Reed

by Mariska Hutchence

  I see him trying not to look as I pass him and head back towards the pipe.

  “When I’m home, I’m figuring we can do without the cuffs.” He says, laying the mattress down on the floor.

  “Works for me.” I say.

  “You’ll just have to take my word for it that yelling won’t do you much good.” He says. “I kind of like living out in the boonies.”

  “From California to the Wisconsin wilderness.” I say. “How does that happen?”

  He gives me an odd glance. “Not everyone picks that up.”

  I smile. “Accents are my thing. Everyone’s got one, some are just more noticeable than others. So why Wisconsin?”

  “Not a lot of ‘boonies’ in Southern California, Cal says. It’s funny, and I give it to him.

  He smiles.

  Yep, could be a lot worse, I think, sinking down onto the futon, still rubbing away the ache in my wrists.

  Reed is sitting here, just watching me eat, which is odd. Maybe he expects I’ll smash up the plate and make an escape? Not likely. Porcelain is no match for hardened steel handcuffs and if he leaves me unbound, it’s not going to help me dig my way out from concrete walls. It’s starting feel weird, so I speak up.

  “You just going to watch me eat, Cal?” I say, remembering to use the right name.

  He looks at me, seemingly sizing me up. “Just making sure you don’t need anything else.” He says.

  “A napkin?” I respond, looking down at my fingers, greasy from the eggs.

  Reed’s eyes show the smile that he doesn’t allow on his face. “Yeah, I’ll get you one, Des.”

  He disappears back up the stairs and comes down shortly with a roll of paper towels. He tears one off and hands it to me, setting the roll down nearby.

  “Well, you’re not the worst jailer I could imagine.” I say, wiping my face; my OCD thanking me.

  The smile in his eyes fades a little. “This isn’t really my choice.” He says. “But I’m not going to go any deeper than that. Hopefully it’ll be cleared up in a while.”

  I can see in those eyes that he’s being honest with me. I’m a fairly good judge of character and I think I have him pegged. Play the sympathy card as much as you can, Des, I think to myself.

  “Well, that’s good because Ted will be missing me in the bed.”

  Cal leans back on his stool a little. The balance seems precarious, and I have a fleeting image of me being stuck down here alone with a guy who has just cracked his skull.

  “I’m sure your boyfriend will take care of him just fine. Or someone from the Bureau.” He suggests, checking his own balance for a moment.

  “Ha. Ted doesn’t like Clark.” I say. “Every time he comes to bed Ted tries to wiggle his way between us. He’s a notorious cock-blocker.”

  My brash words seem to surprise my captor, but he smiles. “Clark, huh? Kind of like Superman?”

  I snort a little, completely unplanned. “Yeah…” I say, pausing. “Not really.”

  Clark’s a good guy, but he’s not really right for me. A little too possessive, but that on the needier end than the passion end that I would have preferred. Things started out right. We met after I first moved to Milwaukee and things quickly escalated to where we’ve been living together for a few months. It was supposed to have been a dating slash economic thing, but I’ve been regretting it the last week or so.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Reed asks, smiling.

  I realize I’ve probably violated some of my training by talking about my personal life. Well, water under the bridge.

  “You know how it is.” I say, brazenly assuming. “Long hours, never home. He thinks he plays second fiddle to my job.”

  Reed snaps the stool back to the ground with a click. “Is he right?”

  Yes, I think to myself, but I don’t want to say it. “Things are challenging right now.”

  That smile in the eyes comes back, this time with the accompanying up-turn to his lips. “Now that’s an understatement.”

  I laugh, despite myself. I definitely want to keep in his good graces, though. Fortunately, as of yet, he’s made doing that pretty easy.

  “What about you? Love interest? I can’t help but wondering what she thinks about the woman tied up in your basement.”

  He grins this time. “Yeah, no. Talk about long hours and never being home. I don’t even bother to try.”

  “Aw, the smuggler’s blues.” I say, thinking of the old Glen Frey song.

  “Guess you are a pretty sharp one.” He says. “I’ve been wondering how much the FBI knew.”

  Shit. Probably shouldn’t have said that, so I try to recover a little. “Not much past that, really.” I say, which is actually the truth. “Things were just getting rolling when…”

  “How is your head, anyway?” Reed asks. “I should probably offer you some Ibuprofen or something.”

  “I’m good.” I say, wanting to turn the conversation away from what I might know about his operation, which is effectively nothing. “I try to take as few meds as possible.”

  Reed comes down from the stool to take the now empty plate. “Yeah, I try to do the healthy thing too, but the bad habits keep getting in the way.” He says, patting the non-existent bulge of his stomach under his t-shirt. “Maybe I need some of that Bureau training, or probably just the discipline that comes along with it.”

  I’m not sure what to say, but he continues. “I’ll bring some down just in case, and some water.”

  “Thanks, Cal.” I say, honestly grateful. I really fucked this one up, I think. Sadly, I’m more concerned with my budding Bureau record than I am with my own safety. Maybe the job has become too much of a priority. I watch him disappear up the stairs once again.

