Sparrow (33 page)

He knew I’d keep an eye on him if I realized who he was, that I would never have given him a job. My mercy, hospitability and love for Catalina had some hard limits, even back then. Shit, if I’d known Brock was Kavanagh’s son, I’d have sent him back where he came from. His dad was no innocent victim. He sold us stuff, stole our stuff. Ratted on us. He did a lot of damage, was responsible for the loss of a couple of lives, too.

Brock Greystone was not a Greystone, and he wasn’t a West Coast outsider either. He was David Kavanagh’s son, one of us. An Irish kid from Boston who pretended to be someone else. He even had that smooth Cali accent to accompany his thick hair and Hollywood smile. No trace of Boston in his voice.

How could I not have known Brock was one of us?

I let him into my life without even checking who he was first. My mind was so messed up over losing Cat, over her betrayal, over her pregnancy, and how her baby-daddy needed a job on the East Coast, I got sloppy. Before I knew it, Brock had access to my business, to my secrets, to my father.

My fist on tightened on my list. I took out a pen and smoothed the paper on my knee. I crossed out the last question with a strikethrough and adding the missing name.

1 – Billy Crupti

2 – Father McGregor

3 – The asshole who hired Billy?

3– Brock Kavanagh

Excusing myself, I nodded politely to the two men as I stood up, buttoning my suit jacket and walking out of the church in the middle of the service. People frowned and followed me with their eyes as I strode to the wooden double doors and disappeared between them, heading to my car.

After I fired up the engine, I dialed Brock’s number. He didn’t pick up.

Somehow, that didn’t surprise me.

I tried Red right after. The last thing I wanted was for her to somehow fall into his clutches. She didn’t answer either.

I tried her again, and again, unsettling tension gripping me by the balls. My throat burned, and heat spread in my stomach. She was supposed to be home, or at the very least, available to take a call. She didn’t have a shift that day, was supposed to come back from her morning run and if she wasn’t home, she should have been with Lucy, Daisy or her dad.

Her dad was at the funeral. It left me with two more sensible, reasonable options.

Cursing Brock under my breath, I managed to get her friends’ numbers and call them. Daisy said she hadn’t heard from her in two days and Lucy claimed Sparrow had texted her before her morning run. They planned to hang out later. Sparrow never showed up at their usual spot.

Don’t fucking panic.

I called Maria, and gathered from her broken English that Sparrow wasn’t home. Feeling the blood freezing in my veins, I quickly used the GPS app I’d installed on my wife’s phone when I snatched her, before we even got married. The location finder showed she was in central Boston.

Phew.

Fucking Red had me thinking irrationally. I was going to yell my lungs out when I got to her for pulling this kind of shit.

Once I got to the location, I called her number again and again, trying to reach her. I called maybe thirty times before I heard the faint sound of a ringtone and found her cell in a dumpster among cardboard, junk food leftovers and cigarette butts.

Desperation and distress coursed through my veins. I kicked the dumpster so hard, I left a dent.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I yelled, not caring about people around me watching my very public meltdown.

She hadn’t run away. Wouldn’t run away. I knew my lovebird—she was the fighting kind. The only running she’d ever do was to get her cardio fix.

No, this was not her trying to break free. This was him trying to get even.

It was the moment I realized that, for the first time, Brock was one step ahead of me.

And it was also the moment I knew that I would burn down the city and stop at nothing to find my wife. Not because she was mine, I never believed that for a second, anyway.

Because I was so busy telling Sparrow how much she wanted me, I forgot a small little detail—I wanted her back. More.

SPARROW

EXT. WILD FOREST – DAY

THIS WAS IT.
The end. The final scene in my very short script.

Brock unbuckled his safety belt and tossed two pieces of gum in his mouth. “Have you ever wondered how come you had so little sexual experience before you met Troy?”

“Wh-what?” I stuttered. I had no idea what he was talking about. I couldn’t feel my legs, and it was scaring the hell out of me.

He slammed his fist on the horn, and my heart jumped.
Jesus
.

When my head smacked the car roof, he let out a frantic laugh. “I asked if you ever wondered why guys stayed away from you before you married Troy.”

The question made no sense, but then Brock kidnapping me made no sense either. At least the longer we were talking, the more time I bought. There was then more chance that Troy would find out I never made it home and come looking for me. Although, I knew that there wasn’t much hope he’d find me. We were in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t have my phone on me. Brock, on the other hand, had a loaded gun. The odds were not in my favor.

“Yes,” I answered, finally. “Yes, I have wondered.”

“Well…” Brock leaned into his seat with a smug expression, like we were gossiping. “That’s because Troy threatened all of ’em. Every single guy who ever got slightly close to you or showed interest. He knew you were going to be his before you even hit puberty. Kept you a virgin all this time so he’d be the one to pop your cherry.”

“I didn’t know that.” I swallowed loudly, trying to look upset. In another lifetime, I’d be eager to ask more, but even though the revelation was shocking (if it were even true), I didn’t care about Troy’s manipulative ways right now.

“That was the point.” Brock laughed harder and pulled the empty syringes from my thighs.

At least I was able to feel my feet again.

