Killer Move (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
is abductor has only one question. The man understands perfectly well what it means. He gets what the guy wants to know. He also realizes that once he answers the question, he’s probably going to die.

And so he hasn’t answered it.

Yet.

H
e woke several hours before. Consciousness crept upon him slowly, as if unsure how good an idea it would be to get reinvolved. Eventually it stabilized. His eyelids seemed broken, too heavy to lift, and so initially he left them closed. His head felt stodgy, as if after a long evening of turgid red wine. He was aware of businesslike alerts from various other angles of his body, as if they’d collided with something hard. He was not hungry. He was very warm.

These impressions came to him in an orderly procession, as if presented on burgundy-colored velvet cushions held up by tiny, deferential servants. For a moment, in fact, he believed he could actually
see
these minuscule helpers bowing and scraping in the dark corridors of his mind. Then they fled, all at once, darting chaotically to either side to clear the way for bigger news, as it suddenly declared itself.

Somebody had punched his right thigh, above the knee. Either that, or hit it very hard with a hammer.

This hadn’t occurred recently—it didn’t have the raw edge of the this-just-happened—but the pain was still very large. It was large in a measured, I-can-keep-this-up-forever style.

It was large enough for the man to feel it was probably time to open his eyes.

T
he first thing he sees is his own lap. His head has, he realizes, been lolling forward. He sees blurred images of gray sweatpants, now mottled, and the crumpled front of a lilac shirt. He recognizes these. They belong to him.

He pulls his head up, dislodging drops of sweat that had been hanging off his nose. His head whirls. After a moment of confusion, things start to fall into place. He sees the bare walls of some octagonal space thirty feet across. There are four blue patches, like windows—except you can’t see through them. Tarpaulins. Around the edges you can see the outside world, where it is bright and very sunny. A flapping sound from the tarps says there’s a light breeze outside, but it’s not reaching the inside. The man can also hear, distantly, the sound of the sea. A standard concrete cinder block, eight by eight by sixteen inches, lies against the wall.

He looks back down. He sees now that an area of his sweatpants above his right knee is stained reddish brown. In parts this stain is very thick, and hard, suggesting that a lot of blood was involved.

Ah. He remembers now.

He was shot.

The wound feels like some eternal moment of impact, but he understands that it maybe still hurts less than it should. It seems likely he’s on some serious kind of painkiller. Possibly he’s also coming out of a dose of something used to knock him out, a narcotic presumably.

None of these are reassuring ideas, especially when the third and most salient detail of his situation finally announces itself. His wrists are tied to the arms of a very heavy wooden chair. They are bound by thick canvas straps. So are his ankles. There’s a similar strap around his waist, and another around his shoulders.

They are all very tight.

He tries to pull himself forward in the chair, but he cannot move more than half an inch. This is enough for him to notice, however, that someone has chalked a question on the gray concrete floor in front of him. The letters are about a foot high, and the chalk is red.

There are just two words:

Who else?

H
e tries shouting. His voice is thick and coarse, barely loud enough to rebound off the walls. After a few minutes he’s able to get up to a good loud bellow. Nothing happens except that he gets hotter and starts to panic.

He stops, takes deep breaths, evaluates what he knows. He’s been brought to a building—either a private house or a condo—in the early stages of construction. He gets the feeling he’s on a second or third story, because when he gets a momentary glimpse around the edge of one of the tarps, it only shows sky. The building has been mothballed, otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to tarp the window gaps in a building that hasn’t got to first fit stage. The structure has been built out of cinder block that was given a quick cement render. The man in the chair knows about these things, having been involved in many a development in the last decade.

This doesn’t enable him to work out where he is, however, as he’s aware of at least six big condo projects currently in hibernation, waiting for the market to get more frisky. He’s a stakeholder in two of these himself, but he knows this building isn’t in one of those. He’d recognize it. He might be able to work out a little more if he were able to move, but the strapping is irrevocable. If a point comes when he needs to relieve himself—it hasn’t yet, but that might be a temporary aftereffect of whatever drug he was given—he’s going to be doing it where he sits.

The chair is very heavy. He tries rocking from side to side. He could probably
just about
get it to tip over to the left or right. There are two problems with that plan of action, however, even assuming he doesn’t bang his head on the way over. The first is that he’s just going to be strapped to a chair lying on its side, which doesn’t really represent an improvement in his situation.

