Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery) (2 page)

Wilson opened his eyes. For a moment, he felt nothing.
Then the events of last night came back to him.
Or was it the night before?
It could have been days since it happened. Surely someone was looking for them by now.
But where are we and how long have we been here?

His thoughts felt fuzzy and he was having a hard time trying to connect them, but he was fully aware of the pain in the back of his head. He groaned as he touched the area and felt a large lump just above the base of his neck. As his thoughts came into focus, he became aware that every bone in his body felt bruised and sore as if he had been beaten.
He was propped against a wall, but it was too dark to tell how big the room was, or if Sam was near him. He wanted to call her name, but fearing that someone was listening, he did not.

The darkness began to fade as a shaft of sunlight appeared through a small crack in the wall in the opposite corner of the room. Wilson focused on the emerging light until his eyes adjusted. Then he followed the sunbeam until it fell gently on Sam’s face. The light allowed him to see that she was just beyond his reach.

His eyes rested on her and he forgot every ache in his body. She was lying on her side, facing him. The image made Wilson recall the night he had found her lying unconscious on the floor in her sister’s condo. He remembered trying not to count the empty bottles of alcohol that were scattered around her. It had taken him several days to find her. He had gone to her sister’s place as a last resort, and she was there. He thought he had almost lost her then. He was certain that Sam had wanted to die. Her sister’s death on Christmas Eve, and the events leading up to his finding her there, would be her demise.

Tenderness
washed over him as he remembered helping her recover. Wilson looked at Sam’s motionless body now and made himself push those memories away. “Sam,” he whispered.

He waited. No response. The sunbeam faded a little and Sam’s face fell into shadow. Wilson determined a cloud must have covered the sun. He willed silently for the light to come back. Moments later the sun returned, casting Sam’s face fully in light. He hoped the brightness shining in her eyes would force her to wake up, but she did not stir.

He called her name again. Nothing. Moving took great effort, but Wilson was determined to get to Sam. He began to crawl on his knees.

When he reached her he saw that her hands were tied in front of her. He cursed silently and placed his hands gently over hers, wondering why his hands were free and hers had been bound. There was enough light in the room that he could see the rope cutting into Sam’s left wrist. There was dried blood on her hand and on the rope. He attempted to loosen the rope, but stopped tugging when her wrist started to bleed.

The image of Sam falling to the snowy ground flashed before him. He remembered that one of her shoes had fallen off when they put her in the trunk, but he could see that the other was still on. He touched her foot covered by only the nylons she wore. Her skin felt cold.

A wave of anger washed over him. “Bastards,” he growled.
He was still wearing his suit jacket. He took it off. As he covered Sam, he noticed that a part of the seam in the jacket had been ripped open. “Come on, Sam, wake up.”

He moved the hair that had fallen across her forehead. The hard look in his eyes faded a little
, relieved there were no bruises or marks around her face.

Wilson, as if his hands were not his own, gently began to caress her cheek. He remembered the first day she walked into the Grand
view Perspective—his newspaper—for a job interview. He could tell the way her shoulders were hunched forward, the dark circles under her eyes, that she was weary. The way she had avoided initial eye contact with him suggested something deeply troubled her. When she finally looked at him, he smiled at her, hoping to appear calm and reassuring. She sat a little taller in her chair.

He knew of her past, the problems she had as a reporter at the
Denver Post
. He knew why she lost her job at the large metropolitan daily and that it stemmed from her use of alcohol. He knew that there were other journalists in the Denver media who thought she was a pariah. None of that, however, mattered to Wilson Cole Jr. He knew there was something different about Sam, that she had an inner determination. He knew it was something lost just beneath that forlorn surface. Given enough time, it would resurface. He was sure of it.

Once, many years ago, he too
had been a troubled young reporter about to derail a promising career. Someone then had believed enough in him to give him a second chance. Wilson had vowed to do the same one day. That day arrived when Samantha Church, a seasoned journalist, came to his newspaper to interview for an entry-level reporter’s position. She had interviewed poorly, but Wilson hired her anyway. His managing editor, Nick Weeks, was so furious when he learned Wilson had given her the job, he had threatened to quit.