  A few minutes pass, when I can hear the ringtone of a cellphone upstairs. This time, though, I can’t clearly hear the conversation. Curiosity gets the better of me and I quietly creep to the top of the stairs, knowing full well that his nice-guy status might change if I’m discovered. At this point, though, I’m not so worried about that. I have to have faith in my own judgement about him. At the most, he would probably just choose to keep me cuffed again. A risk I’m willing to take at this point. The words become clearer, but it’s hard to follow from just one side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think we need to worry about it.”

  A pause.

  “She’s green. They wouldn’t have put her on this if they thought…”

  He must have been interrupted. His agitation is starting to become more obvious as the conversation continues. The comment rankles me a bit.

  “I just want her the fuck out of here.”

  The voice comes closer to the basement door and I’m afraid that he’s going to come back down, so I retrace my steps backwards until I’m next to my cushion again.

  A few minutes later, Reed comes back down the stairs, carrying the promised bottle of water and pills. “Sorry. I’ve got to go out for a little bit.” He says.

  I put my hands out in front of me, wrapping them around the pole, trying to show that I’m going to be nothing but cooperative.

  “I won’t be long, I promise.” He says, snapping the cuffs back in place.

  “You’re the boss.” I say. I can see he’s not too happy with the title.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday Night – Reed

  I can’t help but think that it’s like something out of the movies. There’s actually a bit metal ring in the middle of the steel table and the chain on my handcuffs runs through it, making it hard for me to get into a comfortable position. That would have been nice, because I had no idea when the last agent told me to wait, it would be what feels like several hours at least. I can hear the door being unlocked from the outside, so I’m guessing it’s time for some more fun.

  The room is about as bare as possible. In a way, I’m disappointed that there’s no ubiquitous two-way mirror against the wall, but those have probably been done away with seeing as there’s an
HD camera mounted in each corner of the room, out of reach even if I hadn’t been handcuffed to the table. It and the chair are bolted to the floor as well. Yeah, I tried them, more out of boredom than any kind of optimism. Sitting with your own thoughts isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re doing that sitting in the interrogation room of an FBI field office.

  The door cracks open and I realize I don’t have a clue what time it is; even if it’s day or night.

  Des’ face is a pleasant sight, though her expression could have been better. She takes one step into the room and closes the heavy door behind her.

  “Hey, beautiful.” I say, though I hear the exhaustion in my own voice. She probably does too.

  “Cut the crap, Reed.” She says. “I just want to know one thing.”

  I look at her, seeing the fire in those green eyes.

  “What’s that?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a week and she honestly looks just as tired as I do. She looks like she has a million things going on under those fiery red locks, but doesn’t know where to begin. I decide to lighten the mood a little.

  “Is Denny’s an option?” I ask, trying to put on a smile that takes a moment to come. “I’m not sure what time it is, but they’re always open.”

  Des walks over, her face softening, but only a little. She sits in the chair opposite me.

  “I don’t remember getting any Denny’s.” She says. It’s not much, but her mood seems to not be quite as black as it was initially. Humor is definitely one thing we have. She may not get good results from her dry wit and sarcasm from others, but it works on me. I’ve told her as much. Before.

  “I’d settle for a trip to the can.” I say, leaning back as far as the handcuffs will allow. “At least I gave you that.”

  She looks at me, and I can see the compassion that I know is in there. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if this is the same Des that I got to know during our time together.

  “You know I can’t do that.” She says.

  I nod, understanding. She’s the low-man on the totem-pole. I get that. Circumstances beyond her control, and all. Her face is still worked up with some emotion or another, so I try to get her comfortable with me again.

  “So how’s Clark?” I ask.

  This time, it doesn’t get the desired results. Her face just becomes more sour. It’s amazing how a person can be attractive in one mood and that all changes in a moment.

  “Cut the shit, Reed.” She says. “This is serious. They’re talking about Patriot Act stuff, and I don’t know if you know what that means, but you’re in some deep shit.”

  I fire back, my own emotions starting to get the better of me. I’m taking her harsh tone badly, and I know it. “I know what the Patriot Act is.” I say, clasping my useless hands together. “It basically says, ‘fuck your rights’ down at the bottom if I remember it correctly.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. “It’s 2:30.” She says, as if answering my earlier unspoken question.

  “Night or day?” I ask. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. I took a seriously uncomfortable nap earlier, my face pressed into the desk, but there’s no way of knowing how long I was out.

  “Night.” She says, then I see the gears finally locking into place. Maybe she’s ready to talk about what she came here for. I’m not the resident expert on FBI policy, but it’s an easy assumption to make that she probably has nothing to do with my case anymore, except to eventually testify at my trial about holding her hostage. Hopefully she’ll include the bit about me not really being a willing participant. I know that’s a lame defense, following orders and all, but the group I work with aren’t the type of people you want to be messing with.

  “Spit it out, Des.” I say. “I know you’re not supposed to be here.”

  I glance up at one of the cameras and I see her eyes following mine.

  “They don’t work.” She says.

  Seeing the look in her eyes, I believe her, then laugh. “Fucking budget cuts are the shit, aren’t they?”

  It doesn’t make her smile, unfortunately.

