Chapter 5
by Aimme
By noon on Wednesday, Zack had been looking for London for hours. And he wasn't usually one to stick something difficult out for fruition. In fact, if something didn't work out easily for him, he usually gave it up; it was a psychological complex stemming from the very basis of his identity—his state of being a twin, and being twinned with a brother like Cody, to boot. He gave up on things because there was no making something for himself; it would be forever lumped with or overshadowed by Cody and Cody's accomplishments, Cody's character, Cody's goals, Cody's life. Cody, Cody, Cody. (God, he missed his brother.)
However, he wasn't wandering around the ship looking for London with an ostensibly uncharacteristic tenacity, unusually apparent, to be pondering the multifariously byzantine nature of his identity and what it meant to be him, Zack Martin. He was looking for her because it was imperative he find a way to save his brother, and London held the key to the next step in that venture.
Because the next step involved a three-and-a-half million dollar ransom and one week to procure it or he'd never see his brother again.
That damning ultimatum echoed in his head and wrenched his heart with a frequency that made him feel sick. Now, it drove him on and on; he hadn't slept last night, he hadn't eaten this morning, he hadn't even thought about the dryness in his throat as being from thirst as well as from the horror and terrified nausea that ate away at him.
His brother was on a deadline, and never before had that word been so heavy. Because this time, the deadline spelled death for Cody; this time, deadline meant a flatline when it passed by. Deadline literally meant the dead part in the beginning of the word.
Zack closed his eyes, as if to block out the thoughts raging behind them. He pressed both index and middle fingers against his temples, as if the pressure could compel the thoughts between them into submission and coerce some slight form of peace throughout his unsettled mind.
There would be no such luck, but he tried to deflect his brain energy to figuring out where London was.
He'd checked the beauty parlor, the Lido Deck, One of a Kind, her cabin, all of her sundry hideouts. He'd asked around, but it was like she had vanished as well, and it was hard enough on him to be dealing with one missing person. He doubted anything had happened to her, but his tenuous emotions today left him aggravated at the least and aggrieved in some far corner of his sick heart most over the fact that he was having such a difficult time locating the heiress.
Truly, he wanted a high-dose painkiller and twenty hours of sleep, then a wake-up call from his brother about being late to class again and hadn't he promised he'd take Cody's shift today? Detention wouldn't accomplish that.
He tried her cell again, but it rang several times and then rolled over to voicemail. However, tired of listening to the same specialized Yay Me! voice tag, he simply hung up without leaving another message.
Really, how hard could it possibly be to locate London? The girl didn't know how to go anywhere without making a scene and making herself the centre of all attention in any given area. She couldn't help herself. It was only when she was distressed and in a hiding sort of mood, which was never good news, he knew personally, that she holed up somewhere and didn't attract attention to herself. Which meant, he would have an emotionally disturbed London on his hands when he did manage to find her.
And on a ship this size, it could literally be days before he found her if she so chose and that dratted ambsace was out to get him. But he didn't have days. He felt he didn't even have the two hours he'd already spent looking for her. And with them gone, so was his patience and that fraying hold on his mental balance, which had been slipping away from him since this whole mess began.
"For the love of baseball, London, where—are— you?" he growled to himself, running his hands through his hair and feeling his final threads of composure and forbearance snapping one fiber at a time.
"Right here." Her voice startled him, speaking calmly and unflappably from behind him. Yet he didn't miss, beneath the easy, almost mocking tone, the small quality skulking there.
He spun around. Sure enough, there she was, beside the ship's railing of Deck 10, looking at him as though, for all the world, it was any other day and the fact that he'd walked right past her while looking for her was about to bring down a slew of contumelies.
"You know, Zack," she began, all that ribbing of derision for his oversight ready to pounce out at him.
"London, I don't have time for that. I need a favor." He interrupted without a hint of shame.
"Nothing quite like getting right to the point, juice monkey." She grinned. "But, I don't do favors. You know that." She shrugged and turned away. "Oooh! Is that the fancy new yacht model they've come out with?" She pointed out to the harbor.
He didn't even bother to glance that direction. "I don't know, I don't care," he answered dismissively. All other important things considered, yachts were at the very bottom of the list, on par with bottom feeders and that mess on the vanity in his bathroom. Besides, what rich uppity-uppities around here could afford a top-of-the-line, fresh off the model-floor yacht?
It was all so irrelevant. He had more important things to consider than these incongruous thoughts.
"Well, fine then. Don't." She pouted, folding her arms. "I'm going elsewhere, to someone who does care. Someone more on my level; someone capable of meeting my par." She turned to go, just like that, without a moment's hesitation when he told her he had a request.
But it was London, and he was Zack. And it didn't deter him or bother him. Not really…
"London!" he snapped at her. (Another fiber of that taut and frayed cord severed.)
…Okay, maybe it bothered him a little.
He needed that ransom money. He needed help. He couldn't lose his brother. He couldn't.
She paused, her next step jerky with hesitation, not fluid. For one who usually moved so easily with such grace, the falter was blatant.
He seized the pause for the opportunity it afforded him. "I need your help."
He couldn't see her face, but he could see the brief grappling with a hesitancy he couldn't understand the roots of, but one he hoped would play out in his favor. The suspension of her departure manifested a tension in her shoulders he could easily see from where he stood, and when she spoke, the resolute, chipper tone had been wrestled aside by the revelation of that uncertainty giving her pause.
"Zack, I already told you, I don't do favors. I don't help people." She lifted her chin and continued walking away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have my next installment of Yay Me! starring London Tipton"—he noted the usual cheery note that accompanied this title was not in her tone today,—"to get to and I can't be more than fashionably late, and I am never without tasteful fashion."