“There’s the door.” Wilson remembered saying.

The sunlight faded and Sam’s face became gray with shadow. As the room grew dark, Wilson heard the sounds of footsteps and men talking. He could hear a key being fitted into the lock and the knob turning. Wilson tried to scramble back to the wall, but he didn’t have time to get back and position himself before the door opened.

Light poured into the room, blinding him momentarily. Wilson squinted and held his hands over his eyes. Three men entered the room. He recognized them as the twins and the heavily bearded man. Wilson could see now that one twin wore a white T-shirt, the other wore gray.

The men stood beyond the doorway a moment before they started toward him. The twins reached down, grabbed Wilson by the arms and picked him up as though he was a little boy. His legs were weak from sitting too long, and his first steps were sluggish. They all but carried him across the room and pushed him down hard into a small chair. They let go of him and stepped an arm’s length away. They stood on either side of the chair.

Wilson took advantage of the light to study the twins more closely. They were identical, down to their pockmarked skin. Each had shiny black hair, combed back slick against the scalp, stopping at the collars of their long leather coats. Small dark eyes and pug noses were set against olive skin.

The twins had pulled their coats far enough to the side that Wilson saw handguns tucked in their waistband. The bearded man stayed at the door.

The tall, bony man entered the room. It was the same man who had forced Wilson in
to
the trunk. He stopped in front of Wilson, looking from him to Sam.

“What were you doing
with her?” the man asked, keeping his eyes on Sam.

Wilson clenched his jaw but said nothing. He wanted to lunge at him, reach down his throat and tear his heart out.

The bony man answered Wilson’s extended silence with a stinging backhanded blow across the face. Wilson did not move. He was certain his nose was broken, he wanted to touch it, but left his hands at his sides. He felt blood start to trickle, finding its way into his mouth. He thought of salt as he ran his tongue over his lip.

Pain kept Wilson awake all night. At least he thought it was all night.
It would not be the first time his nose had been broken. He thought about the blow he had received. There was something about being slapped that kept coming back to him. This was only the second time in his life that he had been struck so hard.

The only other slap came the day after this thirteenth birthday, forty-five years ago, by his father’s hand. He was drunk again and going after his mother. He used to hit her when he was drunk, which seemed to be all the time.
“Stupid, lazy bitch never has anything ready to eat when I’m hungry,”
his father had said that day—never mind that his mother had just returned home from the night shift at the hospital. Wilson was already tall and strong. He had started to intervene more to help his mother whenever his father had one of his drunken fits. His father had his mother pinned on the couch. He was about to strike her when Wilson grabbed his arm.

“Stop it!” the young Wilson had yelled.

His father was still too strong for him and easily pulled out of his grasp. He turned to Wilson and punched him in the face. The blow knocked him to the ground. He felt the bone snap and warm blood as it began to ooze from his nose and run down his lip. Wilson stared up at his father, hatred registering in his eyes. He struggled not to cry, but tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched his father strike his mother, then stumble from the room, hitting his shoulder hard against a wall as he left. Wilson had not seen his father for weeks following the incident.

Wilson drew a deep breath and shivered. The chill in the room took his mind off the old memory, which had faded little over time. He looked around the room, knowing that he and Sam had been moved to a different location. The sunbeam was gone, the room now lit by a dim bare bulb hanging down from the center of the ceiling. Forty watts, he thought.

He rubbed his hands together. The other room had not been as cold. Sam was propped against the wall beside him. Her head slumped to one side. The suit jacket that he had used to cover her was gone. Her hands were still bound and Wilson rested his hand over hers. They were cold, and he hoped that the circulation had not stopped.

He called her name. Still n
othing. He scanned the room again and stopped on a sixteen-ounce plastic bottle just beyond his reach. Water. He swallowed involuntarily and his dry mouth filled instantly with saliva. He got to his knees and crawled to the bottle. He hesitated.
What if it’s not water?
“Stop being paranoid,” he said aloud.

