Touch & Go

  And just like that, I was lost.

  I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. I wanted to feel the hard wall of his chest. I wanted the scent of him in my nostrils. I wanted to hear the rumble of that deep voice in my ear, over and over again.

  He had needed a present that day, for a female friend. I, of course, sold him one of my original necklaces.

  With my phone number on the tag.

  Which led to our first date, where I can tell you exactly how his face looked, a little more sheepish now, almost shy as he offered up a single yellow rose, then held out his hand to boost me into his old Range Rover. Please excuse the mud, the scattering of pencil bits and, oh yeah, the rolls of building plans. He was in the construction business, he said, hazards of the trade.

  I remember the look in his eyes the first time we made love, not that evening, though I would’ve. Not until date number four, and his blue eyes were so intent, so focused on my face, every sigh coming out of my mouth, every undulating move of my body, I felt as if he were trying to memorize me. This is Libby. This is what Libby likes.

  Later, he confessed that he’d been nervous, and that made me laugh so hard he swore he’d never tell me a secret again.

  Except he did. He told me he loved me before I ever confessed that I loved him. He told me I’d be his wife one day, before I knew it myself.

  Then, that Thursday night, when he returned home from a particularly long and grueling business trip, and I greeted him with a bouquet of pink and blue balloons and the news I was pregnant, the total sea change of expressions across his face. From weary exhaustion to squinty-eyed confusion to slow-dawning joy. Followed by complete and utter adoration. He dropped his bag. He swooped me up, and the balloons broke free, escaping out the open door as we laughed, then cried, and I can taste to this day the salt on his cheeks.

  The memories of a marriage. The faces of my husband. So many moments, when I saw him so clearly. So many moments, when I know he saw me.

  Is that what you lose over time? Not so much a loss of affection, as a slow clouding of your own sight? We became less and less focal points for each other, and more like pieces of furniture to maneuver around in the course of everyday life. I know there were times in the past few months when I sat across from my husband, as high as a kite, and willed him to look at me. Then, when he continued to calmly shovel dinner into his mouth, I poured myself another glass of wine in order to fill the void.

  It’s hard to realize you’re invisible in your own life. But maybe the blindness was mutual. Because if not for three texts sent to my cell phone, I never would’ve guessed Justin was having an affair. Meaning that somewhere along the lines, my own husband had also become unnoticed by me.

  But I was seeing him now.

  I traced the swelling of his right eye. The five lacerations on his cheek. The lower lip that still welled with a single drop of blood. The ugly evidence of more bruises around his neck and shoulders.

  His brown hair, silvered now with age, felt damp, as if the pain of the beating had made him sweat. And he smelled rank and terrible, or maybe that was me.

  The dehumanization process, meant to break us, to turn us into animals.

  But I wasn’t going to let it. I refused to let our kidnappers win.

  I was looking at my husband. I was seeing him again, a good man who’d taken a beating to protect his wife and daughter. A brave man, who had to be in agonizing pain, but didn’t utter a single complaint as Ashlyn and I slowly roused him to standing, then eased him into the lower bunk.

  My husband.

  I sent my daughter to bed. She’d had enough for one night and needed the rest. Then, though my hands still shook uncontrollably, and I had to pause on occasion to recover my breath, I slowly and gently washed the worst of the blood from Justin’s face.

  He sighed.

  I kissed the corner of his mouth.

  He sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I wish…”

  “Shhhh. Rest now.”

  I got him to quiet down. Then I fell asleep, still sitting up on the edge of the bunk, holding my husband’s hand.

  THEY DIDN’T COME FOR US first thing in the morning. Maybe they decided they’d tortured us enough the night before. Or, more likely, they were catching up on their own rest.

  Our narrow window lightened with daylight. I awoke with a crick in my neck from sitting with my back against a metal bunk post. I felt weak but less achy. More like a middle-aged woman, badly in need of water, food and a good night’s sleep.

