by Dave White
Christine thought about O’Connor taking her to the firing range. Giving her Tae Kwon Do lessons. Teaching her how to embrace violence. The warmth that came with learning a new technique rushed through her in the middle of the warehouse. She felt the corners of her lips curl upward.
“I’m going to have to leave you here for a while,” Christine said. “I’ll be back. Don’t try to leave. There’s nowhere to go.”
Michelle still didn’t speak. She returned Christine’s glare. And her dark eyes made Christine’s calves tense. Made her want to punch a hole though a wall. Or through Michelle.
“And when I come back, I’m going to bring you to Dad’s hangar. And, I promise you, it’s not going to be a fun family reunion,” Christine said.
Michelle’s eyes didn’t waver.
“You’re going to hurt your own sister?”
Christine rubbed her fingers together again.
“When everything is said and done,” she said, “I’m going to kill you.”
The sirens were faint, coming from the top of the hill leading to the motel. John imagined the police kicking down the bathroom door, seeing the grenade and unloading their weapons. His biceps tensed at the thought, and he almost dropped the grenade.
He sat on the toilet seat, the cold of the porcelain seeping through his jeans. His hands were shaking hard now. Tears burned his eyes. Air was hard to come by, as it got stuck somewhere in his throat with each inhalation.
John had already tried to use his elbow to turn the doorknob. With no luck. The door was locked, and when he tried to force it, the grenade slipped an inch. Four seconds. If he dropped it, he’d have enough time to scream and that would be it.
The sirens were louder now. Would the police go through each motel room, or did they already know which one he was in? Maybe he should just drop the grenade now. Spare the police officers. Spare everyone except himself.
No. That was not an option. He’d survived so far.
Plus, she took Michelle. The woman had pointed a gun at his friend and dragged her from the room. He heard the door shut. She’d gotten someone he was close to already. He wasn’t going to let her take another
His hands were starting to get slippery from the sweat on his palms. Looking toward the shower wall, he glared at the window in the middle of it. One of those stained glass ones that allowed light in but kept anyone outside from seeing in. The window was big, about waist high.
John stepped into the shower, crouched, and leaned against the window with his shoulder. When he stood, he pressed his good shoulder against the window, forcing it to slide open. The cold air from outside gusted in. Snow blew into his face.
Leaning out the window, John wondered how his students would react to this situation, to the whole weekend. They’d probably seen the news by now, texting back and forth with their friends about Mr. Brighton. They always knew he was crazy.
Despite the wind, John was sweating, drops falling from his nose into the snowdrift below him. He thought about dropping the grenade out the window and trying to press himself against the door. But would that be distance enough? He’d never seen a grenade go off. Not even on TV.
He lifted a leg through the window and let his foot go ankle deep in the snow. He tried to ignore the water soaking through his pant leg. Gritted his teeth and tried to force the shaking out of his body. As he steadied his foot, and straddled the window, he breathed hard.
His therapist had told him to breathe to calm his nerves. To think of something that didn’t worry him. John thought of Michelle, not a conscious choice, but her face popped into his mind. The way she tried to drag him into the water, chase the fear from his system. How she wanted to get her doctorate, go on and teach college. How she kept telling him she wanted to make herself a better person. She wanted to face her life, and make it better. It was an odd turn of phrase for a Language Arts teacher, but she said it all the time.
Time to step out. Keep your balance, don’t fall, don’t slip, don’t let the grenade slip. God, don’t let the grenade slip.
Some of the tension in his calf muscles eased, and he leaned forward pulling his other leg through the window. It landed in the snow and he fell backwards. For an instant, his stomach dropped like it was on a roller coaster, as he thought he was going to fall down. But his back hit the wall and he held himself up.
The sirens were deafening. They must be in the parking lot. There was no more time.
John turned and faced the window. He reached inside, feeling the steamy heat of the radiator on his wrists. He dropped the grenade, spun and ran. He made it four steps up the hill.
The ground shook, and John heard a small sizzle. Then there was the sound of thunder and he had to tighten his thighs to keep his balance. Pieces of wood and roofing embedded themselves into the hill. The heat from the explosion seared the back of his neck. He gave up trying to stand and dove forward hitting the snow face first.
When he rolled over, he realized he was screaming. His vocal chords vibrated so hard he could feel them in his neck. His entire body shook. The right shoulder shot electricity through his torso. At first he was screaming nonsense, but it turned into a steady stream of “no”s.
Michelle’s face formed in his mind and she smiled. He thought of his shrink again, sitting in her thick, leather chair telling him to breathe. To slow everything down.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Do it again.
