No Way Back (A Shannon Ames Thriller Book 5), page 15
So who’d taken her? And why had they worn the same facial makeup as TIK – or, for that matter, fans of the Insane Clown Posse? Was it a coincidence?
In the absence of an answer, she considered her missing person status. By now, most certainly someone had made a report – it had been three days. Rachel, probably. But maybe Mateo if Rachel wasn’t around – she was sleeping with a married professor and sometimes disappeared herself.
Who were the cops on the case? Washington PD, maybe New York. It could be FBI because of the two jurisdictions – she lived and worked in both places. Police would be talking to all her friends and family. Accessing her phone records …
That won’t tell you much.
No, there was nothing on her phone that would indicate she was about to get kidnapped, in broad daylight, in the middle of New York City.
She thought back to the man following her. The ball cap he wore. Her drag-along suitcase getting stuck. That damned pebble in the wheel. He’d caught up to her after that.
What if the wheel hadn’t jammed? What if she’d still been walking amongst the other New Yorkers whom she’d crossed Eleventh Avenue with? Most certainly, the men would have figured out a way to separate her from the pack. They’d seemed confident, practiced in what they did.
Were they ex-flipping-Mossad? Was that whom she was dealing with?
She watched Mahdi out on the deck. She didn’t know where the other two were – they’d been out there moments ago, then left, leaving the one man alone. Mahdi had the gun – the Beretta, if it was that – tucked into a waistband holster at his back. A little black Velcro holster. He dragged on his cigarette, gripping with the crook of his first two fingers, a kind of European way to do it.
You’re making shit up in your head.
Maybe.
When she was a girl, she’d made up stories. Her hometown was small, under five thousand people, and not much happened. She’d crafted headlines for her own amusement. Her father had been the one to first suggest journalism.
She missed him. Gregg Fain had been brilliant and he’d been outgoing; someone who genuinely liked people. And he’d been a wonderful dad.
Why did they always take the good ones young?
Mahdi finished the cigarette. He dropped it into a coffee can and just stood a moment, seeming to gaze out at the pines and alders. The lake beyond – she could just see a slice of it, a breeze stippling the surface.
He slid aside the glass door and stepped in. At first he didn’t meet her gaze, but studied his phone. He swiped, read something, then put it away. Finally, he looked at her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Yeah? I’ll go get you a Gatorade.”
“Thank you.”
“You bet.” He walked off into the kitchen, where she heard him rummaging around for the drink.
You bet …
Some of Mahdi’s expressions reminded her of Mateo. What are you – Avon calling? Someone who’d learned the language in part from watching American television.
And they never offered her water, only Gatorade. She wondered why. Maybe they worried she would learn something if it tasted soft or hard – sulfuric or tannic?
You’re overthinking. This is the problem with you. The answer to all of this is much simpler.
“Blue,” he said, reappearing. “I got you a blue one. Blueberry Riptide.’” He twisted the top, the air making a little pop, and took a sip. “Ah. It is delicious.” After drinking, he set it aside and came around behind her. He cut the zip ties on her hand.
She rubbed her wrists. Now is the time. Say something. “My wrists hurt from those things. And my legs are numb. I’m sitting in this chair all day.”
“We give you bathroom breaks. You walk then.” Now that she was hands-free, he gave her the drink.
She didn’t care that he’d already sipped from the bottle. She didn’t even think he’d done it to upset her; he’d just wanted a taste. The liquid was lukewarm. Salty and sweet, but room temperature.
Whose house was this? Why didn’t Mahdi use the refrigerator?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’ve seen their faces. They’ll never let you go now. They’re going to kill you.
After drinking half, she returned the bottle, and he capped it. Scowling, he tilted his head at her. “You’re shaking.”
She tried to keep her voice even. “How long am I going to be here?”
“It depends.”
“On … what?”
“Partly, on you.”
The panic was rising again. She felt herself cracking. “I’m doing everything I’m told. I’ve been sitting in this chair for three days. I’m sleeping in this chair. My neck and back hurt, my circulation is bad – look at my feet. They’re swelling. How can you keep me like this? What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
Mahdi shushed her, looking around as he patted the air. “Okay. Okay. You want me to walk you a bit?”
“What I want is to be let go. Or if you’re not going to let me go, if you’re going to hurt me, at least tell me why!”
“I can’t do that. You need to be quiet now.”
She’d been too terrified to speak for the first twenty-four hours. Now she was practically making demands, nearly screaming. “Then do something. Give me a bed to sleep in. I can’t keep going like this. Sitting here day after day. I’m going to go crazy!”
“Okay – stop. Don’t do that.”
“What do I care? What do I have to lose? Can I at least have a change of clothes? You have my suitcase, don’t you? Where is it? Where are my things?”
He bent to eye level. So close she could feel his breath on her skin, see the flecks of blue and green in his otherwise dark brown eyes. “You have everything to lose, Ms. Fain. Your past, your present, your future. Don’t be foolish.”
For a moment, his words almost didn’t register. Emotion roiled through her, blocking out rational thought. But she brought herself under control: if he was saying she had her life to lose, maybe there was still hope. Yes, he could be bluffing. But she didn’t think so.
