Crying Wolf (28 page)

“But he's got money to burn. I know the type. Never worked a day in his life.”

That got her angry. Was it possible? “He works right now.” Another long slow breath. “And in the summer he works in a mill.”

“What kind of mill?”

No answer.

“His old man probably owns it.”

“His old man's not around.”

Freedy felt another twinge, more than a twinge, but he'd call it a twinge, in his shoulder. He rolled over, lay on his back. They lay there, breathing together. Shadows made jittery motions on the ceiling. Water dripped. Sleeping would be a bad idea.

* * *

B
lackness.

“You awake?”

Candle out.

“Babe?”

He had a horrible thought—she'd escaped somehow—and as he had the thought his good arm lashed out. Struck something sort of soft. She screamed, like in agony. He jumped a mile.

“Hey,” he said. “That wasn't even a hit.”

She was already quiet. Then she took one of those breaths. “I need a doctor,” she said.

“Me too.”

They lay there. Freedy tested his bad arm. Hey! Felt better, a lot better. What a little sleep would do, especially when you were a fuckin' animal. “Me too,” he said, “but you don't hear me complaining.”

He relit what was left of the candle, had a look at her. Nothing wrong that he could see, beside the obvious, that eye, one or two other things. “That was a nice little siesta.”
Comprendo, siesta—
he was on a roll. “Now we're feeling refreshed, how about we get back to brainstorming?”

No answer, just that warm breezing breath.

“You know that word,
siesta
?” he said.

Zip.

“It's a spic—Spanish—word for, like, sacking out.” He thought: a cool million, the girl, siestas in the Florida sun, maybe by the rooftop pool of Agua Group HQ. “You like pools?” he said.

No answer.

“Swimming pools.”

Zip.

“I asked you a question.”

No reply. Maybe she was going to say something, but before she could, Freedy heard a little scratching sound. It came, it went, a rat probably, or something like that, not important. But it got him thinking.

“We got to think,” he said.

Silence.

“Say ‘About what, Freedy?' ”.

“For God's sake,” she said.

He liked that. Breaking in a horse: he'd seen it in the movies. “We got to think about our plan. There's . . .” He wasn't sure exactly how to put it, about those problems slouching in his mind.

Time passed while he thought. At last, she said: “What is the plan?”

“Like I said, there's you, there's the million.”

Another long breath. “Do they know?”

“Now they do. They saw the note.”

“What does it say?”

“The exact words? Can't give you the exact words. Something about the money, where to leave it and such.”

“Where?”

“In the room down there.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“What time is it now?”

“Don't have a watch.”

“I do.”

He rolled over, held the candle near her wrist. Her watch was all smashed up.

“No you don't,” he said.

The gold eye watched him. “And if the money doesn't come?”

“Like, worst-case scenario? That's what we say in business.” He waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he said: “No need to talk about that. It'll come. The cops is what I'm—not worried—more like, you know.”

“What makes you think they'll be involved?”

“Hey. Exactly right. I wrote it in plain English, what would happen.”

“Which was?”

“That'd be a deal breaker.”

The gold eye watched him.

He watched her back, let her get a good look at him. “Ever seen a man like me?” he said.

The eye closed. “No.”

Freedy smiled, his first smile in a long time. There was pressure, oh yes, but he could handle it. Pressure was part of the big time, one thing they didn't mention on the infomercials. “Babe?” he said.

No answer.

Breaking a horse, but a valuable one, and a horse he liked. He reached over, put a hand on her tit. The gold eye opened. She tried to move away, but couldn't, of course.

“The plan needs work,” she said, real quiet.

He stopped what he was doing. “Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”

She—that eye of hers—watched him.

“I asked you a question.”

“Why should I help with the plan?”

“I'm asking the questions here.”

Silence. He had an idea. “You know why you should help?” he said.

She watched him.

“Because we're in this together,” Freedy said.

She laughed. Cut off real quick, with a gasp like she was in pain or something, but still: an actual laugh.

“What's funny?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“You laughed.”

No answer.

“Come on,” Freedy said. “I've got a sense of humor.”

“I know you do.”

