One Kick (7 page)

His voice was chilling in its matter-of-factness. She felt it: a physical cold. Monster, too, seemed to sense it, and he began to whine, his anxious whimpers muffled by the steady churning of the helicopter blades. Bishop unhooked his leg from hers. She remained perfectly still, waiting for his next move. Then, slowly, like a man releasing a feral animal in the woods, he cautiously removed his arm from her neck.

The helicopter was louder, closer.

She turned and stepped back from him, naked, panting, the towel a circle of yellow around her feet. She didn’t look at the ten bullets on the end table. She didn’t calculate the time it would take to load the magazine. She didn’t want to be distracted. She didn’t cross her arms over her bare breasts, or move to pick up the towel to cover herself. She kept her eyes on Bishop’s, brought her index and middle finger together, bent them slightly in case she hit bone, and shifted her weight back onto her left foot.

“Before you try to blind me, look at the sat photo again,” Bishop said. He didn’t sound particularly concerned about the blinding bit. He didn’t even make a defensive move, which irritated her.
Try
to blind him? She could jab her fingers knuckle deep into his cornea
before he could lift a hand to stop her. “I need you to look at the sat photo again,” he said, a little more urgently.

She noticed then that he had barely broken a sweat. He knew how to do this: how to subdue someone, how to break into an apartment.

How long had he been waiting there, biding time until she stepped out of the shower? He’d known to ambush her at her most vulnerable.

The windows of the apartment rattled in their frames, and the vibration under Kick’s feet made her think of Beth, of that last night on the farm. She let her hand relax.

The satellite photograph was on the floor. She crossed to it and knelt, and Monster was immediately at her side, pressing against her, like he was shielding her naked body with his own. Kick reached for the yellow towel and brought it under her armpits and around her chest. She kept one hand on her dog as she reached for the photo, scratching his muzzle, and moving her fingers over the soft velvet of his triangular ears, trying to reassure him with her touch. By the time she turned back to Bishop, she had the towel secured and a hand coated with dog hair.

Kick’s eyes searched the photograph, stalling, battling for equilibrium. House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard. What was she supposed to see?

The whir of the chopper was directly above them. She glanced up. It sounded like it was landing on the roof. Kick could hear it inside her head like a memory. She stole a peek at the Glock on the end table, useless to her. Bishop stood nearby, too close, his coiled calm an implied threat. Monster was limping in circles around them, gazing occasionally at the ceiling. Even her deaf dog could hear that racket.

The helicopter rotors were slowing, the sound becoming a dull throb. The chopper had landed and was cycling down. Whoever was up there, time was running out.

House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard.

Wait.
House.

She squinted at the photograph, at the second-floor window at the front of the house. The glass looked dark at first glance, but if you really looked you could see a shape, like a small face, like a child looking out. Kick snapped her head up at Bishop. He had his hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised.
Shit.
The photograph was trembling in her hands. She was doing it again, going down the maze. She could feel her skin start to tingle with excitement, the thrill of possibility, of hope. She lifted the photograph and peered at it closer, to convince herself that it was true, that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. Because she knew that face. It was on her bedroom wall; it stared at her as she slept. She had studied it, committing it to memory, burning it into her brain, so she would always know that image, no matter how many years passed. There was no doubt in Kick’s mind that she was looking at Adam Rice. He was alive.

She didn’t know if Bishop was good or bad, trustworthy or not. Maybe it didn’t matter.

This was what she had been waiting for.

Her brain was already going a mile a minute. The white SUV in the driveway connected this house to Mia Turner’s abduction, so this was possible proof that Mia Turner and Adam Rice had been abducted by the same people.

She looked up from the photo. “What are you?” she asked Bishop.

Bishop stepped forward and lifted the photograph from her hands. “I used to sell weapons,” he said.

“As in guns?”

“Among other things,” he said.

“ ‘Other things’?”

Bishop shrugged. “I made a lot of money.” He held the satellite photograph up. “And a lot of friends with access to expensive toys.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” Kick said.

“That’s funny,” Bishop said with a faint smile. “Because I’ve heard of you.”