  The pills, I figured. Whatever Radar had provided was masking the worst of my withdrawal, temporarily reducing my symptoms. I didn’t know what that might be. Not Vicodin, because that always provided a lovely glow, a softening of life’s hard edges. I felt none of that. No melting wonderland, just fewer tremors, less nausea and despair.

  I should ask Radar about the medication, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Right now, this moment, I was doing better. Given our current situation, I had a feeling that was as good as it was going to get.

  I used the toilet while my family slept, then refilled the water jug from the sink, which, given the barely-there trickle, was an accomplishment. This must be what inmates did with their time in prison. Stood around waiting to get enough water out of the faucet to wet a finger, rinse their mouths, wash their faces.

  I took tiny sips out of the jug, working on hydration while I peered out the window in the cell door, eyeing the cavernous, overlit expanse of the dayroom, wondering where our attackers might be lurking next.

  To the far left end of the dayroom was a bank of showers. Broad, white-tiled stalls, six down, six up. On the left end of the stacked rows loomed one particularly large stall with metal support bars bolted to each wall. Handicap accessible. Things you don’t think about. That not all members of the prison population are big, tough guys. Some are injured or aging or otherwise impaired.

  I wouldn’t want to be them in here. I couldn’t even stand it being me.

  Of course, none of the stalls offered frosted glass doors or even cheap vinyl shower curtains. Just wide-open exposure. Apparently, showering in prison was a full-monty affair.

  I still eyed the stalls with longing. My hair hung down in lank clumps. I’d sweated through my orange jumpsuit, could feel the salt riming my skin. I tried to figure out if I could partially disrobe, try to use the slow dribble of sink water to at least rinse off my torso.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I remained too afraid of alien beetles, who might burst through the cell door at any time. Not to mention the look that would come into Mick’s crazy blue eyes if he could catch me partially unclothed.

  Prison had eyes, Justin had said.

  Even now, they were watching us. Watching me.

  I sipped more water, turned away from the cell door and discovered Justin, now awake on the lower bunk, staring at me.

  “Ashlyn,” he croaked.

  “Asleep.” I brought over the jug of water. Helped hold up his head while he took the first few sips. He winced the moment I touched him, but didn’t comment.

  “They didn’t…come back?”

  I didn’t know what he meant, eyeing him in confusion.

  “After they got me. They didn’t…come for you?”

  “No,” I assured him.

  “I hoped…not. As long as they were beating me… I knew they couldn’t be…hurting you. But then, Z. He disappeared. I didn’t know…what that meant.”

  “We didn’t see him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Justin…why? If this is about money…” I gestured to his horribly swollen and distorted features. “Why?”

  “I don’t…know. They kept telling me…to stop. Stop what?” Justin grimaced, sipped more water. “Then they’d say they were the ones asking the questions, and hit me again.”

  I frowned, considering the matter. “Have you…have you been doing something you shouldn’t?”

/>   My husband smiled, but it was a sad expression on his battered face. “You mean other than cheating on my wife?”

  I flushed, looked away.

  “I ended the relationship, Libby…as you requested…six months ago. I never should’ve started it in the first place.”

  “Maybe, something else? Maybe related to work?”

  But Justin wouldn’t be put off. “I’m sorry. You know that, right?”

  I didn’t answer, just looked away.

  “But you’re still not happy,” he said, and again, the expression on his face…

  “I’m trying,” I said at last.

  “I looked forward to our date night.”

  “Me, too.” But I still wouldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t meet his gaze. I wasn’t prepared for this conversation. It was easier for me to view my husband as the bad guy. He had lied, he had cheated. If I kept that perspective, then the total collapse of my life didn’t have to be my fault.

  I didn’t have to consider my own secrets, my own betrayals, my own dishonesty. If I didn’t forgive, then I didn’t have to repent.

  “Is there something else I can do?” Justin asked now.

  I smiled faintly. “Break us out of prison?”