He pushed his door open and walked around the car to open my door for me. Forever the gentleman. “He was a black shadow over your little head all this time. Guys wouldn’t even breath in your direction, they were so scared of Troy. Get out.”

I stumbled out of the car and fell headfirst. I watched as he pulled a shovel from the trunk, holding his pistol in the other hand. He carried the shovel and yanked me up from the mud by my arm, then spun me so that I had my back to him, just like before. Shoving the gun between my shoulder blades, he nudged me through a trail of long, half-naked trees. A thick carpet of red and orange leaves crunched under my dragging feet. The forest was beautiful, but the ugliest thing imaginable was about to happen to me.

I wanted to run. Knew I could run really fast, but not as fast as a bullet, and not with legs that felt like they had concrete blocks attached to them. I gained more control over my feet, but I doubted it would be soon enough to save me.

I wasn’t giving up, though. If I was going to die, it wouldn’t be without a fight.

It was freezing, and I was wearing nothing but my running gear. My teeth were chattering and my hair, a little damp from running earlier, was coated with a thin layer of ice.

We walked in silence. The crunching of the twigs and the occasional sleepy bird chirping a good morning were the only sounds reminding me that time didn’t stand still.

I felt bile rising in my throat, my head swirling like I was going to faint. I’d rarely considered how I was going to die, and never imagined it’d be like this. But right now, with the shovel and the gun, with Brock looking like he did, wrath and cruelty dancing in his eyes, the odds of me leaving here in one piece, or leaving here at all, were growing slim.

We stopped near a tree stump marked with a slash of white paint. There was a fresh grave underneath it, carefully covered in mud. Brock pushed the shovel into my hand and cocked his head toward the leaf-covered ground.

“Start digging.”

I looked down. The earth was soft from all the rain, but the shovel was damn heavy and my body and legs were still not working right, though getting better with each passing second. I knew exactly what he was asking. He was asking me to dig my own grave. Looking back up, I felt my tears pooling behind my eyes, but I had no time for self-pity

I needed to do something, quick.

“Why are you doing this? I’m not him. I’m not Troy.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed. “But you’re important to him. If I can’t steal you away, I will make sure he doesn’t have you, too. It was your choice.” He smacked his lips. “I tried my best to do it the easy way, but you didn’t want me. Tough luck.”

“Important to him?” I exclaimed, “You’re wrong. I’m not important to him in any way.”

“Yeah, you are.” He thrust me forward, pointing at the ground with his gun. “Now dig.”

Why was Brock so hell-bent on hurting Troy?
He
was the one who ended up marrying Troy’s girl and got a job from the guy afterwards. Troy may have been a jerk to him and his family, but Troy was also a jerk to everyone else, too. It was a universal thing. He didn’t discriminate.

Unless he knew about Troy and Catalina…then again, Brock himself said they were only two people living under the same roof for Sam’s sake.

Nothing made sense.

There was no logic behind this scenario.

My vision blurred with unshed tears. The green of the forest and brown of the mud smeared like a bad painting. I didn’t budge. Couldn’t dig my own grave.

Brock shoved me again, but this time, I tripped. I fell into the mud, my knees buried deep. It was freezing, my damp pants sticking to my thighs.

“Please don’t make me torture you more than necessary.” His voice was disturbingly composed for someone who had just insinuated that he was going to kill me. “It’s nothing personal. At least not against you. Come on now, sweetheart.”

I felt his warm hand jerking me up on my feet. I couldn’t look at his face, and sure as hell didn’t want him to look at mine as he broke me like no one else ever had before.

“I promise to make it quick and as pain free as possible if you cooperate. You won’t even realize what’s happening.”

I choked on my own saliva, gasping for air.

He took a step closer, his heat against my cold body. “I’ll do it when you won’t even notice, out of nowhere. You’ll have your back to me. Deal?”

TROY

I STORMED INTO
Rouge Bis in search of Brock.

No one had seen him that day, and nobody had spoken to him in recent hours.

Stalking into his office, I froze when I noticed the little clue he had left for me.

A toothpick. My toothpick. Sitting pretty in the middle of his newly empty glass office desk. A toothpick still tangled in the green fiber of Brock and Catalina’s bedroom carpet.

His laptop was gone, so were the stacks of papers, pictures of his family and everything else he personalized the place with. Just my toothpick. And I knew why he put it there.

He realized I was fucking Catalina. Realized what I was half begging him to find out for fucking years. And now it was backfiring big time, blowing up in my face.

There were too many coincidences that day, and I knew the two disappearances had to be connected. He took her.

He took my wife.

A part of me wanted to smash the whole place down, walls included, but I didn’t have time to fall to pieces. It was now my job to glue them together, to make sure Red was going to be okay.

I called my little pawn at the Metro police. John was one of the greediest bastards on my payroll. For the right price, he would have volunteered his own daughter to be diced up into steaks and served at Rouge Bis.

“How can I help you?” he asked

I gave him Brock’s full name—both names, just in case—asking him to issue an APB.

“This could take a while,” he said immediately. “Lotta paperwork involved.”

“I’ll pay whatever to make it happen fast.” It wasn’t like me not to negotiate, but time was not on my side.

Next in line were Sparrow’s friends.