He opened his eyes, and kept breathing. He looked back at the hotel. There was a hole where the bathroom wall had been. Smoke curled up toward the sky. The shower curtain burned.
But he was alive.
And had no idea what to do next.
The cops were probably still in the parking lot on the other side of the building. They’d be in a panic now, trying to figure out what had happened. But soon they’d start looking for him. Probably come around the back.
John got to his feet, turned and trudged up to the top of the hill. He took one last look at the motel.
The rest of the building wall had charred a deep black. The interior of the bathroom was no longer tile, but a mix of white, brown, and black rubble. Small flames had spread toward the shattered toilet.
He turned and headed into the forest of trees.
Callahan’s house phone rang, and he answered, not even checking the caller ID.
“Mr. Carnathan. It’s Robert Sandler.” The low voice boomed though the speaker.
“Mr. Sandler, how are you?” The dryness in Callahan’s mouth travelled down his throat as if his salvia was evaporating.
“I think you and I have some business to deal with.”
“We do?” He thought about the file missing from his office and wondered where this conversation was going.
“Why don’t you come up to my house? Say in an hour?”
“I’ll have to wait for Michelle to get here. Haven’t heard from her all day. Is she with you?”
“Something’s happened to her, Carnathan.”
Callahan’s muscles tightened in a spasm and he sat up straight.
“What did you do?”
He immediately regretted the words. Play it cool. He was giving himself away. The events of the past day had made him jittery. He was making bad decisions. Not thinking.
And, as he’d seen too many times before with allies and enemies alike, not thinking got you killed.
“I didn’t do anything, Carnathan. There was an explosion. In the Poconos. We need to talk.”
The phone clicked off on Sandler’s end. Peter Callahan stood on legs that tingled as if they’d fallen asleep. He went to his room and dug out his pistol and extra magazines.
He was not about to visit Sandler alone.
****
The plows were out but people were still driving slowly. It took him closer to an hour and a half to negotiate Paramus and then Ridgewood. On the way, Callahan tried to compose himself.
What could have happened to Michelle?
As his mind wandered through the multitude of possibilities, his car fishtailed, setting off horns and the squeal of brakes from around him. His muscles were tight around the wrists and forearms. He wanted to stretch and scream and disappear. But he would do none of that. He had to know what happened first.
Be smart, he told himself. Go through your routine. Keep yourself safe.
Time to call Candy and get a read on the area around Sandler’s house. Were there more Blackwater hires? He could be walking into a trap. He reached into his pocket for his BlackBerry and came up empty. It felt as if he’d just swallowed a handful of snow.
The BlackBerry was still clicked into the cabinet under the sink. In a rush, he’d forgotten it. He was not being smart. Not professional.
A girl was getting to him.
He wheeled off the highway and cut through the roads with huge houses garnishing the hills. At the curbs, snow had already turned ash gray and slushy from the constant passing traffic, but the hills were pure white.
Sandler’s driveway was empty but plowed. Callahan let his car door click closed, didn’t slam it. Down the street a woman in a bathrobe was brushing white fluff off her car.
Trudging through the snow toward the front door, Callahan felt his gun bounce against his hip. At least he’d remembered that. The gun was covered by his winter coat and the sports jacket underneath. It was still possible that Sandler had no idea Callahan had been investigating him.
Feel him out first. Ask questions, find out about Michelle, shoot later.
If necessary.
Callahan rang the doorbell and it gonged like Big Ben. Classy.
Sandler answered, bags under his eyes, lines creasing his face. He looked paler and thinner than the last time Callahan had seen him. His clothing hung off him, and even though he tried to project business casual in a sweater and khakis, the man looked like he’d worn the clothes for the past week.
“Come in,” Sandler said.
Callahan kicked the snow off his shoes on the doorstep and stepped inside. The house had the scent of marmalade, something he hadn’t smelled since his college days.
“What happened?”
“Why was my daughter in the Poconos?” Sandler asked.
Callahan felt cold in his wrists and ankles.
They walked into the living room and sat in two leather chairs. The TV played CNN on mute. The broadcast focused on the latest in the Middle East.
“I didn’t know she was there.”
“Drink?”
he offer was tempting. Drink and lose yourself in the warmth of alcohol. “No, thanks.”
Sandler got up and poured himself a scotch.
Callahan listened intently to the sounds of the house settling. No one else appeared to be here. Not the maid, no one. Usually the maid sang songs in Spanish while she cooked or cleaned in the kitchen.
“You didn’t know your girlfriend was in the Poconos? With her ex-boyfriend?”
Sandler downed the scotch in two gulps, never taking his eyes off Callahan. “Aren’t they off from school this week? Monday’s President’s Day.”