  He seemed to take my request seriously. “Libby, honey, I built this place. Take it from me, there’s no breaking out. That was part of my job, my crew’s job. The walls are tunnel proof, the floors are dig proof, the windows shatterproof. Not to mention the seven electronically controlled locks between us and freedom. Even the medical ward, the kitchen, the common areas, they’re constructed to the same standards, just stocked with different equipment. As long as one of our kidnappers stays in the control room, which seems to be their standard operating procedure, that team member has eyes on us at all times, and could shut down our escape efforts at a moment’s notice.”

  “What if we could overpower them?”

  “Who? How? You already took on Mick, but to what end? I got Tased, Ashlyn got Tased and you ended up with a concussion. Even if we took out both of our escorts, got really lucky and somehow subdued Mick and Z, Radar could still simply tap the control system’s touch screen, and instantaneously lock down the entire facility. We’d be trapped in whichever room, corridor or prison cell we’d started in, waiting for Z or Mick to regain consciousness.”

  “And exact revenge,” I added softly.

  “Exactly.”

  “What if we could lure Radar out of the control room?” I suggested. “Or, better yet, if this control room is so powerful, instead of trying to get out of the prison, let’s try to get into the control room. Then we could use the control panel to trap Z and his crew in a dayroom, or a sally port, whatever. Give them a taste of their own medicine.

  “Then, we could trip the alarm system,” I added with growing excitement. “Local law enforcement would have to investigate sirens, right? Mothballed prison or not. They’ll arrive, save us, arrest our kidnappers. Done!”

  Justin didn’t immediately dismiss my idea. “Don’t break out, break in,” he mused. He nodded shortly, then winced at the pain. “Possible. The control room is operated via a touch screen. If you can figure out an iPad, you should be able to run the system. Also, the control room was built to serve as a mini ‘safe room’ within the prison. A place the correction officers could use to make a last stand. The ballistic-rated glass installed there is four times stronger than the glass used in the cells, meaning it would take a full hour for Z or his crew to break their way through. That should buy us enough time to sound the alarm, and wait for the cavalry.”

  “So now we just have to figure out how to get their designated person out of the control room,” I said. I had moved closer to my husband on the bunk bed. Both of our voices had picked up. This was probably the longest we’d spoken to each other in months. It brought back memories of other times, when our marriage was still young, and we’d spent hours discussing everything from the best preschool for Ashlyn to a particular issue Justin was having with a bid, or who to invite to our upcoming dinner party. We’d been a good team back then. At least, I’d thought of us that way.

  “We should threaten Z or Mick,” I decided. “Not just overpower them, but look like we’re ready to deliver a mortal strike. Radar will have to leave the control room in order to assist.”

  Justin didn’t look convinced. “Threaten them with what?”

  “A shiv?” Only thing I could think of, as we were in prison.

  “Made from…? We don’t have a plastic comb, toothbrush or ballpoint pen. Furthermore, Z and Mick are following prison protocol—not carrying any lethal weapons that could be captured and used against them.”

  “Z has stuff in his belt. All those compartments? There are things there.”

  “Not big enough to be a knife or gun.”

  “Something!”

  Justin smiled. “Fair enough. But even considering their Tasers, how do we make our play? Manage to disarm and somehow overpower both Z and Mick? I haven’t looked in a mirror just yet, but somehow, I don’t think I’m as fit-looking today as I was yesterday.”

  Which combined with my own physical limitations…

  “Fire,” I tried next. “We start a fire. In the kitchen, I guess. Oil on the stove, maybe something that appears accidental, except we panic and instead of dousing it in flour, fan it with a towel. They’d all have to work together to put out a fire.”

  “The entire facility is equipped with a fire suppression system,” Justin said. “Single tap on the control room systems menu, and good-bye, fire. Hello, wet us.”

  “Then what?” I asked in frustration. “There has to be a way out. There’s always a way.”

