by Alana Terry
Her voice jerked him from his mildewing musings. “Oh, well, why don’t you try to tell me everyone you talked to, everyone you can think of, since you’ve been home. The mail you opened, the messages on machines, where you went after or before work—anything.”
“Well, I called my friend Yvonne from the airport. I knew she’d be ticked off that I hadn’t invited her on my ‘trip.’”
“And was she?”
“No, she thought I went with Brent and didn’t want to admit it or something.”
“Brent?” Keith assumed it was the man in the photos but waited for confirmation.
“A guy I met. Yvonne wouldn’t think twice about taking off for two weeks with a guy she hardly knows. I figure it’s a recipe for disaster. Can you imagine how miserable you’d be if you found out you hated him?”
“Yeah.” Keith took a swig of his tea and then grinned. “It’s much better to be chained up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a stranger.”
“Safer anyway.” Her smile seemed odd at a time like that. Who smiles at the memory of being shackled and locked in a room “for your own good?”
“I was really ticked at you.”
“I know. I was glad.”
“I still don’t get that.” She chewed slowly, thoughtfully. How did someone do that? Keith didn’t understand her.
“It sounds weirder than it is. The angrier you are, the more you’re likely to fight. You need to fight. The minute captivity seems like a reasonable ‘norm’ you’re already becoming a victim. It’s best if you fight.”
“Well, technically,” she argued, grabbing a handful of raisins from a box on the counter and sprinkling them over her sandwich. The idea made him shudder. “I was a victim. I was kidnapped. What else do you call me but the ‘victim’ of a kidnapping?” Her air quotes would have been cute if he hadn’t seen a raisin peeking out from a bite of her turkey and provolone.
“How can you eat that?”
“It’s good. Try it.” Erika offered her sandwich, but Keith recoiled as if she offered him snake innards.
“I’ll stick to my plain, mustardless sandwich.”
“What does mustard have to do with anything?”
Keith shrugged. “I just like mustard and we’re out of packets.”
“I’ve got some at home. I could run over after dark—”
“Not on your life.” He polished off his last bite of sandwich, dusted his hands over his plate, and shoved it to the side. “So, what next?”
Erika told about her first day back at work, about talking to missed customers, about the online class she considered taking, the research internship she’d considered, and the guy who tried to pick her up in the produce department. “He was a creep-and-a-half. Too bad.”
“Why too bad?”
“He was great looking—everything I like in a guy, but man, you could tell he’d heard that you ‘pick up women’ in the produce department, so he stood around almost like a vulture, just waiting for someone he didn’t consider revolting to arrive.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Erika snickered. “I watched him for a bit while I was picking over the asparagus. Then I decided I had to have a bell pepper.”
The familiar furrows formed on Keith’s forehead. He knew they were there and could almost hear his mother’s warning that he’d have premature wrinkles due to that habit. “Why bell pepper?”
“Because he was standing next to them. I had to see if I passed muster.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course, you did.”
“Well, listening from this end, sure. You knew he tried to pick me up, so of course, I did, but from where I stood, the guy was pretty picky. I almost wonder if he wasn’t getting desperate.”
“Fishing for compliments?”
“Huh?” She blinked, obviously trying to make the connection.
“Well, you acted like maybe you were his ‘desperate move,’ so I wondered if that was my cue to tell you that you’re not desperation material or something.”
“Nah. We both know I’m not your type. I don’t think I was his type either. That’s why I thought maybe he was desperate. He’d been eying blondes.”
“So, what made you decide he was creepy?”
“He asked if I wanted to go out for coffee—and then mentioned the shop. It just felt weird, y’know? I mean, it was just one of those odd coincidences, and I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but when I said no, he got really pushy. I hate that.”
He knew he’d gone tense but couldn’t prevent it. “Pushy how?”
“Oh, you know how jerks like that are. You say no; they say how come? You say you’re not interested; they say just one cup. Most guys won’t try past three, but this guy wouldn’t stop until I walked away—see? Desperate.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Keith didn’t like the way she said that, but even more, he hated the fact that he didn’t like it. What kind of nonsense was that? Erika was a client, not a Christian, and most definitely not his type; therefore, he was likely pulling a reverse Stockholm Syndrome type thing where he felt loyal to her. Great. Ugh.
“Well?”
She shrugged. “Well what?”
“What did he look like?”
Unexpectedly, she stood, pulling him from the barstool. “Yeah, about your height give or take an inch. Build too. His hair was darker, and his nose was more prominent. I think his jaw was more angular somehow, but really, he looked a lot like you. That’s how I noticed him in the first place. I was sure you were going to take me back, and I was ready to run.”
“Sorry.”
“What for?”
“I didn’t give you the option of running.”
Taking her plate to the sink, Erika rinsed it and then turned, leaning against the counter. “You did the right thing. No, I don’t like it any better than I did, but I appreciate it. It’s frustrating, nerve wracking, and a little scary, but it’s nice, too. I feel safe.”
“Okay, what else?” Keith made a note to see if the store had any kind of surveillance tapes they could procure.