“Okay. Yes … Please. I’ll take a walk.”
“Good.” He sighed with relief. “Very good.” He helped her to her feet. It was true; they felt like they were swelling with liquid. Her numb legs prickled as the blood returned.
Mahdi took her the same route as he did every time she wanted the bathroom: around behind the chair, through the living room and into the dark dining room with its chairs upturned on the table. After that, into the hallway that led to the bathroom. And, she assumed of the closed doors at either end, to two bedrooms.
Every trip she made down the hallway – at least, after recovering from the initial, unobservant shock of her situation – she’d noticed the nails in the walls, but the absence of pictures.
Once they reached the bathroom, Mahdi asked her if she had to go.
“No, thank you.”
He hesitated, perhaps waiting to see if she was being modest.
“I really don’t. I’m fine.”
If anything, she longed for a bath or a shower. The men were bathing; she was pretty sure she’d heard splashing in the lake. She would take anything right now – a sponge and a bucket would be heaven.
Meals, at least, had been three times a day. Though with no one cooking and no one ordering takeout, they ate dry food: cereal for breakfast, peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches for lunch, and fruit and cheese and crackers for dinner. The fruit – apples and bananas – were room temperature. Stashed somewhere on the premises was a cache of food, a seeming stockpile of abduction supplies. How much did they have? How long was it intended to last?
You’re doing it again.
She counted the nails in the wall as she shuffled back down the hallway. Six nails. No pictures. She focused on that as Mahdi walked her back to the chair. “Again?”
“Yes, please.”
It was hurting her feet, but her legs were still waking up. She didn’t want sores, for one thing. And if there was a chance to run, she wanted her strength up.
“Mahdi!”
The voice startled her; she tensed. A moment later, she saw them standing in the open kitchen doorway. The one in front, with the coarse beard stubble, was staring. “What are you doing?”
“Just taking her to the bathroom.”
The man’s hard gaze switched to Kristie. “I didn’t hear the toilet. The plumbing.”
“Ah, maybe we forgot.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mahdi.”
Mahdi put Kristie back in the chair. He reattached the zip ties around her wrists, and from her ankle to the large chair. “Okay, I help her to walk because her legs …” He seemed to search for the words in English and then finished by explaining in Arabic.
The man retorted rapidly and angrily, a slew of verbiage indicating his clear disapproval.
Mahdi seemed sheepish, keeping his eyes lowered until the man stormed out of the room, back through the kitchen. Kristie heard a door slam.
The mustached man remained. Mahdi moved into the kitchen with him, glancing back at her before disappearing. His face had changed. What had been open in him was closed. If she’d had an ally there, he might be gone.
Kristie hung her head.
Don’t …
But she couldn’t help it, and she cried.
24
Day Five: Friday
The interview room at the Washington field office was walled in gray concrete, fifteen by fifteen, with one large section of one-way glass for observing.
Dark rinds of fatigue underscored Nickerson’s eyes. He’d been missing sleep, no doubt, fixated on his predicament. His hands still locked together in front, he leaned forward against the table across from Shannon, as if propping himself up.
The door cracked open, and an agent came in holding a canned soft drink. The agent was named Matheson, from the Washington office. Shannon had managed to bring in Nickerson alone, and he’d been processed through the WFO, but having an additional agent work with her on the questioning was nonnegotiable. And there was no mechanism by which she could transport Nickerson to New York. Nothing legal, anyway, that didn’t violate his rights. It had to be here.
Nickerson lifted up out of his slouch and pulled back the tab on the can after Matheson set it in front of him. He drank for a few seconds while Shannon watched him. His mind seemed elsewhere.
Matheson, well built with a ruddy complexion, took his seat and activated the recording device on the table, which resembled some high-end auto part more than an interview mic. “Okay, let’s get started.” He named himself and Shannon and the senator and noted the date and time.
“Senator Nickerson has waived his right to counsel. He has further not invoked his right to silence, though he’s been Mirandized. Senator Nickerson has also consented to both a search of his office on Capitol Hill and his home in Falls Church, Virginia. And he has waived the Speech and Debate privilege afforded to members of Congress, which claims a congressperson cannot be prosecuted for information involving his or her legislative duties. Senator Nickerson, I appreciate you being so cooperative. We all do.”
Perhaps Matheson referred to the agents observing from behind the glass. Tyler was hidden there with them, having flown in just moments before.
Nickerson said, “I want Kristie found as much as anyone else does.”
“That’s fine, yes. Right. Or – and I think we have to address this up front – you could want the appearance of that.”
And so it began.
Nickerson faced the Washington agent. “Why else would I be here? I’ve said it’s not me in the video, and we can’t see if it’s actually Kristie or not – her face is always turned away. Is it even really evidence? I could have fought this, I could have invoked the Speech and Debate privilege, but I didn’t. I’m here. Without a lawyer.”
“It looks like you in the video,” Matheson said.
“Because it’s a fake. A good one.”
