“How could they know you were here?”
Gabriela gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t seem to have any secrets anymore.” She hesitated, then, reluctantly, she looked out again. “I just can’t tell. I thought somebody was there. But the next minute he was gone. I—” Then she whispered manically, “The dead bolt!”
Sam stared, cocking his head.
Eyes wide in alarm, Gabriela asked, “Did I lock it?” She walked quickly out of the living room around the corner to the hallway and then returned. “No, it’s okay. Everything’s locked up.”
Sam now took her place at the window, looked out. “I see shadows, I see some movement. But I can’t tell for sure. Could be somebody, could be a tree blowing in the breeze. Damn streetlight’s out, the one in front of the building.” He glanced at her. “Was it working earlier?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think maybe it was. How could somebody shut out a streetlight?”
Sam didn’t answer. He too stepped back from the slit between the drapes. He crossed the room and sat on a hassock near her. She’d noted earlier that he was in good shape but hadn’t seen clearly how slim his waist was, how broad his shoulders. His muscles tested his suit jacket and white shirt.
Gabriela raged, “Jesus, I hate this!.. Sarah, what’s she going through? What’s she thinking? What—?” Her voice choked. Then she breathed in and out slowly. “How soon, do you think, until we know?” Daniel and Andrew had left about a half hour ago to meet Joseph.
She wiped a dot of blood from her lower lip.
Sam said, “Hard to say. Joseph’s got his own agenda, you know. The... someone in his position pretty much has all the power.”
Gabriela could tell he’d been about to say “the kidnapper” but didn’t want to add that, maybe so that she didn’t become more upset.
She exhaled slowly, pressed her rib cage. Gave a faint wince. “I hate the waiting.”
Sam said awkwardly, “They’ll make it happen.”
“Will they?” she asked, in a whisper. “Joseph’s a crazy man. A wild card. I have no idea what he’s going to do.”
A fog of silence filled the dim room, a silence engendered by two strangers who were waiting to hear a child’s fate.
“When exactly did it happen?” Sam asked. His suit was unbuttoned, his tieless dress shirt starched smooth as Sheetrock.
“When did Joseph kidnap her?” Gabriela asked; she wasn’t afraid to use the word. “Saturday morning. Yesterday.”
Forever ago. That was the phrase that had occurred to her but she didn’t use the expression with this man, whom she’d only known a few hours.
“And how old is Sarah?”
Gabriela responded, “Six. She’s only six.”
“Oh, Jesus.” His long, matte-dry face revealed disgust, a face older than that of most men in their mid-thirties. A jowl quivered.
She nodded, a token of thanks for the sympathy. After a pause: “I hate Sundays.”
“I know what you mean.” Sam’s eyes regarded her again: the new black jeans bought on the run while she and Daniel were being chased through the streets of New York. They fit poorly. A bulky, unbecoming navy-blue sweatshirt. He’d been noting her mussed auburn hair, and a gaunt face whose makeup had long ago been teared away. He scanned her lean hips too, her abundant breasts, but clearly had no romantic or lustful interest. She reflected, Whatever his circumstances or preferences, I’m sure I look pretty bad.
She rose and walked to the corner of the apartment. There sat a black backpack, from which the price tag still dangled. She unzipped it, then withdrew a smaller gym bag and, from that, a skein of yarn, some needles and the piece she’d been working on. The strands were deep green and blue...
Echoing a line from a song.
One of her favorites.
Eyes red, demeanor anxious, Gabriela sat once again in the shabby plush purple chair in the center of the living room. Though she clutched the yarn, she didn’t begin the rhythmic, comforting motion, so familiar, with the red knitting needles yet. She touched her mouth with a tissue. Looked at the wad, which was white as fine linen, now blotched red. Her fingers were tipped with polish of a similar shade.
Then, tap, tap, Gabriela knitted five rows. She coughed several times, pressed her side, below her right breast, her eyes squinting shut momentarily. She tasted blood. Copper, salty, bitter.
Concern rippling his brow, Sam asked, “If it’s bleeding like that, shouldn’t you go to the emergency room? It looks worse.”
Gabriela gave a brief laugh. “That probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Didn’t Daniel tell you what happened this afternoon?”
“Oh. Sure. Wasn’t thinking.”
“I’ll live with it until I get Sarah back. Then I’ll have things taken care of. In the prison hospital, most likely.” A cynical smirk accompanied this comment.
She studied the apartment once more. When she and Daniel had arrived two hours ago she’d been too preoccupied to notice much. In addition to being filled with beat-up furniture, and exuding a sense of the temporary, it was gloomy, particularly now in the oppressive dusk. She supposed this atmosphere was mostly due to the tall ceilings, small rooms, gray wallpaper flecked with tiny pale flowers. Her eyes went to the wrought-iron coffee table in the middle of the room. Its spiky edges looked like a weapon from a science fiction film.
Pain...
The table set her nerves aflame. But she thought yet again, as she’d done so often in the past two days: Your goal. All you should think about is your goal.
Sarah. Saving Sarah is your only goal. Remember that, remember that, remember that.
Gabriela asked, “You work with Daniel much?”
Sam replied, “We’ve had a relationship with him and The Norwalk Fund for close to seven years.”
“How many people’ve told him he looks like the actor?” She was thinking back to Friday night — could it really have been just two days ago? — meeting Daniel Reardon for the first time. Then later that evening: recalling his damp brow, speckled with moisture, and beneath, his blue eyes, which were simultaneously easy and intense.
“A lot,” Sam said and again rubbed his bare, shiny scalp. “I don’t get that much: Are you this or that actor?” He was laughing. He had a sense of humor after all, maybe.
“And the head of your company, Andrew — what was his last name again?”
“Faraday.”
“He’s a fascinating man,” she said. “I’ve never heard of a specialty like his before.”
“Not many companies do what we do. He’s made a name for himself. Travels all over the world. Flies a hundred thousand miles a year. Minimum.”
She knit another row of blue and green. Tap, tap.
“And your job, Sam?”
“I’m a behind-the-scenes guy. The operations chief for the company.”
“Like me,” she said. “I run my company’s office and...” Her voice faded and she gave a sour laugh. “I ran the office. Before all this happened.” She sighed, dabbed at her mouth once more, examined the tissue and continued knitting, as if she was simply tired of receiving bad news. She gave him a wry look. “Operations chief also has babysitter in the job description?”
He opened his mouth — a protest was coming — but then he said, with a grin, “Was it that obvious?”
She continued, “It doesn’t make a lot of sense for you to be involved in this except for one reason: to make sure I stay out of their hair.”
“Daniel and Andrew are negotiating your daughter’s release from a kidnapper. What would you do if you’d gone with them?”
She shrugged. “Scratch Joseph’s fucking eyes out.”
“That’s what Daniel figured. Better for you to stay here.”