“I’m telling you; I had a boring week. I went out to the Pizza Zone, read a book, surfed the internet, talked to Helen about her renovation scheme—”
“Helen the owner of your house?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought she lived in Australia this time of year.”
Erika nodded. “She does, but she wants to do renovations and had questions for me. I guess she even considered coming back early this year, but work won’t let her.”
“What does she do?”
“International trade. I don’t really understand what all it is, but I think she makes pretty good money.”
“But,” Keith objected, trying to respond as natural as possible, “no offense or anything, but your house is just a decent suburban type house. It’s not all that big, the furniture is nice, but it’s not expensive, and you don’t even have granite!” He forced himself to sound excessively indignant, hoping to sound like he was teasing.
“Perhaps that’s the point of the renovation?” After several seconds rummaging through the cupboards for the pre-packaged chocolate chip cookies, Erika added, “Besides, it has to be expensive to keep two houses in two countries. Maybe she’s just frugal.”
Or trying to keep a low profile, he thought. “What day was that?”
“I think about three or four days before you came back for me.”
Warning bells flashed like beacons in Keith’s mind. While Erika rambled on about something to do with the pool cover and dinner at her parents’ house, he did the mental math from the time he’d dropped her off at the airport, when Helen had gone back to Australia, and when Mike would have gotten the call to go after them. Unaware that she’d stopped talking, he grabbed the notepad and pen from the table and backtracked, flipping through several things, pausing, taking notes, and reworking the timeline. The result, he d
idn’t like—at all.
Chapter 27
“WELL, THE NAMES I REMEMBER most were all out of Columbus, so you probably have those.” Claire’s mind whirled trying to remember anything and everything she’d heard or seen in the short amount of time she’d spent with Alek and while at the salon. “I mean, people say things they don’t mean to when they think you’re clueless, but Alek didn’t talk to me about just anything.”
“Did he ever talk to someone on the phone when you were there? Ever mention cities or states he’d visited? A grandma in Poughkeepsie?” Mark’s tone was insistent—almost demanding.
Karen frowned at him and started to argue, but Claire’s expression changed from discouraged to thoughtful. “He did have to take a call from Australia once. That was weird. I remember because it was really late at the club and he had to go outside. He said the time difference was hard to work around.”
“That doesn’t make sense. The time is eighteen or nineteen hours different, not twelve.” Karen gave Mark a meaningful look, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed. “Keith! What are you doing calling me?” He listened for a second, before opening a document on his laptop and typing, He wants to know how everyone in Florida is. Seconds later, his fingers flew across the keyboard again. He says that Helen called 3-4 days before you got the info from Mike.
“Well, I’m calling Anthony now. Just give me a second, and we’ll see. We’ve been going a few days between calls and just having a one letter text message as a ping for security. No one is picking up.”
The whole room heard Keith’s voice explode just before Mark switched it over to speaker, “Get someone in there, now!”
“Do you really think—?”
“I know. I just know. It’s Helen. Tony and Jill were the moles—just not consciously. They kept our client abreast of the situation, only she was the criminal too.”
Mark whistled low. “Normally, I’d tell you that you were reaching, but just before you called, Claire remembered a phone call that Alek got from Australia at about one in the morning our time.”
The room erupted in chaotic discussion of potential motive, leaks, and the best course of action. The women hardly noticed when Mark stepped outside the door to make a call, but eventually, Keith asked for him. “What does he think of all this?”
“Dunno, he stepped out to call I think.”
“He’s not back yet?” Keith’s voice grew concerned. “I’m outta here. Call me at the other number when it’s safe to be in contact. Just a precaution, but I gotta go.”
The phone disconnected without another word. Claire looked nervously at the door as she whispered, “Does Keith really think—?”
“No, but his job is to protect Erika—even when it doesn’t make sense. Possibly especially when it doesn’t. He’s just doing his job.”
Seconds ticked by without the accompaniment of actual clockworks lending their rhythmic cadence to the process. Again, Claire whispered, “Should we go?”
“No. We’d never get out of here without being followed or stopped anyway, so on the off-chance Mark is corrupt, we need to look like we have full confidence in him.”
“Do we?”
Karen’s laugh filled the room. “I do. I don’t know about you, but I do.”
Before Claire could respond, Mark pushed the door open and the look on his face spoke for him. Claire’s eyes flitted back and forth from the faces before her, trying to decipher what they meant. At last, Mark took pity on her and shook his head. “The agents protecting Helen are dead, and Helen is gone.” When Keith didn’t respond, Mark glanced at the phone on the desk as he pocketed his private one. “He’s gone?”
“Yep.”
“So, what does this mean?” Claire whined. “I don’t understand what is going on!”
Ignoring Claire, Karen zeroed in on the problem, her mind working swiftly. “We have to capture Helen. The problem is, how?”
“Someone was at her house, remember?”
“You went by Erika... um, Helen’s house—wait. Keith was at the transfer house? That’s where he was?”
“He wanted us close in case we had to trust you in order to protect them.”