He examined it again and saw that the seal had not been broken. There was a quick pop in the room as he twisted the cap off the bottle. He drank only enough to wet his mouth. He closed the lid and moved to Sam.

He gently lifted her head and cupped her chin in his hands.

“Sam!” he said, his voice more forceful and loud.

No response. He called her name again, and tapped her cheek.

“Sam! Come on, wake up!”

He tapped her cheek harder and her eyelids fluttered open, and then closed again.

Hope
, then relief surged inside of him. “Sam!”

Sam opened her eyes slowly and stared blankly ahead. She was about to drift off again, but Wilson shook her gently by the shoulders.

“Sam! No! Don’t close your eyes. Try to stay awake.”

Sam looked at him, her face a shadow of pain. She tried to move her hands, but winced at the pain that shot through her wrists. “My … my hands hurt,” she said.

Wilson covered her hands with his.

“I know,” he said. “Try not to move them more than you have to. The rope is twisted so tight that I can’t get it off without them starting to bleed and hurting you more.”

He tried again, but stopped as she winced. Sam leaned her head against the wall.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t know how long we’ve been here, either. But someone’s got to be looking for us by now. I have to find a way to get us out of here.”

She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her forehead and rubbed hard with the tips of her fingers.
“My head’s splitting,” she said.

Wilson reached for the bottled water.
“Here, Sam,” he said. “Drink this.”

She took the bottle with both hands and brought it to her mouth. He held it lightly so she would not drop it. She took a long swallow.
“Thank you,” she said and let Wilson take the bottle.

He put the bottle to his lips and took several long swallows. The liquid slid down his throat, quickly and coolly. He never remembered water tasting so fresh, so good.

The cold water made Sam shiver. “It’s freezing in here,” she said and leaned into Wilson.

He wrapped his arm over her and pulled her closer to him. She drew her knees in to fight off the cold.

“I wish I knew where the hell we were,” Wilson said. He looked up to the ceiling and stared at the bulb. He stayed quiet, trying to think. The stillness rushed in and he heard nothing but the soft sounds of Sam breathing. He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open slightly, forming an O.

Despite their situation, he felt calm sitting so near
to her, as if something in his heart had finally settled.

Sam opened her eyes
slowly and stared at the blurry image before her. She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to focus. Then it registered and a small smile spread over her lips. “I didn’t know angels were bald.”

Howard Skinner looked up from the paperback he was reading.
“Well, Sammie, you’re finally awake,” he said as he set the book on the small table next to the bed. “Your grandmother and I were beginning to worry about you.”

Sam glanced around the room and stopped when she got to the IV. Her eyes rested on it for a moment, her brain still a step behind and she was waiting for it to catch up. She followed the clear line until it stopped at the top of her hand. She looked at Howard. His smile was so broad it almost touched the rim of his glasses.

“How long have I been here?”

“They found you early yesterday morning and brought you here,” Howard said as he lifted his bulky frame from the chair and went to the bedside. “You were pretty dehydrated.”

“Which hospital is this?”

“Lutheran.”

“Where was I, Howard?”

“Colorado State Patrol found you in Wilson’s car on I-70, near the Morrison Road exit. A motorist called it in. Told the dispatcher that he thought he saw someone in a Honda slumped against the passenger seat window.”

Sam felt an immediate sense of relief. “Thank God,” she said. “Is Wilson here?”

She could tell by Howard’s expression the news wasn’t good.
“Where’s Wilson?” she asked and leaned closer to Howard.

He rested his hand lightly over Sam’s.
“Sammie,” he said and cleared his throat a little. “Wilson wasn’t with you.”

Sam shook her head. “That can’t be, Howard. He
was
with me. I remember that. We left the office together. He gave me water.”

Howard looked beyond the window, where the last light of the January day was fading, the weak light casting dim shadows on the wall. “He may have been at some point, Sam,” Howard said. “But he wasn’t in the car with you when they found you.”

