Wreckage: An Addictive Psychological Thriller Packed with Twists, page 28
Jeannie jerks her arm from him with a sharp “NO!” She starts backing toward the far end of the room, away from the stairs. The three captors close in on her as she shrieks, “NO! NO! NO!” in authentic-sounding terror.
I seize the distraction. I grab the phone from under the cushion and slip it into my left pants pocket, lightning fast, then grab the knife. Choke took my leg strap, so the knife will have to go into my right pocket. It’s hard to angle it into my pants while sitting down, but I don’t dare stand up and draw anyone’s gaze. I slide it in, blade first. Crap, it doesn’t fit. The handle sticks out of the pocket.
Jeannie is kneeling on the floor now, wailing, “I don’t want to die!” like John Turturro in that haunting woodland scene in Miller’s Crossing. It is a terrifying spectacle.
I try to jab the point of the knife through the bottom of my pocket, but it snags. Won’t poke through. What are these pants made of, woven titanium?
Jeannie shouts, “NO! NO! NO!”
“SHUT UP,” Choke orders, standing over her. He produces a black oblong object from his pocket. “Do you know what this is, lady?” I do. A stun gun. “Do you want me to use it?”
“I don’t want to die!” screams Jeannie in reply.
“Do you want me to use it?” he repeats, moving the weapon closer to her.
Jeannie “comes to her senses,” shouts, “No!” and thrusts her hands up in surrender. She lets Choke jerk her to her feet. He turns her body toward the stairs.
The knife, the knife. Why won’t it poke through?
I give it a hard shove and the blade finally pops through the fabric with an audible fup. It slices my skin as it shoots down the inside of my pant leg and then stops at the handle. Damn, that hurt. Well, at least the knife is hidden, for the moment.
Troop and company surround Jeannie and march her toward a doorway to the right of the steps. Choke gestures for me to follow.
I comply. I don’t know how badly I’ve cut myself. It’s not the injury that worries me; I’ll live. It’s the blood. If a red stain starts blossoming on my pants, I’m in deep guano.
I place my palms on my thighs as if doing the hands-down perp walk, but I’m really trying to hold the wound closed and hide any blood that might appear.
We are led down a corridor, past a pair of staterooms as nice as five-star hotel rooms. We come to a T-junction. Chokehold ushers me down a short corridor to the left; the two women escort Jeannie to the right. Choke points to a doorway. I step through it.
It’s a bathroom, the most outlandishly elegant one I’ve ever set foot in. The floor, tub, toilet, bidet, shower chamber (“stall” doesn’t do it justice), and sink are dark green marble—you’d swear they were cut from a single piece. The fixtures are polished brass, the cabinetry cherry wood buffed to a gemstone finish.
“Get out of those filthy clothes and take a shower,” orders Choke. “Then get dressed.” He points to the cherry wardrobe wherein clean clothes presumably reside.
This is not what I foresaw happening next, I must say. I guess it’s thoughtful that they want me tidied up for my own execution, but really, they shouldn’t have.
Chokehold stands near the door, hands on hips. He’s waiting for me to disrobe, maybe even to hand him my clothes. Big nope there.
“I have a thing about undressing in front of other dudes.” I say, still shielding my wounded thigh from view. “Traumatic gym class experience.”
Choke doesn’t appreciate my humor. “Boo-hoo.” But he doesn’t fight me on the issue. He points to a tasseled gold rope dangling from a brass eye in the wall and says, “Ring when you’re done,” then leaves the room. Yes, you can actually ring for service on the S.S. Ostentatious. With a gold bleeping rope, no less.
Hoping there are no hidden cameras in the room, I take the knife and phone out of my pockets and stash them in a drawer. I strip off my clothes—there is indeed a bloodstain on the pants—and toss them into the trash. Don’t want anyone seeing them.
The knife-cut on my leg is three inches long; can’t tell how deep. Steady stream of blood, though.
After I shower in the outrageously soft water, the cut is still bleeding. I press several layers of toilet paper onto it, hoping that will stanch the blood-flow for now.