He liked that. He looked at her, so close. Soul mates. Only potential right now, but the potential was there. Couldn't he just see it: the two of them walking out of his HQ, his beautiful blue HQ down in Florida, at the end of a working day, climbing into the coolest car in the world, peeling off to somewhere. “What time do you think it is?” he said, real relaxed, real intimate, like man and wife.

“No idea.”

She had a great voice. Had he noticed that before? She was worth a million bucks. Should he say that? Why not, since she knew he had a sense of humor, had just finished saying so? The hero gets the money and the girl, and everyone else stands around like assholes. That was what he found himself saying, instead of the joke: “You know the way the hero gets the money and the girl and everyone stands around like assholes?” he said.

The gold eye closed, opened, watched him. “The plan needs work,” she said.

“You already said that.”

“The money and the . . . hostage can't be in the same place.”

“Huh?”

“They can't be in the same physical place.”

“How come?”

“You can't figure it out?”

He couldn't believe he'd heard that. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing? He was back on top of her, not as quick as usual, but still quick enough that she hadn't finished saying
nothing.
She made that gasping noise again, this time ending with a high-pitched little note. He felt her breath, warm on his face. “Think I'm a loser?” he said.

“No.”

“Then don't talk down your fucking nose.”

“I need . . .” She didn't finish it.

He felt her tits under him, saw those lips, undamaged so far, inches away. They were perfect. His own lips parted. This would be a good time.

“You don't have any control unless the money's in a separate place,” she said.

He paused. “I don't?”

“If you're with the hostage,” she said, “that makes you a hostage too.”

Had he ever heard anything as smart in his life?

“Especially in a place like here,” she added, nailing it down.

“How do you know all this?” he said.

She watched him, watched with the gold eye. The other eye, the closed one, had some kind of liquid seeping out.

He rolled off her, sat up. She took one of those long slow breaths, making that gentle breeze sound.

“But I already wrote where to bring the money,” Freedy said, seeing a problem right away.

“You'll have to change it.”

“How?”

“By calling them.”

“Who?”

“My sister. Nat. I'll give you the numbers.”

Freedy didn't like it. “What if no one answers?”

The gold eye watched him. He got the feeling the next thing she said was going to piss him off. But it didn't. “Leave a message,” she said.

“Saying what?”

“Where to leave the money.”

“Where's that?”

“This is your territory, isn't it?”

Freedy thought. His mother's: no. Ronnie's: no. The high-school parking lot: no. “What kind of place?” he said.

“The woods.”

“With all this snow?”

“A vacant lot, then. An empty building.”

“I don't know anywhere like . . .” But he did.

She watched him. “You've thought of something.”

“Maybe.”

“Where?”

“Tell you later. Just give me the numbers.”

She did. Pen, yes, paper, no; he wrote them on his hand.

“Now,” he said, “what about you?”

“You have to leave me here. Especially if it's still daytime.”

“Do you think it is?”

“Yes.”

“I'll have to keep you taped up to the pipe.”

“I know.”

“And gag you again.”

She was silent.

And what else? There was something else, something important. “There's something else,” he said, hoping she'd tell him what it was.

She watched him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “What if someone comes down while I'm gone?”

“I'll be tied up and gagged.”

“But—” This was the point: “What about the head-banging thing?”

“Why would I do it?” The gold eye closed, opened. “They didn't hear.”

“Still,” Freedy said.

Still. Which was why he had to do something. He checked out the way she was, the tape job, the pipe. Going to need some adjustments.

“Babe?” he said.

No answer.

“Have to untape your hand for a sec.” He tore at the tape, unwound it. Her arm, one arm, came free. She sort of groaned. The rest of her, legs and the other arm, remained taped tight to the utility pipe. “Have to lean your head a little this way,” he said. He was looking at the pipe, reaching in his pocket for a roll of tape, not really watching, not really noticing that her arm, her free arm, was feeling around under her. “Let's have that arm,” he said.

