The Messenger: A Novel (9 page)

B
rad Clarke looked back at the desert mansion. No one had followed him. Good. He could have a minute of peace and quiet, which he wasn’t likely to get inside the house. It was nearly dawn, but music was still blaring.

He walked along a pathway leading to one of the guesthouses. As he neared the guesthouse, he smelled cigarette smoke and swore to himself. He had been seen. The smoker waved to him—Colby.

“Thought you’d left,” Brad said. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“Oh,” Colby said in a low voice, glancing toward the bedroom window. “I’ve kept myself occupied out here.”

Brad smiled. “Entertaining one of Rebecca’s friends?”

“Oh, I wasn’t so selfish that I only entertained
one
,” Colby said, and Brad laughed.

“Shhh,” Colby warned. “You’ll wake them before I make my escape. Just wanted a moment outside before I started home again.”

“Glad you could make it to the party.”

“Me, too.” He paused, then added, “Your cousin’s cute.”

“Dude—”

Colby raised his hands in mock surrender. “There’s been enough fighting over her for one evening, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m taking off. Thanks again for the invitation.”

“You’re welcome. Do it again sometime.” Brad didn’t remember inviting him, but then, that could be said for more than half the people here. He’d lay money on Rebecca being the one who told Colby about the party. But he said so long to Colby and turned away from the guesthouses. He wanted to avoid any other chance meetings.

He had come outside for some air, and to get away from Rebecca, who was pouting over Tyler’s departure. Brad had been kind of surprised about the fight, because Tyler had seemed like such a mellow person.

“Hello, Brad.”

Brad felt the color drain from his face. Evan and Daniel. “You guys can’t be here!” he said in a furious whisper, looking back at the house.

“Can’t we?” Evan said.

Brad struggled, but they had him in a headlock, then gagged and bound him before he had a hope of summoning help. He felt raw fear, thought he was as afraid as it was possible to be afraid—then they blindfolded him. He tried screaming into the gag, and they slapped him hard. He felt them lift him, carrying him roughly between them, and he began to cry, which made it hard to breathe.

They loaded him into the back of some vehicle—a van or a pickup truck—he didn’t know which. He only knew that he was scared shitless. The metal surface he was on was ribbed and cold as ice. The vehicle bumped along and he bumped with it, jarred with every pothole, rolled with every curve.

Being kidnapped was not the experience he had seen on television. The rope chafed and the duct tape made him feel suffocated. There were no convenient opportunities for escape.

He began to realize that “kidnap” was probably the wrong word.

The right word was “murder.”

They were going to kill him. He felt sure of it.

Why were they angry with him? He had called them earlier, told them right away that Tyler had left the party.

Brad missed Eduardo and wondered what had become of him. Eduardo was so much easier to deal with. Eduardo was rich and sophisticated, world traveled, and world weary in a way that made him seem
pretty cool. Best of all, he had taken a liking to Brad and had provided an easy way to pay off a big gambling debt while Brad waited for his next payment from his trust fund.

But Eduardo hadn’t been around lately. Eduardo had said that Evan and Daniel were his assistants, and that Brad should do as they asked. Now he wondered if all three of them were working for some Mafia boss.

They had always been mysterious. Brad knew it wasn’t just the need for quick money that had brought him to this situation—he had enjoyed the intrigue and the chance to do something on his own without Rebecca having anything to say about it.

And until tonight, he had convinced himself that it wasn’t dangerous or criminal. All he had to do was to spy a little bit on his cousin’s new neighbor. Not even spy, really. Just tell them if Tyler left for a few days—they said he traveled a lot. He was to make sure Tyler was invited to the desert party, and Brad had figured out that all he had to do to make sure Tyler showed up was to invite Amanda. If Rebecca didn’t get it that Tyler was interested in her, Brad wasn’t so blind. He had picked up on that right away.

They had been happy with him when he told them Tyler would be at the party. And then they said Brad was to tell them when he arrived, when he left. That’s all.

And that’s exactly what he did! He followed his orders. He didn’t harm anyone. And now look what had happened to him. It was so unfair.

The vehicle stopped.

His heart started pounding and his throat went dry.

They pulled him out and stood him on his feet. They took the blindfold off, and he blinked in the bright light of a desert morning. No buildings nearby. Nothing but mesquite and sandy hills and dirt roads. The vehicle turned out to be a big white pickup truck with a windowless shell covering the back.

Daniel took the gag out.

“Why—” Brad started to ask, but Evan punched him hard in the gut and all the air went out of him.

As the blows rained on him, he thought they would bury him out there.