Sam leaned back against the pillows and raised her left hand toward her head. When she did, she noticed the bandage. She looked to Howard for an explanation. He lightly rubbed a thick index finger over her bandage. “The officers said your hands were tied when they found you. The rope cuts were pretty deep.”

Sam nodded knowingly. “Wilson did try to untie me, Howard, I remember that, but the rope was too tight. Every time he tried, my wrists would start to bleed.”

“Sammie, can you remember anything else?”

For a moment, Sam said nothing, as she tried to recall what had happened. Details were fuzzy, as though she was trying to decipher them in a forei
gn language. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know. We … we were leaving the office and it was snowing and then…” her voice trailed off. “I don’t even know how long we’ve been missing.” She looked at Howard, her eyes full of confusion.

“You left work on Tuesday. Today is Friday.”

Sam felt a sense of frustration well up. Her voice rose as she spoke. “He’s probably dead by now!”

“Hold on, Sammie, hold on,” Howard said and held up his hands as if to quiet her. “Let’s not be so quick to start thinking that way. We’ll find Wilson and he’s going to be okay.”

Sam pursed her lips and sat in silence for a moment and then, “Damn him for not listening to me, Howard! I’d been telling Wilson that I thought someone was following us. I don’t know, it wasn’t really anything I could put my finger on, just a feeling, you know, Howard, just a crazy feeling, I guess because Wilson thought I was imagining things. Now look what’s happened.”

“
Can you remember anything else?” Howard asked and his voice was quiet.

Sam’s attention shifted toward the window as she tried to think. “I remember that I was freezing and a light, like sunlight, I think, was hitting my face. Wilson was calling my name and I remember trying to answer him, wanting to answer him, but I couldn’t make any sounds. It was like I didn’t have the strength to open my eyes or say a word. It’s like I was too cold to talk.”

Sam was quiet, her eyes following the IV line again as she tried to remember what else she could about the night they disappeared. She told Howard about the men rushing toward them just as they had finished clearing the snow off Wilson’s car. She could not remember their faces
only that they seemed like big men. Tall, solid men, she said. She told Howard how she remembered one of them hitting her and that’s why she slipped on the ice and hit her head on the car bumper when she fell. “Is that why I have this headache?”

Howard nodded. “You got quite a knock on your noggin’. They want to keep you through tomorrow for observation.”

“Tomorrow!” Sam said and pushed herself up in bed. “Howard, I can’t stay here through tomorrow! We need to find Wilson before people start to realize that he’s really not on vacation in Mexico and no one knows where he is. And if he’s not already dead, they’re not going to keep him alive much longer!”

A uniformed police officer and another man dressed in a dark suit and tie appeared at the door.

“Hello. Is this a good time to come in?” the man in the suit asked.

“They were here earlier,” Howard said.

“I’m not saying anything about Wilson,” Sam said in a tight whisper.

Howard leaned into Sam. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to. Nothing’s been said.”

Howard backed away from Sam’s hospital bed. “I’ll wait outside and let you talk. It’ll be alright.”

When Howard looked at Sam she nodded.

“Be back in a bit,” Howard said, directing his comment toward the men.

When he returned an hour later, Sam was asleep. Light beyond the window was replaced by darkness. Shadows on the wall were gone, consumed by the glow from the light over Sam’s hospital bed. The nurses had brought dinner, but it remained untouched on the tray in front of her. She opened her eyes slowly when Howard called her name.

“Want to have a little dinner before it gets too cold?” he asked.

Sam shook her head, not looking at the food. “I’m not hungry.”

He was examining the main dish, meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. “Probably not a good idea anyway,” he said recovering the dish with a lid. “Certainly doesn’t smell anything like your grandmother would make.”

Howard had hoped the light-hearted comment would at least produce a smile from Sam. But she just stared unseeing at the plate of food.

“I lied,” she said finally. “To the officers about what happened.” When she looked at Howard, he nodded, nonjudgmental, just as she expected. “I said that I was in a relationship and it wasn’t going well.”

“How did you explain the rope around your wrist?” Howard asked, his right eyebrow arching upward a bit.