The arm came up, came up with something glinting in it, came up quick, even by his time scale. A sharp thing, goddamn piece of glass from that fucking aquarium, stabbed him right in the neck. Not in the neck, exactly, because he was even quicker, but in his shoulder, the one just starting to feel better, deep. Had she known it was under her, that piece of glass, even brought it somehow, waiting for a chance? That hurt most of all. Why? Because of the money and the girl thing, the hero's reward, now gone and wrecked.

He let her have it. Let her have it but good, as they said, and Freedy knew why: because of how good you felt, doing it.

 

F
reedy taped her arm, now limp, back up to the pipe, taped her head to it too, to prevent that head-banging shit. He popped the last andro, tweaked the last of the meth, stopped the bleeding; his bleeding. New plan. Action central.

Which of the following was not written by Nietzsche? (a) It is our future that lays down the law of our today. (b) The sick are the greatest danger to the healthy. (c) Money is the root of nothing.

—Multiple-choice question two, final exam, Philosophy 322

T
he ransom note.

It defied Nat's understanding, like a superficially simple poem packed with allusions he didn't even know were there. He was sure of only one thing: it wasn't Grace's writing. Nat still believed Grace might have wrecked the two rooms in their cave; could even imagine Lorenzo dying in the fray; but could not accept that she'd written that note on the back of the centaur painting.
A milion sounds nice. Right here soon say by dark. Call the cops and she die$.
Not her. Could she have disguised her written self to persuade her father and Andy Ling that a kidnapping had really taken place? Maybe, Nat thought, but not like this. The longer he stared at the note, the stranger it got—didn't even read like a ransom note, left out all those points Wags had made; and the middle sentence almost didn't make sense. Something else about the note bothered him even more, something he couldn't identify.

So when Izzie said, “I suppose you're going to say that's her own writing,” he said, “No.”

On the way out, Izzie went by Lorenzo's body without a glance.

* * *

G
race and Izzie's room. Even with what he'd just seen, Nat still wouldn't have been surprised to see Grace there. She wasn't. Izzie snatched up the phone.

“Calling your father?” Nat said.

“Who else?”

“To say what?”

“To say what? That my sister's been kidnapped.”

“We already told him that.”

“So? Now it's true.”

“But—”

“But what?”

“He didn't believe it.”

“The room, the note—that changes everything.”

“Will he think so?”

“What are you talking about?”

Odd, to have to explain her own father to her. “We need more facts,” he said.

“What kind of facts?”

“I don't know. We have to think. Who could have done this?”

“Kidnappers, for God's sake. Do you expect them to identify themselves?”

“Have there been any other attempts?”

“Other attempts?”

“In the past—threats against your family.”

“From whom?”

“Workers with a grievance, business rivals—you'd know better than me.”

Izzie, punching out the numbers, gave him a quick look. “All you're doing is complicating this. It's simple. We need that money and we need it now.”

She reached someone, spoke a word or two into the phone, hung up. It rang within the minute.

“Dad?” She pressed the speaker button.

“Yes?” said Mr. Zorn. Nat heard traffic noises—he was back in the city—and impatience in his tone.

Izzie told him about their place in the tunnels and what had happened to it, told him about the ransom note, told him they needed the money and needed it now, told him that this time it was real.

Silence, followed by a muffled conversation; Nat thought he heard Andy Ling's voice. Mr. Zorn came back on the line.

“What did the note say?”

“The exact words?”

“Yes.”

“I don't remember the exact words, but—”

“I do,” Nat said.

“Ah,” said Mr. Zorn. “Nat. Let's hear them.”

Nat quoted the ransom demand verbatim.

Pause. “Would you repeat that, please?”

Nat repeated it.

Another pause. Then Mr. Zorn laughed. In the background, Andy said, “A million sounds nice,” and started laughing too, a low, pleasant laugh of real amusement, different from Mr. Zorn's, Nat couldn't help realizing even at that moment: Mr. Zorn's laugh had an edge, almost like a weapon.

“Is something funny?” Izzie said.

“Kids,” said Mr. Zorn: “It's enough now.”

Click.

Izzie paled, then went red. He'd never seen her face like that; she was almost a different person. For a moment, he thought she was going to throw the phone across the room. Grace probably would have. The color faded slowly from her face. She turned to him and said, “Doesn't anyone understand what's happening here? She's going to die. I can feel it.”