  “Ransom,” my daughter said. Justin and I both startled, glancing up. We hadn’t realized Ashlyn was awake. Now, almost as a reflex, we blushed guiltily.

  I waited for my husband to soothe. He surprised me, then, by stating calmly, “I don’t think that’s what they want, honey. They seem to be after something else. I’m not sure what.”

  “I know,” Ashlyn said bluntly. “I heard that much. But did you tell them about the insurance?” My daughter had a look on her face that gave me a sense of déjà vu. Then I got it. She looked like Justin. She looked exactly like my husband when he was working through a major build crisis, determined to make this latest two-hundred-million-dollar facility submit to his will.

  “Yes. But the policy is only four million. Our hosts…”—he used the term dryly—“are a team of three. I don’t think a little over one million apiece is adequate incentive for them.”

  “We can pay more.” I spoke up quickly. “From our funds.”

  “Honey…” Justin paused. The silence dragged out. “We don’t… We don’t currently have those kinds of financial resources.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I haven’t been taking a salary, Libby. For the past sixteen months. There’s been a couple of major bids we haven’t gotten, cash flow’s tight… I’ve been leaving the money in the company, so we can make payroll.”

  I didn’t speak right away. Not that Justin’s words scared me. We’d done this before. Justin considered his employees family, too, and he often put their payroll requirements above his own.

  No, what silenced me was that he hadn’t said anything before now. Sixteen months. A year and a third. I guess that’s how long we’d really been drifting apart.

  “We have resources,” I said at last. “Antiques, jewelry, cars, two homes. We could liquidate…”

  “I believe ransom is a cash biz.”

  “Maybe the company could pay out from the cash reserves. It’d be a hit, sure, but so would your death, right? I mean…”

  Justin gave me a look. Then, in the next instant, his expression changed. “My death,” he murmured.

  Ashlyn and I studied him uncertainly. “What?”

  “Libby, you’re right. My death. That would do it.”

  “Justin,” I ventured, “we’re not going to kill you for ransom funds
. No killing, no dying. Ashlyn and I, we forbid it.”

  “You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s kind of funny, really.” Justin’s swollen lip twisted. “Z, Mick, they’ve already done the hard part. Fuck ’em. We’re going to ransom our own damn selves. And I know exactly how we can do it.”

  Chapter 25

  CHRIS LOPEZ LIVED IN SOUTH BOSTON. And not the recently gentrified, up-and-coming part of Southie, but the hard-core, dilapidated triple-deckers with rotting-out front porches and cheap vinyl siding. Walking distance to several neighborhood pubs, of course, but still…

  Tessa drove over with Wyatt in her car. The other New Hampshire cop, Kevin, had stayed behind to contact various emergency rooms and methadone clinics in northern New Hampshire for possible Libby Denbe sightings.

  Tessa found it unnerving to drive with a guy in the passenger’s seat. Wasn’t sure why. A Lexus SUV had plenty of interior space. And true to her initial assessment, Wyatt wasn’t exactly prone to blather. He sat reasonably relaxed, resting against the passenger-side door, leaving the middle console as neutral territory.

  She had to make a couple of quick driving moves. Merging here, tucking in there. He whistled once in appreciation as she veered deftly around a particularly aggressive driver. But Wyatt didn’t comment, or appear unduly tense.

  “God bless the mountains,” he muttered once, which she took to explain his feelings on Boston drivers.

  She’d selected for her vehicle’s GPS the British butler’s voice. Jeeves, she called him. She’d picked the accent to amuse Sophie, who would then attempt to mimic it, but also because it seemed less grating to be told to make the next available legal U-turn in the Queen’s English. Wyatt had broken into a grin at the first voice command, so apparently he was a man with a sense of humor. She could appreciate that.

  He was also freshly showered and in a clean uniform. A man who planned ahead.

  She liked that, too.

  Okay, so, Chris Lopez.

  They parked in front of a local bar, then walked to the corner and inspected the crumbling white triple-decker that served as Chris Lopez’s legal address.