The second, as he’s now realized, is that though there’s floor space in front of him—where the two-word question is written, for example—there’s none to either side. This octagonal space is evidently intended as an observation lounge, designed to be accessed by a showy spiral staircase from below. That staircase isn’t in place yet. From what he can make out, only half the octagon has a floor. The chair has been placed on a stubby rectangular platform that juts out into a space not much larger than the footprint of the chair itself.

Causing the chair to tip over to the left, right, or backward will make it fall at least one story, to crash onto a concrete floor.

So he’s not going to do that.

H
e sits, occasionally building himself up into a few minutes of increasingly hoarse shouting, for many hours. The flickers of sky that make it past the tarps start to soften, and the bright blue of the sunlight hitting the cloths themselves starts to darken. In the end the stuffy heat allows him to dip into a shallow drowse.

He opens his eyes after an indeterminate period. The painkiller has begun to wear off. It’s clear that the discomfort in his thigh has a lot more to give. His ass hurts from prolonged, unmoving contact with the chair seat. All his joints hurt, too. He tries not to think about this, as he knows the feeling of being trapped will make it even worse.

He raises his head. The room is dark now, though sufficient moonlight creeps through the gaps to keep it three-dimensional through glints of gray and silver.

There’s someone in there with him.

A figure leans against the wall directly in front. He’s dressed in dark clothing, but in this light, that’s all you can tell. He says nothing.

The man in the chair finds his mouth is suddenly dry. He asks the bottom-line question. “What do you want from me?”

“You had plenty of time this afternoon. The reading matter I left you was only two words long.”

“You really think I’m going to give you names?”

The other man seems to consider the question. “Yes,” he says, “I do.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I guess we’ll see. I’d guess also it’s been a long time since you’ve been hungry, though. Plus, you’ve had no liquid for eighteen hours. Feeling thirsty at all?”

The man in the chair suddenly realizes just how parched he feels. Not just dryness in the mouth—that can be temporarily salved by running his tongue around it—but in his throat, and in his head, which feels desiccated and tight.

“Nope,” he says nonetheless.

“Keep telling yourself that. If it gets boring, though, there’s something else to think about.”

The man pushes himself up from the wall and walks over toward the chair. The seated man realizes that Hunter is holding something in either hand.

Hunter slowly raises his left hand, and it becomes clear that his fingers—displaying a disquieting level of strength—are gripping the cinder block that has lain by the wall all afternoon. He raises this block to chest height, moves his hand until it is over the other man’s right leg, and drops the block.

The man in the chair screams.

The pain is so enormous that he bucks in the chair. The other man reaches out, unhurried, to prevent it from tipping over.

“Steady,” he says.

The seated man can barely hear. His teeth are clenched, his eyes clamped shut. He feels the block lifted off his lap, hears it thrown back into the room. Something else lands on his leg, but it weighs next to nothing and he doesn’t care about it or anything else. His leg feels as if someone is hammering a huge rusty nail up along the bone, again and again and again.

I
t is ten minutes before he has control of himself and opens his eyes. Hunter is no longer in the room. How he left, the man in the chair has no idea. He also has no clue how he is now going to prevent the idea of thirst—and increasingly, its reality—from moving front and center of his every thought. He knows he ought to look down at his leg but believes it unlikely that will achieve much except make him feel worse.

Nonetheless he does so—and what he sees drives, for a moment, all thoughts of thirst from his mind. The thing Hunter dropped on his lap is a woman’s robe.

The man in the chair recognizes it. It belongs to a woman called Lynn Napier, the one he spent the evening with the night before.

A voice floats up from the level below.

“Who else?” it asks.

There is the sound of footsteps receding, and then silence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I
s this from you?”

“What?”

“This.” I turned from the counter toward the kitchen table, where Steph was swiftly eating breakfast while absorbing local nonnews from the small flat-screen in the corner. She put her head on one side, causing still-wet hair to slide across her face. When she clocked the jacket of the book I was holding she gave a snort.

“That would be a supersized no.” She laughed. “With a side of ‘Dream on, my friend.’ ”

I looked back at the book, which I’d found propped outside our front door, in corrugated packaging, when I got back from the gym. It was large and heavy and apparently retailed for eighty bucks. It was published by a European house I recognized as purveyors of lavish coffee-table tomes, and featured a retrospective of the work of a photographer I’d never heard of.

A quick flick through confirmed that, as the cover implied, said snapper was all about honoring the timeless beauty of the female form, in fetishized states of undress. An immaculate airline stewardess bending over a meal cart, skirt hitched up to reveal tattered, cheap underwear. A secretary dutifully typing at an old Underwood, unaware of how very close her besuited boss—seen only from the waist down, complete with self-evident bulge—was standing behind her. A female doctor, adrift in a lamp-lit ward in the dead of the night—the patients asleep in their beds—wearing only high heels, garters, stockings, and a stethoscope, gazing with apparent melancholy at a clipboard she held in one hand.