“What about trying Professor Uzig now?” Nat said.

“Stop calling him that,” Izzie said. “He's just Leo. What about him?”

“Maybe he can persuade your father.”

“He didn't come through for you.”

“This is different.”

* * *

T
hey brought Professor Uzig down to the cave. He shone the flashlight they'd given him here and there; not lingering, Nat noticed, on the wreckage, Lorenzo, or even the ransom note; but more on the undamaged parts: the gilded molding, the velvet chairs and couches, the fine old rugs. “My God,” he said. “This couldn't be better.” Izzie shone her light at him. He shielded his eyes. “Did you say there were candles?” he said.

Nat and Izzie lit some. Professor Uzig gazed at the high ceiling, with its coffered woodwork, carved with leaves, flowers, grapes, horns of plenty. “Metaphorically, historically, culturally—it's perfect, perfect in so many ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must know, if you've been coming here. What shall I call it? A time capsule, and planted with the same sort of deliberation. Can you read that?” He pointed to the Greek writing on the wall. “From the
Republic
,” he said, reading it in Greek and then translating: “Let early education be a sort of amusement.”

Didn't Plato have a cave? This can be Nietzsche's.
Izzie had said that, when they were naming this place.

“There were social clubs at Inverness in the nineteenth century,” Professor Uzig was saying. “Not fraternities—more in the Oxford-Cambridge style. They had a powerful influence, almost independent of the college. The board of trustees outlawed them after World War One, bought up their houses, Goodrich Hall being one. There must be a direct route into Goodrich, sealed off.”

“There is,” Nat said.

Professor Uzig nodded. “Sealed off by the club members, of course, in order to preserve this secret space. A kind of defiance, do you see, an underground resistance forever in opposition to whatever modernizing forces they despised. Metaphorically, historically, culturally perfect, as I said.” He eyed them. “And motivationally,” he added.

“Motivationally?” said Izzie.

Nat felt it coming.

“There couldn't be a more seductive setting for dreaming up little schemes like yours,” said Professor Uzig. “A place like this can almost be said to dream them up by itself. And the consequent destruction in light of the failure of the scheme makes perfect sense.”

“Mr. Zorn called you?” Nat said.

“I was hanging up when you knocked on my door.”

“You're saying you don't believe us?” Izzie said. “What about the goddamn note?” She took him by the front of his tweed jacket—seized him, really—and yanked him toward it. Professor Uzig, barrel-chested, fit for his age, didn't like being yanked, resisted, but not successfully.

“Yes,” he said, smoothing his jacket when Izzie had released him, “I heard about this note.” He looked it over. All texts, as Nat recalled, were transparent to him. “Don't you realize you're starting to embarrass yourselves?”

“What's wrong with everybody?” Izzie said. “We didn't write it.”

“Your father doesn't doubt that. He knows it was Grace.”

Izzie turned on him. “When I say we, Grace is included.”

Professor Uzig took a step back. “Who else could have written it, then?”

“I thought you were the one who knew how to think. Some real kidnapper, of course.”

Professor Uzig's voice rose, but only slightly. “This is not the note of a real kidnapper. And what real kidnapper would know about this place? For that matter, have you told anyone else about it?”

“No,” Nat said. “But . . .” An idea was starting to form in his mind.

“But what?” said Professor Uzig.

“There's a thief on campus.”

“There are always thieves on campus, almost invariably your fellow students.”

“But this one knows about the tunnels,” Izzie said.

“Why do you say that?” said Professor Uzig.

Nat told Professor Uzig about the theft of Wags's TV, how he'd followed the thief until he'd disappeared in the Plessey basement.

“That doesn't mean he knows about the tunnels.”

“There was nowhere else he could have gone.”

Professor Uzig didn't looked convinced. “Could you identify this person?”

“I only saw him from behind,” Nat said. “Big, with a ponytail.”

A strange expression crossed Professor's Uzig's face. Nat's mom would have said he looked a little green; as though he'd eaten something bad or was seasick. “It won't work,” he said.

“What won't work?” Izzie said.