  “You’re killing me here, Des.” I say. “I hope you didn’t just come here to stare at me and tell me how much shit I’m wading in.”

  “That’s just it, Reed.” She says, her face softening for the first time. “They’re not interested in a plea, nothing. I’m not supposed to tell you that, though. They want you to turn on the rest, then sink you down in a dark hole. The current administration wants to be tough on illegal guns since they can’t do more about the legal ones.”

  She kicks back a little, but I can tell she’s far from relaxed. “Like there’s a big difference between the two. This should be a DEA deal anyway, right?”

  “They’re taking if from another angle to keep the case, but I’m not sure what. The kidnapping charge is a Federal case, at least.” She says, her eyes upsetting me so much more than anything else.

  “You know where I’m at on that.” I say, defensively.

  “They don’t.”

  The simple phrase hangs in the still air of the interrogation room for longer than is comfortable.

  “I just have to ask you one thing.” Des says, and I can tell from the look of determination on her face that she’s coming back to the self that I got to know.

  “Yeah?” I ask, sullenly. My situation is really starting to sink in.

  “Did you mean what you said, you know, before?”

  A lot had transpired in the long hours that we had spent together at my house, and of those million or so words that had been exchanged, I knew the select few she was alluding to. The thought of what would become of her, considering my situation, if I answered honestly almost made me tell her a lie.

  “Yes.”

  Des’ eyes change back with just that one word, and the woman I knew is finally sitting across from me. She leans back in the chair and reaches into her pocket. As she fishes around for a second, she leans in closer.

  “Out the door, right, right again, then out the fire door. The alarm there doesn’t work either.”

  She is already standing, flipping a pair of handcuff keys towards me. They clang against the metal surface of the table. “July 1st, that place you told me about.”

  Those words are in my head in some sort of a limbo as she walks out, leaving the door cracked. Fumbling with the keys, her words start slowly processing by the time I unlock the second cuff, knowing full well I won’t be following her. I’m trying to focus on the directions she gave while trying to remember the conversation she mentioned. I’m coming up empty as I round the first corner, ducking back quickly when I hear voices. Shit.

  Not knowing how much time I have; I take the risk and glance around one more time. It’s clear, so I hustle down to the next turn, briskly peering around that one as well. The fire door is calling to me.

  As I step out into the darkness into a grassy area, I see the fence that I’m going to have to climb, but that doesn’t worry me at all. What the hell was she talking about? Dropping the last few feet from the top, I’m marveling about how easy it was. Escaping Federal custody, that is.

  ___

  My elation slowly wears down into frustration. By morning, I’m doing my best to hitch my way out of what I can only assume is Milwaukee, but that is definitely easier said than done. Not an orange jumpsuit, of course, but I know that I’m looking pretty ragged in the clothes I was wearing when the agents busted down my front door. It had been stupid for me to go back, but the things I wanted to retrieve held enough value to make them worth the risk. I had thought that it would take Des longer, but I had been wrong.

  The convertible pulls off the side of the road ahead of me. Looks like an old LeBaron, top down. All I can see is hair blowing in the wind. The giggles tone down as I approach, though. The driver, apparently the oldest of the three girls, couldn’t be more than twenty, and I’m assuming they’re headed back to Madison following a weekend in Milwaukee. College students.

/>   “Where you headed?” The driver asks, pushing some wind-blown tresses back behind her ears. I want to say ‘anywhere but here’, which is the truth. I take the guess.

  “Madison.” I answer, using my most friendly voice.

  The driver smiles. “Hop in.” I catch the desperate glance to the girl in the passenger seat, and she dutifully climbs into the back with the other passenger.

  “You’re not an axe-murderer or anything, are you?” The girl already in the back asks, though the statement is hugging the borderline between being serious and joking.

  “Hell, I don’t even have a bag.” I answer, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door. “Besides, it’s too early for all that.”

  The girl gives a hesitant laugh as the driver pulls back onto the road.

  “So what’s your story?” The brunette driver asks.

  I try to put on my friendliest face. “I’m Cal.” I say. Reed Calhoun. I haven’t been called ‘Cal’ since high school, but I always figure the closest I can get to the truth, the better. Besides, it’s a lot easier to automatically respond to something you’re already familiar with. “Just drifting, really.” I say. “Hoping to land a spot in the music scene over there.”

  That’s a lie, but at least I have some background in it. I played with a couple of garage bands back in my ‘Cal’ days, so I can talk the talk.

  “That’s cool.” The driver says. “Maybe we’ll see you someday down at The Majestic.”

  I don’t know the venues, but I nod agreeably. “That’s the plan.”

  “Oh, I’m Darla, by the way. Those two are Cassie and Emma.” She says, trying to gesture the position of each with her eyes without turning fully around.

  “Where are you coming from?” Emma asks. I’m having a little trouble hearing over the music coming from the dash and the constant wind in the convertible that sounds like it’s seen better days.

  “California, originally.” I say. Like I said, as close to the truth as I can get.

  The third girl, Cassie, leans between the seats with something to add. “I’m going out to Cali after I graduate.” She seems pretty pleased with herself, but is almost immediately squashed by Darla.