In the cherry-wood wardrobe I find some new men’s underwear, a folded pair of chino-style pants, a blue Oxford shirt, and a pair of boat moccasins, which I guess I’m supposed to wear sans socks, as is custom for the island-hopping set.
I don the clothes. Luckily, the chinos are loose-fitting. Recovering my stashed items from the drawer, I stab the knife-blade through the bottom of the right pocket, hiding the handle. Now seems to be the right time to turn the burner on. Its battery power is at about sixty percent. I’ll just have to hope that’s enough.
Enough for what, I have no bloody clue.
I silence all the phone’s sounds, then scroll through the contacts list and select a name. I send a text: Call coming from me. Not a butt dial. Don’t speak. Leave phone on. Might be long. I then push Call and wait for the phone to be answered on the other end.
Before I can confirm that the call has gone through, there’s a rap at the door. Darn, I didn’t even get to pull the gold rope and ring for Lurch.
I slide the phone into my left pocket, mic facing outward, and hope for the best.
“Come in.”
I didn’t think my brain had any room left for surprise, but clearly I was mistaken. It’s not Lurch—i.e., Chokehold—who enters the bathroom. Nope, it’s a waiter in a short tuxedo jacket and bow tie. A slim Korean-American man, he says, “The pleasure of your company is requested for dinner. Would you please follow me?”
Sure, why the hell not?
I follow the waiter down a corridor with a glass wall showing a stunning vista of the rocky northern side of Musqasset, then up a set of stairs. We pass a private dining room with a table made up for dinner and enter a small side room. It features a couple of tables and a little bar. A cocktail lounge. Quaint. The waiter seats me.
“May I start you with a refreshment? Mr. Fischer will be joining you for dinner shortly.”
Mr. Fischer. The name comes as a blow, but then again, not really. Simon Fischer. Who else’s boat could this really be, after all? The Abelsen theory goes flying out the porthole.
“Water will be fine,” I reply to the waiter. I sit in silence on my brocaded chair as he fills a glass with ice water.
He scampers off. A few minutes later he returns, ushering Jeannie into the room. She’s wearing a simple black dress, presumably provided by “management.” Her eyes bug with terror.
The waiter pours her some water, then leaves us alone.
And so, here we are, Jeannie and I, dressed for dinner on a fine yacht at anchor in the Gulf of Maine. If we didn’t know we’d both been kidnapped and dragged here against our will, this might be the start of a lovely evening. Alas, we do know.
“Are you okay?” I throat-whisper.
“No permanent damage.”
“Nice work back there.”
“You too. What were you trying to hide? I couldn’t quite see.” I shake my head, don’t want to say the words aloud.
“You know whose boat this is, right?” she whispers. A confirmation, not a question.
“Beth’s dad’s.”
“So do you have any idea what in the Jumping Jack Crap is going on here?”
“I wish I didn’t, but... Jeannie, I think Simon Fischer had some people killed, and I think he’s the one who tried to have me killed too.”
She filters this information. She must have endless questions, but she asks only one. “Do you think... don’t lie to protect my feelings... they’re going to kill us? Tonight?”
“I don’t see what other path they have.”
“No! Bree! What am I going to do about Bree? How is she going to—”
“Shh. That may be their path, but it doesn’t have to be ours.”
“What are you saying?
“I’m saying I have no intention of letting them go through with it.”
“What can you do about it?
I don’t much care for the way she says that.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply, “but I do know one thing: I’m done with accepting whatever cards I’m dealt. I’m playing this thing out all the way. To win. So be ready.”
“Don’t do anything stupid and heroic. Not on my behalf. I don’t want to live in a world that has no Finn Carroll—”
“Shh. Listen, Jeannie, I don’t know how much time we have alone here. It might be just a minute, so I need to say something to you.” I grasp her hand. “I love you. Remember that, no matter what happens. I love you so much it literally hurts.”
She squeezes my hand, but her eyes retreat like a hermit crab backing into its shell.
“I wish I hadn’t let you go the first time,” I continue. “I wish I had made you the center of my universe the second time around. I wish I had told you I never wanted you to touch another man and that I wanted every bit of you.”