The scotch bottle was empty. Michelle’s father put his glass down on the table next to the armchair, then returned to his seat.
“We seem to be at a stalemate here.”
“I want to know what happened to Michelle!”
Robert Sandler’s eyes were red and bloodshot. When he exhaled, Callahan caught a strong whiff of the scotch.
“My daughter is dead because of you,” Sandler said. “So now I want to know. How long have you been looking into my business? How long have you been investigating me?”
Callahan was freezing now. He knew?
“You’re CIA? DHS? NSA? Right? One of those, I’d imagine.”
“Mr. Sandler, what are you talking about?” Callahan tried to make his voice higher pitched. He spoke fast, allowing himself to panic. “You say Michelle’s hurt? Dead? I came over. I thought—”
“Oh, please. For once stop playing the game. A friend of mine called me a few hours ago. He works for the police force in Scotrun. He said Michelle was staying at a rundown motel and there must have been a gas leak in the room or an electrical short. Whatever it was, the place went up in a flash. Old wooden structure. John Brighton and my daughter never had a chance.”
Sandler reached for the glass again, but now his hand shook. The ring he wore clinked off the glass as he brought it to his nose. To smell it.
“It was an accident?”
Sandler pointed to the TV. According to the text at the bottom of the screen, CNN had shifted its coverage to the Poconos. The shot came from a helicopter. The right half of the motel looked like a crater surrounded by salt. Steam and smoke rose from the charred wood and metal. It looked like one room had gone up. Sandler clicked off the mute button.
“—the owner of the motel survived. The two visitors had the only room. The one that blew up. No bodies have been found yet.”
The reporter droned on about the explosion, speculating about causes. No one was interviewed, no witnesses. But Callahan couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. He tried to single out pieces of the wreckage to see a hand, a leg, something twitching. Something the firemen had missed. A sign that Michelle was alive.
He squinted and saw nothing but the twisted wreckage of the motel. The water dripped from the remaining timbers as the firemen put out the last few bits of flashing fire. He could see Michelle’s car.
He leaned forward. Give me a sign, Michelle, he pleaded. You can’t be dead.
The TV screen faded to a commercial.
“You were supposed to be taken to a warehouse last night,” Sandler said. “Five of my men weren’t enough. I’m impressed.”
“What is going on here?” Callahan spat out the words. “Taken? I was at home waiting for her. You know where I live.”
Sandler shook his head. “You’re a child playing a man’s game.”
“Okay,” Callahan said. “What do you want from me?”
Sandler turned and walked toward the kitchen. “Christine, take care of him for me.”
A woman came in from the kitchen, holding a taser.
The hood over Callahan’s head smelled like cotton balls. He blinked his eyes as he awoke and tried to see. But the hood was thick; no light seeped through.
His neck throbbed, like a blinking light. Every time the van hit a bump, he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. He was trying to time the trip from the point he woke, get an idea where they were headed, but the hood was making it hard to do that. He’d count in his head, then the pain would return and time would float away. It was no use. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
Some time ago Christine had duct taped his wrists behind his back and dragged him by the collar to the black van in front of the house. She pushed him into the cabin in the back and pulled a hood over his head. She then duct taped the hood tight to his neck. No one spoke. He heard a phut and he passed out.
Focus, he thought. Try to take in the bumps, the sounds of the road. Listen for anything out of the ordinary. Find out where they’re taking you.
No luck. Either his captors had found the quietest road in northern Jersey or the van’s cabin was insulated. He guessed the latter, since the cabin wasn’t freezing, and the metal he sat on wasn’t stinging his legs. Whoever drove was silent.
This was too much like his brief stint in Afghanistan, just before Weller had recruited him for his DHS position. They called it a snatch ‘n’ grab. Travel down to the Pakistan/Afghani border with a translator. Wear native clothing and let your beard grow out. Callahan never grew facial hair well, but was told it didn’t matter, you just needed to try and fit in. When nightfall came, he’d sneak over the border to a known location and as quietly as possible kidnap a terrorist. Bag over the head, handcuffs instead of duct tape, and throw them into the back of the van.
He wondered then if the terrorists he’d grabbed tried to focus on the bumps in the road to figure out where they we
re taking him. Though, with the lack of good paving, he couldn’t imagine it would do any good.
Callahan felt the same way now. The roads they’d been on were well paved and he had no idea where they could be.
At one point the van stopped, sending him toppling forward. His ribs erupted amd he thought they might punch through his chest. He exhaled hard through both his nose and mouth. Spit and snot caked the inside of the hood.
How long had Sandler known?