Sam looked down at her wrist where the rope had cut through and rubbed the bandage a little, feeling a slight surge of embarrassment. “Well, I told them we’d been having, uh, sex and things just sort of got out of hand and then we, uh, had started to argue and he wouldn’t untie my hands.”

Howard cast Sam a sideways look. She cleared her throat a little and then continued, “I told them we’d been drinking and one thing led to another. I explained I remembered getting in the car, but at some point must’ve passed out and that’s when the motorist saw me slumped over.”

“You realize, Sammie, this could come back to haunt you.”

Sam nodded as if to say ‘whatever’, and then directed her gaze toward the window.

“Did they believe your story?” Howard asked.

Sam shrugged, still keeping her attention on the window.

“Did they know you were once married to Jonathan?”

Sam nodded. “And they asked me about the stories I wrote exposing the drug smuggling operation, too.”

She was sitting straight up now, her palms resting lightly on the tray before her. She was tapping her right index finger lightly against the tabletop. “But I just can’t stay here another night,” Sam said and glanced at Howard. Her eyes had narrowed to thin slits before she looked away. But it was enough that he saw a glint in them, not one of fear or worry, but of determination, a move-out-of-the-way-and-let-me-do-this kind of look that he knew meant it was time to act.

Howard had spent nearly three decades in the U.S. Navy and the Merchant Marines and another decade driving manufactured homes across the country. He had learned to read the sea and spot lousy drivers. He knew trouble when he saw it. He could tell Sam’s disposition had changed since talking to the officers. “Did they ask about Wilson?”

Sam shook her head. “And I didn’t say anything. Obviously, they knew it was his car, but I said I would pick it up in a few days after I got out of here. I told them I didn’t want to press charges.”

“Did they seem satisfied?”

“For the time being, I guess. Hopefully, it will keep them off my back for awhile,” Sam said and nodded. “We can’t afford to have the police start asking questions yet. Who knows if we can even trust them?”

Sam looked from Howard to the bandage and directed her comments toward it. “For all we know,” she said quietly as if someone in the hallway was overhearing their conversation. “There might still be a few dirty cops left on the force, Howard. We don’t really know if all of them were arrested after we went public with the story. Maybe they’re the kidnappers
who took Wilson and now they want revenge.”

When Sam looked at Howard again, he was cleaning his glasses with a corner of his white T-shirt. She noticed the red indentations on the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested. He looked at her and shook his head.

“I don’t think so, Sammie. It’s possible because anything is, but I think the ones who were caught as a result of your investigation-”

“It was Robin’s
too, Howard,” she interjected.

“And Robin’s,” Howard added, “Were caught when the story came out.”

“Well, maybe, you’re right, Howard,” Sam said. She sat back against the bed and crossed her arms, careful of the IV line.

The room was silent a moment as Howard readjusted his glasses on his nose while Sam watched.

“Anyway, Howard,” Sam went on, “Even if all the bad cops have been arrested, what if we bring them in to help us find Wilson and they screw things up and Wilson ends up dead.
How could I live with that?”

Howard put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and she rested hers over his.

“We have to find him, Howard. We don’t have much time,” she said, frustration climbing in her voice. “Makes me wonder what else is in store for us and, you know, that scares me. But it still puzzles me why they let me go and kept him. I’m the one they want.” Sam pointed at her chest and tapped firmly. “I’m the one who wrote those stories, Howard. I’m the one who uncovered their dirty little operation, who finished what Robin started. Why was I the one they let go? They really want me. They want revenge for what happened. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

Howard nodded, not really wanting to think what could be in store for them.

“Howard, please just get me out of here. We don’t have a lot of time. It’s not going to be long before those officers come back and start asking more questions.”

He rubbed a finger over his lips for a moment as he thought. Sam was looking at him now, her right eyebrow arched slightly.
“Alright,” Howard said through a long sigh. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder, full of love, full of concern. “You stay put until I get back.”

She knew the tone in Howard’s voice meant to “stay put.” She allowed herself a small smile. She settled against the pillows and refolded her arms tightly across her chest watching Howard collect his things and leave the hospital room.