Twenty-Eight

Erika

FRIDAY NIGHT

A pressure that’s been building inside her all day pushes up through her diaphragm and forces out what little food and coffee remained in her stomach onto the lovely white rug in Holly’s office. If Zeke didn’t clutch her upper arm, it’s likely she would have passed out, too.

“Beautiful,” he says in a faint southern accent. “That’s gonna have to be professionally cleaned.”

Her eyes water from vomiting and she has bend over to wipe her mouth. “I need to call my mother,” she says for some reason, as if this is a request a guy with a gun would be cool with. “She’s expecting me for dinner.”

“I don’t think so. We’re gonna take a long drive before we call Mama. Come on, I got your boss’s fancy Tesla all charged up.”

She holds on to those words about calling her mother like it’s a lifeline, proof she’ll get through this okay. Not that she has any clue of what’s going on, as Zeke leads her down the hallway to the garage. Why is he doing this to her? She didn’t steal his house. She’s only the assistant! Ex-assistant.

“No hero moves,” he says, opening the car with his phone. Leading her to the passenger side, he keeps the barrel of the gun trained on her as she steps in. “Scoot on over. You’re driving.”

How does he expect her to drive when she can’t even think? You don’t have to think, an inner voice tells her. All you have to do is survive. Do what he says.

“Back up, pull around, go.”

She does as he instructs, robotically backing up, closing the garage door, exiting the driveway onto the road, going below the speed limit to give passersby more time to peer into the car. It’s not a night for a stroll, however, or a bike ride. The wind is biting cold and it’s pitch black. Anyone on the road will be too focused on their own driving to be interested in anyone else.

Zeke slinks down as they pass the lights of the Snowden Inn. “It’s not worth it, Erika,” he murmurs, intuiting her temptation to step on the gas and send the car flying into the wraparound porch. “You’ll be dead before you turn the wheel. We’ll both be dead and, you know, I don’t give a fuck about living.”

Is he right? No. He’s not, she thinks, but that’s not why she doesn’t take her last chance. Someone on the porch could be injured or killed, though she suspects that’s not an issue for him.

“Take this left onto 100 North. You’re going to the Ludlow Park and Ride. Twenty miles. Thirty minutes. I don’t want to hear a peep.”

She clenches and unclenches the wheel, closing her nose against the acrid stench of her own vomit as she concentrates on the white fog line. If a deer leaps out, will he shoot her? Don’t think that way, she tells herself. Keep going. You have thirty minutes to figure out how you’re going to get out of this.

“Can I lower the window, it smells—”

Zeke presses the gun into her ribs, painfully. “Shut. Up. Drive.”

The thought of her mother making up a plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes, eager to hear about her day with the police, to offer her consolation about losing her job and giving her a reassuring hug, chokes her throat. Her nose goes hot and her eyes hurt. She can barely see what’s beyond the windshield, her vision’s so blurry with unshed tears.

“Don’t fuck up. You’ll be okay if you don’t fuck up,” he says.

She’s dying to ask him what he did with Holly and Robert. At the same time, she’s too afraid to learn the truth. So she does as she’s told. She drives.

There’s a buzz from her phone in her laptop case. He reaches in and holds it up. “It’s Mama. What’s your password?”

Erika can barely spit it out. “1–5–3–9.”

He inputs it with his right thumb, keeping the gun on her. She should grab it while he’s distracted. That’s what they’d do in the movies. But Zeke’s out of his mind, not thinking straight. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Mama wants to know when you’re coming home.” His upper lip curls. “How about N-E-V-E-R?”

“Please, don’t,” she whispers. “It’ll be hard enough as it is. Just tell her something like, I’m staying over at the house. Too much work. I’ll see her tomorrow.”

He thinks about this. “Not bad. Buys us time.” He inputs it. Erika figures they’re about ten minutes from the park and ride.

“She wrote back. This is it: ‘OK. Want me to save you some pistachio ice cream?’”

It is all Erika can do not to burst out cheering at her mother’s mention of their special code phrase. Amazing. How did she figure out she might be in trouble? “Tell her, sure.”

“Done.” Then, lowering the window, he chucks her phone, where it lands onto the pavement and bounces into the woods. “Been quite a while since I had spumoni.”

Erika keeps her eyes on the dark road. “Me, too.”

* * *

They reach the Ludlow Park and Ride a little after eight thirty, Erika scanning the lot for a Good Samaritan who might be able to save her. There’s a bus depot nearby, so surely people will be milling around—a random maintenance worker or an attendant, a strong, brave person who will see her tearful face and suspect she’s in danger, who will act on instinct.

But that doesn’t happen in real life, and when Erika sees the vast lot is largely empty, she whimpers in despair. It’s a Friday night. The commuters have come and gone. No one’s around. Naturally, Zeke would have thought this through. He would have cased out the area beforehand, planned every step with contingencies. He wouldn’t have taken her to a populated location.

“Hook a left and go over there, to the corner,” he directs, waving his pistol. “Stick to the edge. No cameras.”

Maybe he won’t kill her; maybe he’ll put her on the bus. The Greyhound to New York City. “Go get lost and don’t come back,” he’ll say. “This never happened, got it?”

Then she remembers whom she’s dealing with: a madman who vowed to kill Holly and then Robert and followed through on his threats. A deeply disturbed individual who illogically blames her for his misfortune. She won’t be going to New York City. She won’t be going anywhere. Her fleeting chance of staying alive rests entirely on her mother persuading the state police to act fast.

“There. Over there.” He gestures to a large black SUV so perfectly camouflaged, she sees the orange New York license plate before she sees the vehicle. “Park. Don’t get out until I say so. Otherwise this is the end.”

Killing the engine, she does as she’s told. In her mind, she hears her psychologist, Jill, urging her to breathe. Breathing is literally the essence of existence, her therapist used to say. As long as you’re breathing, you exist.

A figure in black appears on her left, the door flings open, and a gloved hand presses against her mouth. Another hand digs painfully into her armpit as he pulls her out and pushes her into the back seat of the SUV. Facedown in the leather, she feels the steely barrel of the pistol press into her vertebrae, hard.

“Don’t move,” he hisses. “Gimme your wrists.”

The kiss of death. Once confined, she’s a goner, but what option does she have? Complying, she clasps her arms behind her. He yanks them hard as he binds them in the sharp plastic, which is burning her skin, the ominous sound of the zip tie sealing her fate.

“Her phone’s about five miles down the road, in the woods,” Zeke says. “Sent her mother a text that she’ll be staying the night in the house and tossed it. That’ll give you time.”

“Not much. You should have taken it from her and left it at the house. You fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you. I’m outta here.”

She hears an engine rev and a car squeal out of the lot on two wheels, like he can’t leave fast enough. This makes no sense. She’s totally confused. Why would Zeke be leaving? He couldn’t be working with someone else. He’s a loner with his own agenda and vendetta.

The door of the SUV slams shut. The driver gets into the front seat and adjusts the rearview for a full view of her in the back. A slow grin spreads across his handsome face. He’s enjoying, actually relishing, her shock as she recognizes that the man who’s ordered her kidnapping at gunpoint is none other than the real Robber Barron doing what he does best:

Stealing lives.