“Right. A ‘deepfake.’ We’re working on that; we’re checking it out. But if this technology has gotten so sophisticated, it might be a hard time proving it’s not you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m sure you have people who can detect that sort of thing. They’re learning how to spot it at Facebook, at Twitter. They’re making algorithms that can recognize it. I’m sure the FBI, the DOJ, has something.”
“And why this fake, though, Senator? What’s the motive?”
“To get me to vote yes.”
“On the infrastructure bill. The one with the surveillance provision.”
“Correct,” Nickerson said, with grit in his voice. He was exerting effort to keep himself from yelling at Matheson.
The Washington agent leaned on the table. “I don’t know if I have to tell you this, Senator, but law enforcement, people like me, are generally in favor of that provision.”
“I’m aware. And in my opinion, you’re in favor for the right reasons. But it’s the wrong approach.”
“Let me ask you, Senator Nickerson. Can you see how this looks? Someone trying to coerce you to vote yes … well, I’m motivated for you to vote yes. How about me? Am I the one who set this all up?”
“Of course not.”
Shannon spoke up for the first time. “Senator Nickerson, it’s likely that an investigation will soon open looking into these extortion allegations. But that will be a separate case. Right now, I’m conducting a missing persons investigation. I want to find Kristie Fain.”
He looked at her with less enmity than he regarded Matheson, but still seemed alienated, unconfident whose side the FBI was on. “They’re obviously linked. My situation and hers.”
“How do you think they might be linked?”
He seemed to assess whether she was manipulating him. She wasn’t.
“I showed you the text indicating what I was supposed to do. To vote yes. What more do you need? It’s a setup to coerce my vote. And Kristie is … she’s a part of it, clearly against her will. I didn’t do this. And if she were here, she’d say the same.”
“The implication there is that she’s been abducted for her silence. Precisely so she can’t corroborate that it’s a fake.”
“I would say that. Yes. Exactly.”
Matheson interjected, “Can you see how that seems convenient?”
“Convenient? If you were in my position, you’d understand how that word is antithetical to everything I’m going through.”
“I’m saying – and maybe I’m missing something – that your story is a perfect cover if the truth is that you had Kristie Fain abducted to keep her from talking about her sexual assault.”
“That’s not the truth,” Nickerson emphasized. “I’m telling you the truth.” He was getting worked up again.
Shannon intervened. “Senator, let’s go back to the night of the fundraiser. Did you ever get in that elevator?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“To do what?”
“To go to the bar on the roof, at one point. But I was with several people.”
“Were you ever in it otherwise?”
Again, he seemed to pause. “I was. I went to the room.”
Shannon made a note. “You had a room?”
“Sure. We expected the fundraiser to run late. There’s lots of schmoozing, lots of glad-handing. My office booked several rooms for anyone who needed to stay.”
“And did you? Stay?”
“No. I had my driver take me home. I went up to the room just to use the bathroom. Splash some water on my face. That sort of thing.”
“And you were alone?”
“Yes. I was alone.”
“Can you approximate what time this was?”
“I know exactly what time it was. Because I sent my wife a text while I was in the elevator. It was 11:33. You people have my phone. Check it. You’ll see the text.”
“Your wife wasn’t with you that night …”
“Correct. She wasn’t. She was at home in Virginia. Our Falls Church home.”
“Is that normal for her to stay back when you travel to the city?”
“I travel constantly; I’m a senator. She accompanies me on certain occasions. Yes, to answer, it’s normal for her to stay home when I’m away. We have three kids, all grown, but two live in the DC area, and my wife spends time with them. We’re a close family, and I’m a happily married man. So the look the two of you are giving me–” Nickerson pointed at the agents, then aimed his finger at the one-way mirror “–the thing everyone in there is thinking right now: Did I go upstairs with Kristie Fain? Did I get aggressive with her in the elevator? Did I assault her? It’s absolutely untrue. Do you hear me?”
Nickerson’s skin, getting red, stood out against his white button-down shirt open at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing bulging veins in his forearms. His blood pressure, Shannon thought, must be currently through the roof.
“Senator …”
“What?” His eyes snapped to her.
“When did you see Kristie Fain that night?”
“I saw her half the night! She was sitting at the table next to mine. Right near me – I could lean back and say things to her and her to me. Kristie has been working with me for three years. She’s one of my best people.”
“Did you see her at the bar upstairs after the dinner?”
“Yes. But from afar. And she – I don’t know – I think she left some time after that. I went to my room – well, I went back downstairs, first, to the lobby, to see some people off who were leaving. That’s when I went to my room to use the bathroom and freshen up. When I returned to the rooftop bar, she was gone.”
Matheson asked, “How much did you have to drink that night, Senator?”
“Oh, please. A glass of wine at dinner. A short whisky at the bar before I went to my room, then another after. Three drinks over four or five hours.” He turned his gaze back to Shannon.
“Did you change your clothes?” she wondered. “When you went to your room?”
“I did, actually. I took off the suit jacket and changed my shirt and left the suit jacket in the room. One of our New York assistants, Jake, picked everything up for me afterward. You can confirm it with him.”