“Smart. I didn’t even consider looking there. We have no new cases that’d use it...” He shook his head, clearly impressed. “That’s really smart.”
“Well, if you’d put in the alarm system like he suggested, he wouldn’t have done it. The logs....”
“Maybe he didn’t really leave. I mean, wouldn’t that be the best way to hide? Make it seem like you went, but didn’t?”
“Now you’re overthinking things, Claire.” Mark sank into the chair, folded his hands, and waited for the girl to meet his gaze. “You can’t just do the opposite of what you expect people to do all the time. It works sometimes and in some situations, but if that’s all you do, you become predictable. You can’t be too random, because—”
“—designed randomness is really just a pattern.” Clair rolled her eyes. “Keith told me.”
“I think this time he’ll take her to some place that Helen won’t think of—not some place I won’t.”
“Right.” Karen stood, grabbed her purse, and pointed out the window and down the street. “We’ll be at the Colonial. Clean, nice, not too cheap, not so expensive it’s flashy... just call.”
“Thanks, Karen. Stick with Karen, Claire. She won’t fail you.”
Just outside the door, Karen thought of another question and pushed it back open, but the sight of Mark leaning with his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, caused her to turn and lead Claire away again. She’d ask later. Besides, she needed a shower where she could release all the grief-filled emotions that she had been trying to stifle.
EVEN AS HE SPOKE THE words “gotta go,” Keith pointed to the bedrooms as he started shoving his papers into a laptop case. She knew immediately what it meant. Erika knew the second he disconnected the call by the crash of the phone. Her guess—rolling pin to it. He’d have the SIM card in his pocket. She still didn’t understand why they were so determined to destroy perfectly good electronics. SIM cards were all they needed, weren’t they?”
“Get everything you’ll need and fast,” he called as he carried the first load into the garage. She knew it by the sound of the door bumping hard before it latched. The sensation was an odd one—she knew the quirks of the house already.
They’d been lazy here. Oh, sure, the clothes were kept in the duffel, the dirty ones in a pillow case, but little things like shampoo bottles left on the corner of the tub and hairbrush on the counter—those things were asking for trouble, and now she understood why. At the sound of the door, she called out, “Can I take a few of the books?”
“Sure. Make sure you get Magic Mountain and Great Expectations.”
“Why those?”
“Money in some of the pages.” Keith’s voice startled her from the doorway to the bathroom. “I’ll take that. Oh, and Pride and Prejudice.”
“Bet that’s your favorite.” The joke fell flat and only seemed less interesting with the scowl on his face. “You’re grumpy again.”
“I’m just thinking. Get the books and let’s go.”
Erika did notice a change in him. As she crawled into the very back seat of the van, buckled up, and laid down, she realized what it was. He was calm—almost deadly calm, but calm. That unnerved her more than anything else.
The van was piled with blankets, food, books, and just about everything else you could want for a long trip. She’d wondered if they were going to run far, but she didn’t know where and she hadn’t yet asked why. That bothered her—deeply. Since when did she allow any guy, regardless of his life-saving abilities and history, to dictate where she went without even asking? It was ludicrous.
“Keith?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
His grin in the rearview mirror was even more unsettling than his customary scowl. “I don’t know where we’re going. I d
oubt we’re going anywhere.”
“We’ll just keep moving?”
“Yep.”
“Have I thanked you yet?”
“Don’t, Erika. Remember—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m a victim.” Yes, she knew it, and Erika was quite sick of being reminded of it. “But the fact remains that you still put yourself on the line, and I still don’t understand why. Why are we leaving? What did I say or Mark say that—?”
“If you haven’t figured it out, I’m not going to tell you on the off chance that we’re wrong. The more you know—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. The more danger I am in. I’m sick of it.”
“I know.” His features reassembled themselves into the grim face she’d grown accustomed to during her stint in “captivity.” Then, as if the light went on, Erika understood.
Disgusted summed up her personal assessment of cluelessness. She felt betrayed by her own intellect. No one had ever called Erika Polowski vain, but she certainly entertained no false modesty either. She knew when a man was interested and either accepted it or rejected him—a simple process of elimination. Nice, interesting men received some measure of encouragement, and all others she simply disregarded with an obviousness that left no doubt of her lack of interest. Simple, but effective.
Keith occupied a category all his own. Had he not been religious, she’d have put him in the “cream of the crop” camp, alongside a very few others. Unfortunately, the religion thing made her uncomfortable—particularly since Corey was probably correct. Guys like Keith probably didn’t even consider women who weren’t religious, too. It only made sense, and she respected them for it. What was the point of having a religion in the first place if it was so easy to toss aside for something else? There were less restrictive hobbies out there.
The guy had probably been chewing himself out for even noticing her. Well, she could be flattered that he did anyway. A glance at the mirror showed only his eyes—focused intently on the rush hour traffic surrounding them. It occurred to her that some of the stern intensity of his eyes showed most in their color. Steel gray, noticeable even as far back as she was, they seemed to reflect harshness and coldness that she otherwise wouldn’t have expected.