Kick didn’t know what to make of him at all. “You should have opened with that,” Kick said, indicating the photograph.

“I was planning on getting around to it,” Bishop said, walking back to the chair and picking up his jacket.

She noticed that he moved a little gingerly. “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

Bishop shrugged the blazer on. “Only a little,” he said.

“Next time I’ll know to do it harder,” Kick said.

“Next time I won’t give you the chance,” Bishop said.

Kick considered hitting him in the nuts again, right then and there. Instead, she did the next most aggressive thing that occurred to her: she peeled off the damp yellow towel, held it out at arm’s length, and let it drop.

Bishop didn’t react; he didn’t even avert his eyes.

Flummoxed, Kick stepped directly in front of him, stark naked; all hair and breasts and pubic hair, scrapes, bruises, and strained muscles. She drew herself up taller, shoulders back, feet apart. Except for the sound of Monster pawing frantically under the couch for something, it was quiet. No rotor noise. Which meant that the chopper was parked, waiting, on the roof above them.

Bishop regarded her thoughtfully. “You have some intimacy issues, don’t you?”

She had wanted to see what he’d do. Now it felt more like he was testing
her
.

“We’re wasting time,” he said, glancing upward.

“I haven’t said I’m going with you,” Kick said.

“Yeah,” Bishop said. “And I haven’t told you that my nut sack hurts so much I can barely stand.” He grimaced and adjusted himself. “But we both know it’s true.”

Kick felt a satisfying pride in that.

Bishop slipped the photo back into his blazer. “You’re coming
with me, and I’ll tell you why,” he said. He had lowered his voice, so that she had to lean in to hear him. “In not very long, Mel Riley is going to die in prison of kidney failure.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like it was a given. Kick was afraid to move, afraid that the smallest gesture might give away more than she wanted to.

“He’s done ten years’ hard time,” Bishop continued, “and he hasn’t given up a single detail about his network of associates.”

Bishop moved closer, and she wanted to lean back, to step away, but she made herself stand her ground. “His
contacts
,
” Bishop said, and the word sounded vulgar. “Child pornographers, pedophiles, the scum off the sole of humanity’s shoe, the people who aided and abetted your abductors, sheltered them in some cases—they are still at it, exploiting children with impunity.”

“Stop it,” she said. Her body hurt. It was like she had more nerve endings; suddenly she could feel the perimeter of each and every bruise.

“You could have stopped it ten years ago,” Bishop said. “All you had to do was
nothing.
”

And there it was. He knew about the database. No one was supposed to know. That testimony had been sealed. It didn’t fit the narrative. The rescue story worked for everyone: the FBI, Kick’s family, the media. It made for feel-good television. The fact that Kick had autonuked Mel’s database of contacts and blown the FBI’s shot at taking down hundreds or thousands of criminals? That was an inconvenient truth that no one wanted to talk about. The floor felt like it was softening under Kick’s feet.

“I get why it eats at you,” Bishop said. “Why you have that map, with the pushpins, on your wall; why you paper your bedroom with abduction stories. You must think: How many Amber Alerts could have been prevented if you’d done nothing that night?”

How many? “So?” she said.

“So that’s why you’ll come with me,” Bishop said. “Not because
any of that shit I just said is true, because it’s not, and you know that—you were a kid, and you’d been manipulated—but because you blame yourself anyway. And you know that sticking pushpins in a map isn’t going to change anything. But coming with me to the house in that sat photo, using your background to see things I can’t—that’s at least in the ballpark.”

God, he was maddening. It wasn’t that he was wrong; it was his complete confidence that he was right that really irritated her. “How’s your nut sack now?” she asked.

“Maybe it’s not too late to get someone else,” Bishop said.

“I’m in,” Kick said. She wanted him to look at least a little surprised, but he didn’t, which only made it worse. “Not because of your speech,” she added. She didn’t need him. She had spent most of her life training for this. She was an escape artist, a warrior. She couldn’t walk away from an opportunity like this. Because while saving a kid wouldn’t make up for what she’d done, it would be a start. “I guess I’ll get dressed,” she said.

