“I guess not,” he said, adding a smile.
He cut away the restraints on her arms, then the ones for her legs. She sat up and stripped the tape from her mouth, telling herself to handle these men carefully. “Was all that necessary?”
“You like?” Rócha asked, clearly proud of himself.
She’d told them to be convincing, even suggested using a knife. But she’d never mentioned anything about slitting her clothes and groping her body.
But what did she expect?
These men were undisciplined opportunists, and she’d presented them with a golden opportunity.
She stood and stripped the bindings from her wrists and ankles. She just wanted to leave. “You made the point. We’re done.”
Midnight said nothing, nor did he act particularly interested. He never did. He was a quiet sort that seemed to do only what he was told.
Rócha was the one in charge.
At least while Zachariah was gone.
She wondered about what was happening in Florida, at her grandfather’s house in Mount Dora. The call had come less than an hour ago from Zachariah, saying that her father had driven there from Orlando, a thirty-minute trek east on Interstate 4, one she’d made many times.
Then, another call.
Her father had a gun and seemed about to kill himself. For an instant that had bothered her. No matter what had happened between them, he was still her father. But showing that man compassion was what had gotten her heart broken time after time.
Better to leave the wall up.
She rubbed her sore wrists.
Her nerves were frayed.
She caught both men admiring her bare legs, which protruded from the mutilated pants.
“Why not stay?” Rócha asked. “We can finish the performance. Without the camera.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve had enough acting for one day.”
CHAPTER SIX
TOM WAS PERPLEXED. “WHY WOULD YOU WANT THAT BODY EXHUMED?”
The video feed from the iPad had stopped, the screen once again black.
“My associates are awaiting a call from me. If that is not received in the next few minutes, then the suffering of your daughter will begin. The video was to make clear the situation.” Simon motioned at the gun. “May I have that.”
He wondered, what would happen if he just let the police handle this?
About as much as what happened eight years ago, when he’d needed them to do their job.
Not a damn thing.
He handed over the weapon.
Interesting how defeatism worked. Back in the days when he roamed the world for the next big story, he never would have been cowed by someone like this. Confidence and audacity had been his trademarks.
But they’d also been his downfall.
He’d been a moment away from ending his life, lying on the floor with a hole in his head. Instead he was staring at a man, neat as a bird, who seemed about fifty years old, his hair a mixture of silver and black. The face contained hints of East European, confirmed by high cheekbones, a ruddy tone, full beard, and deep-set eyes. He knew the look. He’d seen it many times in that part of the world. One trait he’d mastered as a reporter had been the rapid assessment of people. Their looks. Habits. Mannerisms.
This one smiled a lot.
Not to convey amusement, more to help make his point.
He was pleased that some of the skills acquired in his former profession had bubbled back to the surface.
They hadn’t appeared in a long while.
“Your father died three years ago,” Simon said. “He lived here, in this house, until that day. Did you know that your father was an important man?”
“He was a music teacher.”
“And that is not important?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Your father taught for most of his adult life. Your grandfather, though, on your mother’s side, was a most interesting personality. He was an archaeologist, involved with some of the great digs in Palestine during the early 20th century. I read about him.”
So had Tom. Marc Eden Cross, whom he’d called Saki, had worked many digs. He recalled, as a child, listening to stories of those exploits. Not all that exciting, really. Archaeology was nothing like what George Lucas and Steven Spielberg made it out to be. In fact, it was a lot like journalism, where the vast majority of the work was done alone at a desk.
Simon surveyed the parlor, walking around admiring the dusty furnishings. “Why did you preserve this house?”
“Who said I did?”
Simon faced him. “Come now, Mr. Sagan. Is this not a time to be honest? Your father deeded this property to you. In fact, it was all he left you. Everything else he owned went to your daughter. Which was not much. What? A hundred thousand dollars, a car, a few stocks, some life insurance.”
“I see you visited the probate court.”
Simon smiled again. “There are inventories the law requires to be filed. Your daughter was named the estate’s administrator.”
Like he wanted to be reminded of that insult. He’d been expressly excluded from the will, all legal responsibility passing a generation. He’d attended the funeral but stayed out of the way, doing nothing expected of a Jewish son. He and Alle had not spoken.
“Your father,” Simon said, “transferred title to this house to you five weeks before he died. You and he had not spoken in a long time. Why do you think he did that?”
“Maybe he just wanted me to have it.”
“I doubt that.”
He wondered how much this stranger actually did know.
“Your father was a devout Jew. He cared for his religion and his heritage.”
“How would you know?”
“I have spoken to people who knew him. He was a follower of the Torah, a friend of his synagogue, a supporter of Israel, though he himself never visited the Holy Land. You, on the other hand, are quite familiar with the region.”
Yes, he was. The final three years of his career had been spent there. He’d filed hundreds of stories. One of the last exposed a rape committed by a former Israeli president that made headlines around the world and ultimately led to the man’s imprisonment. He recalled how, when all of the bad things happened later, the pundits wondered how much of that story had been fabricated.
Pundits. People who made a living finding fault. Didn’t matter what, they had an opinion, which was never good. Pundits had reveled in his downfall, condemning him as a journalist who decided that the news itself wasn’t good enough.
Better to make up your own.
He wished it had been that simple.
“Why does my family interest you so much?”
Simon pointed a finger his way. He noticed the perfect cuticles and manicured nails. “Probing like a journalist again? Hoping to learn something? Not today. All you need to know, Mr. Sagan, is that your daughter is in grave danger.”
“What if I don’t care?” He thought some bravado might be good for them both.
“Oh, you care. We both know that. Otherwise, you would have pulled the trigger while you still held the gun. You see, that is the thing about children. No matter how much we disappoint them or they us, they are still our children. We have to care for them. Like with your father. You and he had barely spoken in twenty years, yet he left you this house. That fascinates me.”
The man called Simon walked toward the pewter menorah on the far table and lightly stroked the dulled metal. “Your father was a Jew. As was your mother. Both proud of who they were. Unlike you, Mr. Sagan. You care nothing about from where you came.”
He resented the condescending attitude. “Comes with a lot of baggage.”
“No, it comes with pride. We, as a people, have endured the greatest of suffering. That means something. At least to me it does.”
Had he heard right?
His visitor turned toward him.
“Yes, Mr. Sagan. Me being a Jew is exactly why I am here.”