She’s fighting tears and losing the battle. “Why couldn’t you have said this to me years ago, when it would have mattered?”
“Because I was damaged goods, Jeannie. Still am. But I’m ready to be whole. I am so, so ready. And that means owning the fact that I love you. I always have.”
“Oh God, Finn, our timing. Our pathetic, miserable timing.”
“When we get out of this thing, Jeannie—and I’m saying when, not if—I want to meet your daughter. And if meeting me doesn’t make her puke, I want to start spending some time with the two of you. And if that goes well, I want—”
“Stop! Finn. Please. You need to stop. I’ve told you over and over, that can’t happen. I have made some choices that cannot be undone. I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to spare your feelings and—yes, okay—to enjoy the brief fantasy that you and I could be together again... But that’s all it was. A fantasy. There’s something you need to know, and it—”
“Jean! Finnian!” booms a growling baritone from a few yards away. Simon Fischer enters the lounge with his arms out in welcome, as if greeting two long-lost friends. Barrel-chested and bald as Mr. Clean, he exudes the absolute confidence of a man accustomed to having his way in all things. “Please. Join me. Let’s have some wine and a bite d’eat.”
41
“Mr. Fischer, not to be an ungrateful ‘guest’ or anything,” I say, glued to my seat, “but I think you have some explaining to do.”
“Pleasure before business. Come. Everyone needs food.” Fischer tends to speak in short, bark-like bursts. Punctuated by brief silences. Which somehow gives his words. Added weight. Whether they deserve. It. Or not.
“Seriously, Fischer, what the hell?”
“Call me Simon.”
He looks mildly peeved that I’m not jumping at his offer of hospitality. What planet does this guy live on? I already know the answer to that: Rich-Guy Earth, a parallel dimension to mine with an entirely different set of rules.
“Look. If there was any unpleasantness,” he says. “In the way you were brought here. I’m sorry. I told my crew to go easy on that stuff.”
Oh. Okay. Guess all is forgiven, then. Kumbaya.
“Come, come.” He beckons with both hands. “A little wine, a little yip-yap. No reason we can’t be civilized here.”
“With all due respect”—I almost say “sir,” but I won’t give him that—“being overdosed, left for dead, spied on, assaulted, and kidnapped could be construed as reasons.”
“Don’t test a man’s generosity, Finnian. Come. Eat.”
When I fail to budge, his shoulders slump in dismay, and he casts an eye toward Chokehold, whom I hadn’t noticed in the background. Point taken. I don’t feel a crying need to be manhandled by Chokehold again. I rise from my seat. Jeannie follows my cue.
The long formal dining table is set for five, with all the place settings grouped at one end. Simon Fischer moves to the head of the table and gestures for Jeannie and me to take the two seats to his right. The waiter appears out of thin air and pulls Jeannie’s seat out for her.
“Hoon,” Fischer says, addressing the man, “bring us a bottle of the Margaux. The twenty-ten should be fine.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
We’re all seated. Fischer rubs his hands together.
“So... Finnian... I think the last time I saw you was on Dylan’s seventh. Beth and Miles had that big do. Whatcha been up to since you left Musqasset?”
He’s really going to do this? The cozy chit-chat thing? “Living in a dump, getting drunk, and trying to commit suicide,” I reply.
He barks a laugh.
“You, Simon?”
“Little this, little that. Trying to keep the books in the black. And the ass in the pink. Jean, you’re looking stunning. I see what all the blather’s about. How’s life treating you?”
“Can you please tell us what’s going on here, Mr. Fischer?” she says.
“Relax. You’re among friends. No more hostilities.” Hoon arrives with the bottle. “Let go of the past. Don’t sweat the future. Embrace the present. Isn’t that what Eckhart Tolle says? I love that guy. Let’s just enjoy some nice wine in a lovely setting.”
“I don’t drink,” Jeannie says.
“Shame. Oh well, more for us, right? Hoon, get the lady a sparkling water.” Hoon scampers off. “Nervous fella. Must be genetic. So, Finnian... Been enjoying your stay on Musqasset?”
“It’s been a pip.”
“That so?”
“Ayuh.”