Monster yelped with pleasure and a purple tennis ball rolled out from under the couch and across the room. Monster hustled after it as fast as a hobbled, arthritic, blind canine can.

Bishop shifted painfully, reached into his pocket, and extracted his phone. “Can I get some ice, maybe?” he asked.

Kick stared at him in disbelief. He was already busy typing a text and didn’t look up. “Get it yourself,” Kick said, turning away. “Asshole,” she added, under her breath. She stalked off, naked, toward her bedroom. Monster followed her, tail wagging, the tennis ball in his mouth.

“Welcome to the team,” she heard Bishop call after her. “I think we’re really going to enjoy working together.”

KICK HAD A WORRY
list. She added to it every day. By keeping track of each worry, she could put off worrying in the moment and instead do it all at once during the designated worry period she set aside before dinner. The so-called list now was five composition books long. Adam Rice’s name was on it, and recently there had been a lot of entries about Monster’s health and Kick’s dwindling savings. The helicopter banked sharply, and Kick bent over her notebook and scribbled another item on the list.

Vomiting.

Her handwriting was barely legible. She clutched the airsickness bag that the helicopter pilot had given her. She could still see James standing in his apartment doorway, holding Monster’s leash. He’d pointed out that the image of Adam Rice had been enlarged, grainy; the license plate on the SUV had been too fuzzy to read. James was James. Logical. Careful. Neurotic. Kick was only one of those things.

The helicopter dipped and banked again. The pilot looked like Thor, or at least like a low-rent, steroid-fueled version of him. Kick was sure she was green. Bishop didn’t look airsick at all. He was up in front next to Thor, with his phone out and his orange sneakers on the chopper’s dash. The windshield was streaked with rain. They were flying low, below the cloud cover. If Kick looked down, she
could see rush-hour traffic crawling along the Banfield. But mostly she avoided looking down.

She added
Helicopter crash
to the list.

The helicopter swooped earthward and Kick’s insides took a second to catch up. She braced a hand on the back of the pilot’s seat, lowered her head, and watched as her long braid swung between her knees.
I will not vomit. I will not vomit. I will not vomit.
Thor’s blond hair was tied back with a leather strap. The back of his bomber jacket had a lightning-bolt insignia embroidered on it and something else that Kick couldn’t make out. She snuck a peek at Bishop. His expression was vague, or maybe bored, or maybe that’s just what assholes looked like. She tried to see what he was reading on his phone in the reflection of his sunglasses, but they weren’t polarized enough.
Reading.
Even thinking about reading made Kick’s mouth fill with warm saliva. She swallowed it down.
I will not vomit.
Bishop hadn’t said a word to her since they’d climbed aboard the helicopter on her roof, even though all of them, including Thor, were wearing headsets with microphones. The headsets were supposed to reduce the noise, but as far as Kick could tell, hers wasn’t working.

She was relieved when she recognized landmarks that indicated they were close to the airport. That huge sign, four yellow letters on blue, all capitals:
IKEA.
Wasn’t there an IKEA near every airport in the world?

Thor tilted the helicopter toward the ground. Kick shut her eyes.

She knew the instant the chopper touched down. Her body was still, settled, once again her own. The engine changed in pitch as the pilot shut down the engine and rotors.

Kick opened her eyes. The passenger-side door was open and Bishop was gone. Kick unlatched her seat belt, threw off her headset, heaved her heavy pack off the floor, put her worry book under her arm, and pushed open the chopper’s back door. Rain spit in her eyes, and her braid lashed around like a whip.

This was not a part of Portland International Airport that she had ever been to before. Sleek small planes dotted the runway. She spotted Bishop headed toward one. She didn’t have the address of the house in the satellite photo. If he left without her, she realized, she’d have nothing.

Technically, you’re not supposed to exit a helicopter until the blades stop rotating. But if the chopper is on level ground, the main rotor blades are going to be above your head. Kick knew this, and she also knew that most people who got chopped up by helicopters trudged right into the tail rotor. She took hold of her hair, hunched under the main rotor blades, and cleared the tail rotor by fifty feet, her black boots slapping against the wet runway.