They put duct tape over his mouth and eyes, made sure the knots on the rope that bound him were good and tight, and threw him back in the bed of the truck, where the landing was just one more way to inflame pain so intense it consumed every thought.

Eventually, he went into a kind of numbed state, still feeling the pain, but trying to think of how he might survive.

For a time he had hoped someone had seen them take him. Colby, maybe? That hope faded fairly quickly.

Rebecca would miss him—eventually. With the party going on, though—how long would it be before she was even sober enough to notice he was gone? Who else would look for him? No one, in all likelihood.

He had never been badly injured in his life, and any time he had sustained a minor injury, someone had cared for him immediately, done something to lessen the pain. This pain was as different from what he had felt before as a volcano was to a match.

But the pain wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was the fear.

Being so afraid—believing he was about to suffer more than he had thus far, and then be put to death—was exhausting. Over the hours, terror hollowed him out. He felt as if his skin was a shell of pain encasing nothing but more pain.

By the time they unloaded and untied him, more than his hands and feet were numb. It hurt when they pulled off the duct-tape gag and blindfold, but he hardly made a sound. He blinked at the light, and noted in a distant way that he was in the kitchen of what seemed to be an old house.

They waited only until they were sure he could stand up. They lit a candle and marched him to a doorway, then down a set of concrete stairs. They hurried back upstairs, taking the candle with them.

He had not struggled against them.

Only by using the last remaining bit of his tattered willpower did Brad prevent himself from throwing up. He hadn’t noticed the smell of the
basement until Evan had opened the door to the stairway. If he had felt he had any choice about it, he wouldn’t have gone down the stairs at all, but whatever resistance he might have had in him had been beaten out of him hours ago.

The stench proved to be an unwelcome stimulant, reviving awareness.

There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that he was down here with at least one rotting corpse. Maybe they had killed Tyler Hawthorne, and now he was next. Whoever it was, there was no doubt in his mind that he, too, would become a rotting corpse in this basement, and he found he had just the slightest rebellion against this left in him.

It was only a thought, no more.

Because of it, he attempted to stay on his feet.

The wall behind him was cold and damp, and where it touched his skin—he tried very hard not to think about what might make it feel the way it did.

Suddenly the stench increased and the temperature dropped.

A foul breath blew against his face as a deep voice asked, “Would you like to leave here alive, Bradley?”

A
manda’s phone rang. It seemed terribly early to her, but when she glanced at the clock as she lifted the receiver, she realized it was noon.

“Amanda? It’s Tyler. Did I wake you?”

“It’s all right. What’s up?”

“First, I wondered how you are feeling. I didn’t realize how badly your car had been damaged until I got the report this morning.”

“I’m a little stiff and sore, but it’s not bad.”

“Alex just told me that you’re there alone.”

“Yes.”
Sort of, if you don’t count ghosts.

“Could I talk you into staying here for a few days? Just until we’re sure the problem with Sam’s family is cleared up? Alex will be here, and the rest of the security staff, but if you’d like to invite your cousins or someone else to stay here as a chaperone—”

She smiled to herself. “I think I can manage without a chaperone at this point in life,” she said. “But thanks.”

“Will you stay with us, then?”

She looked around her. Was there any reason to be here? The sad truth was, she had a completely blank to-do list. A blank calendar. A blank life.

And if she stayed at Tyler’s house, perhaps she’d get over this ridiculous obsession with him.

Familiarity breeds contempt, right? Or is that, obsession breeds rationalization?

“Amanda?”

“I’m here. Can you give me a little time to think about it?”

“Sure. But—say yes.”

She laughed. “I’ll call back in a little while.”

A hot shower eased most of her aches to a tolerable level.

She dressed in jeans and a light sweater, then went downstairs and sat in the living room. She listened to a silence broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

I can always come back, can’t I? It’s not as if he’s asking me to live in another country.

She went upstairs and packed a small overnight case.

She called.

“Yes,” she told him.

“Thank you. I’ll be there in a few moments.”

Tyler hung up the phone, and took the stairs down to the garage, Shade following on his heels.

He hesitated when he saw that the dog wanted to get into the Mini Cooper with him.

“Ah—should I take you with me? Yes. I think it’s best if she grows accustomed to you. But let’s take the van instead, so we’re not crowded—that might be too much to ask of her.”

When he parked and let Shade out of the van, the dog immediately disappeared around a corner of the house. Tyler stared after him, then walked toward the front porch. He was surprised to feel anticipation. He stood for a moment on the steps, savoring it.

When had he last anticipated anything?

Vague memories came to him, from the time near his real youth.

Things will be changing for you.

That message, delivered to him at the last two deathbeds he’d attended. Was this what they meant?

