stroke it, her body bony and insect-like with her long arms and legs. She wore a flowered dress that gaped across the chest and hung off her hips. One of her “mother dresses.” Zoe turned away from her fetid breath, coming, no doubt, from the rotted teeth. She’d have thought they got better dental care in prison.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” Pat stepped back out of the room, his expression satisfied, as if knowing how freaked out Zoe was right then. Stew moved to stand in front of the front door, and PB, with a huff of disgust, dropped lazily onto the sofa, examining his nails and for all appearances ignoring the spectacle before him.

  Zoe couldn’t move, as paralyzed as if a big, mean-looking dog sniffed at her feet. Freddie circled her, muttering in a sing-song that Zoe couldn’t understand. Her nails were jagged and sharp and scratched Zoe’s neck and arms. Freddie plucked at Zoe’s clothing, shaking her head loosely but fiercely, with a grumble about shopping for proper clothes.

  “Comecome!” Freddie caught Zoe’s hand and tugged her to a scratchy plaid armchair. “Sitsit! I’ll make you pretty. Preeetttty.” She snatched a brush out of a box next to the chair, as if she’d placed it there for just this purpose. And maybe she had. She’d been odd when she had Zoe before, her eyes lit with an eerie type of glow that made her look crazy. The glow was gone, but the crazy remained. Worse.

  Zoe fought. She tried, mentally, not to slide back, but as soon as the brush touched the top of her head she filled with despair. Hatred. Sorrow. Guilt. Longing. Freddie crooned as she stroked the brush through Zoe’s hair, over and over and over. Hot tears singed her face and she thought of her mother, and wished she’d been more understanding, less dismissive and frustrated. She used to picture her mother when Freddie did this. Remembered warm bread baking, her mother’s smile and reassuring hugs. It hadn’t made her skin stop crawling, or her stomach stop hurting, or eased the scream building inside her.

  Nor did it help now. All of those things returned as if they’d never gone. She couldn’t remember her life before she got here. She’d had a job, and a fiancé, and friends, and family, and herself, but it was all gone, vanished in a void that squeezed those sixteen years to nothing, until all she knew was then and now.

  Freddie set the brush down and separated Zoe’s hair to braid it. Zoe squeezed her eyes so tightly that golden suns exploded on a red background, spreading and fading and reforming. She concentrated on them. Focused hard on the shapes, the patterns, until she was immersed in them and could no longer feel the scrabble of Freddie’s fingers at the nape of her neck.

  Pull yourself out of this. It was a command. Weak, but her own voice. Her own power. You’re not twelve. You’re not helpless. You’re stronger than her. Overpower her. NOW! Zoe shot to her feet, surprising herself.

  Freddie screeched and grabbed at the end of the braid, a rubber band stretched around her fingers. “No no no! Fix it! Fix it!”

  “I don’t want you to braid my hair.” Zoe stepped away and turned, bracing her feet and holding out a hand—as if that would stop Freddie. The woman was totally around the bend.

  “Excellent!” Pat’s pleased voice sounded from over her shoulder, but Zoe didn’t want to take her eyes off Freddie, who was trying to get around her to secure the braid. Zoe defiantly shook out her hair.

  “I have to say, I’m very pleased.” Pat circled in front of her and touched Freddie gently, almost lovingly, on the shoulder. Freddie pouted but settled to the floor next to the chair.

  “Pleased about what? I’ll make sure not to do it again.” Zoe was amaz
ed at her cheek. A moment ago, she’d have thought she’d never have the strength to go up against either of them, ever.

  “I’m pleased at what you’ve grown to be. I wasn’t sure you would be able to do the job, but you’ve given me confidence.” He nudged her toward the plaid chair, settling onto the recliner next to it. “Please, sit. It’s a request, not an order. For comfort purposes,” he added when she didn’t move.

  Ignoring the request felt like childish stubbornness now, not strength, so Zoe did as he asked.

  “Thank you. Would you like a drink or something to eat?”

  “No.” Instantly, she craved water. But she would never ingest anything these people would give her.

  “Your choice.” He settled onto the recliner next to her.

  “What now?” She swallowed hard and forced herself to ask a question that had plagued her since she decided to come here, putting as much of a sneer into her voice as she could. “Are you going to punish me for getting you arrested?”

  He shook his head, still smiling. “Oh, no, don’t worry about that. I know it’s not the best incentive for you.” Before she could ask what he meant, he held out his hand. “Before we get started, please give me your cell phone.”

  She stared at his wide, roughed-up palm. He shook it impatiently. “Don’t play games, Zoe. Give me your cell phone.”

  “Wait!” Freddie jumped up from where she’d settled on the floor at Zoe’s feet and dashed out of the room, back in seconds with a battered cardboard box. “Here! I saved your toys!” She sank down again and pawed through the box, holding up a yo-yo. “See? We’ll play.” The yo-yo fell out of her hand and rolled across the floor. “Oooh, blocks! You love blocks, baby.” She started stacking them.

  Zoe stared. She’d never played with toys with Zoe, who’d been far too old for the kinds of things she was pulling from the box. She turned back to Pat, who nodded sadly.

  “Prison wasn’t very good to Freddie, I’m afraid. But that will be rectified. The phone?”