“Whatever you kids are up to,” said Professor Uzig. He turned to Nat. “Time for you to go home. Worse things have happened.”

“Worse things are happening now,” Nat said.
A milion sounds nice.
Whatever was bothering him was in that sentence.
A milion sounds nice.
And it wasn't the spelling. He walked along the walls of the room, tapping here and there, listening for hollow sounds, although not sure why. They sounded hollow everywhere.

“You're not going to talk to him?” Izzie said.

Professor Uzig shook his head. “You've given me nothing to talk about.”

“Nicely put,” said Izzie, “as usual. But would you be saying that if he wasn't dangling this endowed chair in front of your nose?”

There was no persuading Professor Uzig after that. He didn't say another word. They went upstairs in silence.

 

“W
hat about calling the police?” Nat said to Izzie when they were alone; not because he thought it was a good idea, more because it seemed the kind of thing people said at a time like this.

“Brilliant,” Izzie said. “If we forget about what the note says, and about what will happen when the police call my father and ask when the money's coming.”

“Izzie,” he said; not because she was wrong, but because of how she'd spoken to him. She was acting so strange.

“What?”

She was acting so strange, but he'd already said that.

Izzie took a deep breath. He could almost feel her getting hold of herself, slowing down.

“Sorry,” she said. She gave him a kiss, soft and quick, on the cheek. “Better?”

 

T
hat left the bowling jacket.
Saul's Collision.
Nat knew a bit about bowling—his mom had been in the Tuesday league for years, always fixing chicken pot pie that night, so he could warm it for himself when he got home from basketball—and had noticed lanes at the bottom of College Hill, not far from the tracks. All-Star Bowling, or something like that. He looked them up in the phone book, called the number.

“Does a team from Saul's Collision bowl there?” he said.

“Sure does.”

“Because one of them lost his jacket. I'd like to return it.”

“We're open till ten.”

“I meant personally.”

“Personally?”

“I'm looking to join a team.”

“You could do better than Saul's, you're any kind of bowler at all.”

“But I like their jacket.”

“I hear you. Tell you what. Where you calling from?”

“Here—in Inverness.”

“There's only one team member lives in town. That would be Ronnie Medeiros, over on River Street. He's in the book.”

 

T
he wind was blowing off the river, driving the snowfall in waves that seemed to bound through the air. Tracks, back and forth between Ronnie Medeiros's house and the street, were disappearing fast. Nat ignored the buzzer dangling loose on its wires, knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder. They listened, heard the wind, the snow hissing through bare trees, a plow grinding along some nearby street. Izzie turned the knob. The door opened.

They went into a living room that had space for a big TV and not much else. On the TV sat a framed photograph of a referee posing with a girls' basketball team.

“Hello?” Nat said.

No answer.

They went into a hall, opened a door. A bedroom: in no way like their cave rooms under the campus except that it too was a shambles. Only the bed was undamaged. The basketball referee was sleeping in it. Nat knocked on the doorjamb.

The sleeper's eyes opened.

“Ronnie Medeiros?” Nat said.

“Who'dja expect in my bed, for Christ sake?” His eyes went to Izzie, back to Nat. “You the guys Saul sent?” he said.

They didn't answer.

He got impatient. “To help me clean up. My fuckin'—my freakin' head is killing me.”

“What happened here?” Nat said.

“Saul didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“Just a little party, you could call it. Got out of hand. He promised me that if I kept my—that he'd send someone to clean it up.”

“You're talking about Saul of Saul's Collision?” Nat said.

“Huh?”

Nat held up the bowling jacket.

“Where'd you get that?” He sat up with a groan. “Lemme see.” Nat handed him the jacket. He ran his hands over it, as though it bore a message in Braille, then squinted up at Nat. “You cops?” He lowered his head gently to the pillow. “Fuckin' A. That was quick. I told him there's no way to keep something like this a . . .” He paused, his eyes again shifting to Izzie and back. “You don't look like cops,” he said. “Least not cops from around here.” His gaze went to Izzie. “Unless you're FBI,” he said. “There's girl FBI agents on TV and they always look like you.” His eyes narrowed. “I get it now—that fuckin' Freedy.”