Before the crackling wit of our dialog can put Aaron Sorkin any further to shame, an even more uncomfortable development occurs. The other two guests arrive. Miles and Beth.
Upon seeing us, the Sutcliffes feign pleasant surprise, a titanically inappropriate response, given the circumstances.
“Sit, sit,” says Simon Fischer after kissing Beth on the cheek. “Your mother won’t be joining us this evening. Migraine. She sends her regrets.”
Hoon appears with San Pellegrino for Jeannie and fills the other glasses with thousand-dollar-a-bottle Bordeaux.
I note that Troop and company have moved to the periphery of the room. “No, they don’t sit at the table,” Fischer explains to me, though I didn’t ask. Read: there’s only one alpha hound in this room, sonny boy.
Once everyone is seated, Fischer cracks his knuckles, stretches his lips in a parody of a smile, and says, “So...” He drums his fingers on the tabletop, chuckles to himself at some inner amusement, then takes out his phone. He reads something on it. He swipes to another screen, chuckles again, makes a little “hmm” sound. This behavior goes on for a solid minute as the rest of us sit there in silence. I look across at Miles and Beth. Neither of them wants to make eye contact with Jeannie or me.
Simon Fischer puts his phone away, looks at each of us in turn for three beats, then says, “I had the weirdest damn dream last night.” He leaves the statement dangling in air.
Neither Jeannie nor I is in the mood to take the bait. Miles looks as if he just wants to shrink into his Sperry Top-Siders, tap-dance out of the room, and fling himself into the ocean. Beth is steaming, her arms folded—I guess she knows this routine.
And so, the silence goes on. And on.
At last Beth hisses, through clamped teeth, “What was the dream about, Daddy?”
“I forget,” he replies. He looks at us all again for a beat or two, then starts laughing uproariously. He fixes his gaze on Miles until Miles has no choice but to join in. As soon as Miles’s laughter gains momentum, Fischer silences himself, leaving Miles laughing alone.
Miles awkwardly kills his laugh.
Fischer continues to stare at him with hooded eyes. “What’s the matter, son? Feeling uncomfortable?”
“No, sir, not real—”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“Yes, sir, I’m feeling uncomfortable.”
“Good. I want you to feel uncomfortable. Do you know why? Because you have put me in an uncomfortable position.” Long, silent stare. “The last time I sat down with you... I asked you a very simple question. And demanded a truthful answer. I asked if you had any buried bodies. That I needed to know about. I thought I was being... what’s the word? Metaphysical? Metaphorical. Ha.”
He takes a slow sip of wine, relishes the taste. It is good damn wine, but I need to stay clearheaded.
“I explained to you,” Fischer goes on, “that I was in the process of joining a... fellowship of sorts. With some extremely influential people. International people. With a keen interest in U.S. politics. The kind of people you absolutely do not cross. I told you I had taken a huge risk on your behalf. Recommended you as a potential candidate. For their backing and support. Do you think I did that because you’re my son-in-law?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think I did that because I like you?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think I did that because you’re handsome and make the ladies warm in their woolies?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re damn right I didn’t! I did it because it was good business. I’m handing you the keys to the universe here. And I expect the world in return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway... these potential... ‘partners’ of mine. They liked what they saw in you. For whatever reason. Liked your ‘fight for the cause’ image. Liked the way you come across for the mics and cameras. Your ja-na-say-kwah.” He takes another slow sip of wine. “The one thing I told you... was that if they were going to consider ‘backing’ you... they wanted no baggage. None. Not even a shaving kit. So, you can imagine how... perturbed I was. When I learned you had lied to me. Not on just one major count. But two.”
Miles’s eyes bulge out of his head as he stares at the table.
“Lies of omission, the filthiest kind.” Fischer makes a fist with one hand and rubs it with the other, as if polishing it. “What upsets me... is not that you lied. Be clear on that. In the career path you have chosen, you will lie on a daily basis. An hourly basis. Lying will be your bread and butter. And you’d better do it well. No, what upsets me is not that you lied. But that you lied to me. I am THE MAN YOU DO NOT LIE TO.”