“Really?”

“
Really,
” she said.

“This isn’t some guy who’s going to have an exposition here or something?”

“Ex
hib
ition, not exposition, dear,” Steph said around a mouthful of high-spec granola. “And no. Sarasota has come a long way, but it ain’t New York. Or even Tallahassee. The art-porn market still falls outside what local folks will countenance in a public gallery.”

I frowned down at the Amazon delivery note. “Well, that’s weird.”

“Does it
say
it’s a gift?”

“No. It was bought on my account.”

“Hon,” Steph said, “it’s okay.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you ordered this, I don’t mind.”

I stared at her. “Why would I even open the package in front of you if I had something to hide?”

She shrugged. “You’re cruising around the site, see the book, accidentally click
BUY IT NOW
instead of
ADD TO BASKET
. Forget all about it and then bang, here it is. And in front of the wife. Whoops. No biggie.”

I spoke slowly. “I did not order this book.”

“So send it back,” she said, grabbing her car keys. “I got to go, hon. Big day of prep for the Maxwinn Saunders powwow tomorrow.”

“Steph, listen. I didn’t buy this.”

“I believe you,” she said with a wink, and then she was gone.

F
irst thing I did when I got to work was to e-mail Amazon, briskly requesting the procedure for returning a book sent in error. I’d already checked the shipping notification e-mail I’d received the day before. Paying more attention when it came in wouldn’t have achieved much—by then the book had already been on its way. It was Steph’s response that was nettling me most. It wasn’t as if the book was hard-core. Two seconds with a search engine would have flooded my screen with pictures that would have made Henrik Myerson (creator of the images in the book stowed in the trunk of my car) blanch. But that wasn’t the point. The
point
was that the book’s arrival had made me look like the kind of person who wanted to own this kind of thing. I have dedicated a lot of time and effort to assuming control of my personal brand. I’m not going to stand for random misinformation muddying the waters.

That was the first point, anyhow. The second was a broader one. I grew up in Pennsylvania. My mother’s sister lived in South Carolina, and from time to time the family would migrate down to spend a week. Aunt Lynn was a recovering hippie and big on producing her own food. This included a series of impressive chili plants that grew along a fence in the backyard. The fruits of these were fascinating to me. There’s something so ripe and eye-catching about a chili when it’s ready to pick, a plumpness that bellows “eat me” to the untrained eye. My parents had firmly instructed me not to do any such thing, and I was in general a well-behaved kid.

Imagine their surprise, therefore, at coming out into the yard one afternoon to discover that the eight-year-old child they’d left peaceably playing was now in paroxysms of agony, unable even to come indoors, apparently caused by having eaten one of these chilies.

They were comforting, and supportive, and fed me ice cream to dull the burn, all the time managing to refrain from saying they’d told me so. I said I
hadn’t
eaten a chili, and they didn’t explicitly call me on it, but smiled when they thought I wasn’t looking. But the thing is . . .

I hadn’t eaten a damned chili.

All I’d done—and this hadn’t been explicitly disallowed, and children need explicit instruction because they are not good at expanding from the specific to the general—was to reach up and touch one of the swollen, bright red chilies. I’d marveled at how hard it was, how powerful and fecund, then turned my back on the forbidden fruit and got on with something else. I’d evidently also accidentally brushed those same fingers across my lips, however, bringing the freakish power of a Scotch Bonnet to bear upon skin that still thought of American mustard as wantonly aggressive.

The pain eventually subsided. What did
not
fade was the sense of injustice—the injustice wrought by someone being kind and forgiving over a sin that had not been committed. Steph shrugging off the book’s arrival this morning felt the same way—and the worst of it was that there was no way back. I could go home at the end of the day clutching proof that I’d returned the book, and she could interpret this as me going out of my way to maintain the pretense of not having ordered it in the first place. Even if she eventually believed me, the instant in which she’d thought otherwise remained alive in time.

I was still fulminating over this when there was a
ping
to indicate I’d received an e-mail. It was the Amazon help desk, with guidelines for returning a book if you had ordered it in error.

Suddenly I was even more angry. I
hadn’t
ordered it in error.
Their computer had fucked up.
I knew the response I’d just received was itself computer generated, and that made it worse: a computer telling a human how to unscrew an error made by another computer, making me a pawn in some ludicrous glitch-generated scenario I hadn’t asked for in the first place.