He knocked on the door.

She opened it almost immediately and welcomed him inside. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I just have to get my bag from upstairs.”

“May I help you?”

“No thanks, I can get it. Make yourself at home—I’ll be right back down.”

As she went up the stairs, he glanced around him. The room was elegant and yet not lacking in warmth. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the sound of the grandfather clock, a sound he found soothing.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was drawn to a photograph on a side table, of two handsome young couples surrounding a teenage version of Amanda. He picked it up to study it more closely.

The setting seemed to be a party, the couples and Amanda dressed in evening wear, the adults lifting glasses of champagne. There were many other formally attired people in the background. The photograph had been taken in a large room, with a sweeping staircase in the background, a mansion, but not one he recognized. The adults were laughing, but Amanda, who was looking directly into the camera, wore a serious expression. She looked—perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought she looked hurt, and perhaps disappointed, but was putting on a brave front. He found himself wondering what had happened just before the photo was taken.

He heard Amanda come down the stairs, and turned to see her carrying a small overnight bag. She set the bag down and came to his side. “My parents, Thelia and Hudson Clarke,” she said, pointing to one of the couples, “and my aunt and uncle—Cynthia and Jordan Clarke—Brad and Rebecca’s parents.”

“You don’t look as if you were enjoying yourself.”

“I wasn’t,” she said simply, and started to reach again for her small carry-on-size bag.

He managed to pick it up first, saying, “Allow me.” He frowned, thinking of it being so light. “Is this all?”

“I can always come back here, right?”

“Alex or I will bring you back to gather anything else you might need,” he said as they went out the front door.

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I hear an assumption that I won’t want to come back to my own home.”

“I just want you to be comfortable while you’re with us.”

“Us?”

“Ron and me. And Shade.”

“Don’t forget Alex,” she said, setting the alarm again and locking up.

“Yes, Alex as well. Did you get along with her?” he asked as they walked outside.

“Yes. I like straightforward people.”

He fell silent, busying himself with stowing her bag in the van.

He heard a sound and looked up. “I wonder what that dog is up to now?”

She turned quickly to look in the direction of his gaze. She looked panic-stricken. “What dog?”

“Shade. Are you all right? I didn’t think he still frightened you…”

“Oh, no. He doesn’t. Not much anyway. I just wondered if you were seeing that other dog.”

“What other dog?”

“Didn’t Alex tell you? A strange dog has been coming around here. It was running loose in the woods between our houses last night—Alex said it looked like Shade, but we knew Shade was with you.”

“You thought it was Shade?”

“But he was with you, right?”

“Yes, he came upstairs with me, but I did notice that he stayed out on the deck, watching for something last night. Perhaps…” His voice
trailed off as he considered how little interest Shade usually took in other dogs. “Alex didn’t tell me any of this, but she’s been working the late shift, so perhaps over the hours I slept, it slipped her mind. Did the dog look like Shade to you?”

“I’ve never seen it. I’ve heard it, though. And I’ve seen tracks near the house.” She shuddered. “Judging from those, it’s a big dog.”

He put an arm around her shoulders. “You saw tracks last night? Was that the first time?”

“No, I think the first time was the night someone broke into your house, while you were in St. Louis. But—was Shade with you then?”

“Yes. He travels with me.” Seeing her curiosity about that plainly written on her face, he quickly added, “This other dog has obviously frightened you. Has it tried to get into the house?”

“Not exactly, but it isn’t shy about coming close to it. That’s why I moved to the upstairs bedroom—I kept hearing it at night, near my bedroom window. Maybe that makes me sound like I’m totally chicken, but—well, yes—I’m scared.”

“Understandable, though. Can you show me some of the tracks?”

They found Shade intently sniffing the ground beneath her old bedroom window.

Tyler reluctantly let go of her and bent to study the ground.

“These, here in the dried mud?” he asked.

She edged closer, then nodded.

Shade came to her side, tail wagging. Tyler worried that she would be further frightened by him, but she reached out and petted him.

“You’re looking for that other dog, aren’t you, Shade?” she said.

Shade wagged his tail harder.

“Do you think he understands English?” she asked Tyler, who was noting that the tracks were indeed those of a large dog.

“Among other languages,” he answered absently.

Her laugh caught his attention, and he smiled. “One of the gifts of dogs, you know. Our words don’t matter. And even our tone of voice
may not count for all that much with the brightest of them. They read our gestures and expressions, the way we hold ourselves. They probably smell our reactions as well. There’s an old saying, ‘You can’t lie to a dog.’ I believe it.”

“Oh, so you have to be truthful with Shade.”