I scribbled a note for Karren’s desk—saying I was headed out to a meeting, and in the process also demonstrating I’d been at work before her—and stomped out to drive to the post office at Ocean View Mall.

A
fter I’d mailed the package back I felt better. I took a twenty-minute time-out with an iced Americano before driving back to work, taking myself through some positivity exercises. It didn’t take long to work out that what had really bugged me was the feeling of loss of control. I’d quickly regained it, and so—big deal. By the time I was done with the coffee I’d gotten to the point where I was emboldened to drop an SMS message to Steph, reiterating that I hadn’t ordered the book but saying that if it had given her any ideas, then I was all ears and would be at her disposal tonight.

Two minutes later an SMS came back, saying she’d bear the offer in mind, with a winking smiley and a kiss.

Job done. Steph could think what she liked about whether I’d ordered the book. So long as it turned to my advantage, what did I care?

On the way back across the lot to my car I noticed a dapper figure walking along in front of the drugstore. He was listening to someone on his cell phone. I slowed, gave him time to end the call, and then took a side step to put me in the man’s field of view.

“Morning, Mr. Grant.”

Peter Grant, owner-CEO of Shore Realty, frowned. “There’s no meeting up here today, is there?”

“No,” I said, thinking on my feet. “Just met with a potential client. I’m heading back to the office now.”

He nodded, evidently glad to have cleared the mystery up. He was dressed in an understated but wildly expensive suit, and his silver hair seemed to have been spun from the finest thread. He looked distracted, however, slowly replacing his phone in his jacket.

“So . . . how are things down there, Bill? I see the figures, of course, but it’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up man-to-man. Too long.”

I wasn’t sure if Grant had ever taken the time to “catch up” with me. “Quiet,” I allowed. “But we’re working at it. Putting our ears to the ground, keeping the clients happy. If they’re on our side, it’s all win.”

“Very true,” he said, and for a moment seemed to look directly at me, as if seeing me in a particular light. “That’s a positive attitude. It will serve you well.”

“Only way to beat the world, sir.”

“Absolutely. Okay, well—don’t let me keep you, Bill. Keep up the good work. And good luck.”

“Good to talk to you, sir.”

“You too, Bill,” he said, as he turned to head back into the building. “You too.”

As I climbed back into the car I was feeling a
lot
more chipper. Spurred by my off-the-cuff excuse to Grant, it even occurred to me to wonder if my straight-to-the-nukes reaction to the photo book was down to lingering annoyance at the blowout of the night before. I pulled up to the highway, hesitated, then turned right instead of left, to head up the road to David Warner’s house.

He wasn’t there, and a call to Melania’s number dead-ended in voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. I took out one of my cards instead, and jammed it in a crack in the buzzer mechanism—after jotting the words “Call me when you’re ready to do business” on the back.

Now feeling two hundred percent better, I drove back to The Breakers.

W
hen I got out of my car I had a sighting of the resort’s rarest fauna—Marie Thompson. She was talking to Big Walter, dressed in an immaculate white trouser suit, the perfect outfit to showcase an evident dedication to the maxim that you can never be too rich or too thin. As had been the case on most occasions I’d seen her, she was giving someone a hard time. Word was that Marie was from old Sarasota money. It was evident from her body language toward Walter (one of the very blackest black guys I’ve ever met) that she had yet to receive instruction on modern modes of interacting with people of color.

After a final jab of the finger to underscore whatever dread point she was making, she turned on her heel and stalked into the main building.

Walter watched her go, then turned to look at me. I shrugged. He shrugged back. That made me feel cool.

As I reached for the handle on the door to the Shore office, I heard someone guffawing inside. I knew who it would be. Janine had a very distinctive laugh, one of those plain-girl cackles—bubbly, raucous, and strange. It’s the kind of laugh that grown-ups who find themselves unable to compliment a child on her looks may favorably comment on instead, causing the girl to carry what is in reality rather an annoying sound into her adult life.

Sure enough, I walked into the office to find Janine at her desk, hand in front of her mouth, grinning inanely at something on her screen. Buoyed by recent successes, I decided to play nice.

“S’up?” I said.

She giggled, as if we’d been caught in some collusion. “It’s kinda bad,” she said. “But I like it.”

“What is?”

“You know. What you sent.”

I bent to look over her shoulder. An e-mail from me was open on her computer screen, with a joke. It was a mildly funny joke, assuming you were prepared to overlook the fact that it was markedly off-color and somewhat racist, too.

The only thing was that I hadn’t sent it.

Not to her, or any of the other people on the list.