He stood up. “I can be sure Shade will return the favor.”

She fell silent. He realized she was studying him in a blatantly assessing way.

“I wonder…,” she said.

“Yes?”

She took a deep breath. “I understand you’re involved with grief counseling.”

“Not…professionally,” he said cautiously. “I just try to be of help to people whose deaths are imminent. And of help to their families.”

“Are you planning to go back to the hospice?”

“Yes, I’m going over there again this afternoon.”

“I’d like to come with you.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Please!”

He raised a brow. “It’s not a place most people are anxious to visit.”

“I don’t know if you can understand this, but—there’s one thing I want more than anything else.” She drew a deep breath, as if screwing up her courage. “I want to be
useful
.”

He started to make a glib reply, saw how earnest she was, and instead said, “Tell me what you mean.”

“I mean—having some purpose, doing some good. Not just being a locust.”

He smiled. “A locust, is it? I haven’t seen a lot of signs of you being an überconsumer.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s see—how much of your spare time is spent shopping?”

“Not much,” she admitted.

“Your car—solid and dependable, but not new?”

“True.”

“I don’t mean to stick my nose into your finances, but I have the impression you could be chauffeured in a Rolls if you wanted to be.”

“I could be, yes. I’m a trust funder. I’ve never had to work a day in my life and never will. The idea of taking a job from someone who needs one bothers me. I say I’m a locust because I’m living off the harvest someone else brought in—the money my great-grandfather and grandfather worked to earn.”

“Not your father?”

She glanced around, making him wonder if she had heard someone approach. He glanced around as well, but no one else was nearby.

“My father wasn’t a very serious person,” she said. “You’ve seen the photo. He was handsome, my mother was beautiful, and they were the life of any party they were invited to—and they were invited everywhere. They flew on private jets to go to parties on other continents.” She paused. “They usually teamed up with Brad and Rebecca’s parents. Two gorgeous couples, full of life and fun. When they ended up with me, they must have thought someone swapped babies on them in the hospital.” She looked up at him. “Are your parents living?”

“No. You, Ron, and I have that in common.”

“Tell me about them.”

“My parents?”

She nodded.

He thought of giving her the story he usually told, a set of half-truths that kept others from asking further questions. Instead he said, “I never knew my mother—she died giving birth to me.”

“Oh!”

“My father and I didn’t see much of each other before I moved away from home. I didn’t understand then—well, I suppose I expected to be able to spend time with him in a future we weren’t destined to have together.”

“I’m sorry—”

He shook his head. “No, no need to be. I’ve found that grief eases over time, but regret has real staying power. All those things you wish
you had said to the ones you loved.” He paused, then asked, “Do you miss your parents?”

He tried to read the look that came into her eyes when he asked that—almost one of amusement, he thought, and he wondered why.

“To be completely honest,” she said, “they’ve always been—I mean, they always
were
difficult people to live with. The adults who knew them thought they were a lot of fun. For me, as their kid, they weren’t so fun. They drank a lot. They were so crazy about each other, I think they just didn’t have much room left over for me. They were away from home more than they were here, so, for the most part, I was raised by a succession of nannies—none of the nannies could put up with the carnival atmosphere here for more than two years at a time. It probably sounds crazy, but for all of that, I loved them, knew they loved me in their own weird way, and I wish to God I could talk to them.”

“They died in a car accident?”

She nodded. “We were all at a party. The one in the photo, as it happens.” She blushed again, and he couldn’t figure out why. She went on quickly, “When we were leaving, I was the only one who was sober, and I tried to convince the adults to let me drive. They insisted that my learner’s permit only allowed me to drive before eleven at night. I pointed out that I could drive at any hour when one of my parents was in the car, but Aunt Cynthia—Brad and Rebecca’s mom—said I was wrong. She insisted on driving.”

She swallowed hard and looked off into the distance.

“We didn’t have far to go, just a few miles. But the few miles were through the canyon. I don’t really remember the accident itself, or much of anything that happened after we left the party, but I’m told the car went over an embankment. I was the only one wearing a seat belt. I was told the others were killed instantly.”

“You had a head injury?”

“Yes. They say that’s why I don’t remember the accident.”

“It’s common, you know, that type of memory loss.”

“That’s what they say, but—it’s hard to walk around with that piece missing. Brad and Rebecca have a theory that I caused the accident and I’m repressing it out of guilt.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She shrugged. “Who knows? I never will. I woke up in the hospital. A concussion, three broken ribs, and a broken ankle. My father’s aunt told me what happened. Ron visited me every day.”

Ron. He swore to himself that he would not interfere in their relationship. He stepped away from her.