She hurried past a few people, ducking out of the thin crowd and into an empty hall. He didn't miss a beat; he took off doggedly after her, shoving the hall door back open as she let it swing to a close behind her and thus into his face as he followed after her retreat.
"London," he spat warningly, his patience a thin sludge of ice unfit for treading on. "You haven't even heard me out."
"Zackary, I told you!" she answered without glancing back, flippant and dismissing him as easily and indifferently as if he were part of her expandable serving staff.
It was too much. It was the proverbial last straw.
"LONDON!" he roared, slamming the door behind him with enough force a detached part of his mind mused that it was a wonder the glass hadn't shattered with the impact.
She froze.
"You. Have not. Heard me out." He growled, hands fisting so tightly the stretching of the skin turned his flesh to a livid, agonized white.
"Martin," she bit off, "I. Do not. Help people. I can not help you."
Barely restraining himself from smashing a hole in the wall beside him, heated red hazing over his vision, he trembled with a rage born from desperation, from a quiet and powerful and straining misery he couldn't cope with, a loss he could not deal with—that frantic and dangerous feeling he couldn't assimilate. But just who did she think she was? He would not be denied; the stakes were too high for him to take this lying down, too high and too totaling to play nice.
The tenuous hold on his emotions slipped a little farther out of grasp, teetering out on a thin edge ready and willing to drop him without a moment's notice. Another fray snapped loose. "Just how the—the—the hell do you know what I need?" After all, how else could she know she couldn't help him?
She didn't at first reply, just tilted her head to the side, as if to glance over her shoulder at him, only she didn't. Her downcast eyes were glued to the trim of the hallway.
"London, I need that money for the ransom," he inserted in the intervening silence.
She spun around, eyes flashing. "You can't have it!" she snapped. "You don't know what you're getting yourself involved in."
That was the wrong thing to say. To tell him no. To tell him he couldn't have what he needed. Telling him he couldn't have his brother back was a death-wish, because crossing him that way now was a reckless plunge into dangerous territory. She'd said he couldn't have the ransom money; she might as well have said he couldn't have Cody back, because the two were essentially one and the same in his mind.
Trembling, grasping at the straws of his fragmented control, he slammed his fists against his head, knuckles digging into his temples for a brief moment, because he wanted to hit her, he wanted to hit her so bad. Then, throwing his fists back to his sides, eyes flashing and darkened to a dangerous hue as they pierced her, a deadly demand sliced the air. "How dare you." The dark hiss spoke volumes, a barely restrained ire roaring in the cutting timbre.
Her jaw locked tightly. "Zack, I—I can't help you. I can't."
"Yes, you can. You can, you just won't," he shot back. "I always knew you were selfish," he jabbed (she had always been selfish, but she had always come through when it really mattered…), "but I never really thought you were a greedy, heartless snob!"
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been so harsh. Any other time, and he wouldn't have spoken so carelessly, so recklessly. After all, he knew better than to say things like that and mean it. Because, this time, when he said them, they were the worst combination of words and tone, so that the insult drove home into some of London's deepest held and most carefully kept insecurities and sensitivities.
They had grown close, and he knew things about London nobody else knew. And likewise, she knew things about him nobody else really knew, not even Maya, and that included Cody. He and London identified with each other, and when alone, they could be real with each other.
London was like the sister he'd never had (and teased his brother about never wanting). However, with Cody's life hanging in the balance, the pull of flesh and blood on his heart won out over the sway of friendship.
He'd never really want to hurt London. And he'd never have done so, under normal circumstances and any other time…but this moment was neither of those.
Hurt flashed across her face, and he told himself he should feel more ashamed than he did, but he was too angry, too terrified for his brother, and too overwrought with the sheer stress and turmoil of the past seventy-two hours to retract his words and make amends. She'd crossed a line, so he'd cross them right back.
A mixed look settled over London's face—anger, hurt, pity, understanding—but her hard eyes bore into Zack, staring him down for the transgression committed. "You don't mean that," she hissed. "Take it back."
"No."
Her face hardened more, closing off. "Last chance, Zackary. Take it back."
Zackary again, huh? She was in a snit today, wasn't she? Even before he'd taken a jab at her, she'd been snippy. If he hadn't been so focused on their argument, he might've wondered why she was in such a sharp-tongued, curt mood.
But he couldn't be bothered to wonder about her and her feelings; that taut, fraying cord was unraveling quickly now, and his grip was slipping further and further.
"You. First," he snarled. After all, she was the one to commit the first offence; she should make the first restitution. She had barreled past that taboo boundary without apology, without compunction, and he was not in a gracious mood.
"And for just what, do you suppose, should I go first for?" She snapped this derisively, but in her frown mingled both anger and callous confusion.
"I need that money." How could he hope to stress this enough? And how could she be so clueless, so indifferent? She had to care for Cody too, right? God, she'd been with them forever. His brother was annoying and a know-it-all carping prig, but it was Cody; everything else was a moot point at this juncture, because, everything else aside, what it all came down to is that it was Cody and he couldn't lose him. He couldn't.
"And I've told you, Zack. You don't know what you're getting yourself into." This wasn't as snappy as before, but rampant worry still steeled her tone into a warning voice cautioning him against refuting it. "You don't know what people like them can do."
He stared at her, silent for a moment, watching, reading, scrutinizing her and weighing this announcement. She was right, of course; he didn't know detail by detail what these people were capable of, but he knew enough about depravity and enough about criminals to know that lowlifes like them were capable of no small cruelty. And his brother was in the midst of it.
And ultimately, that was the only aspect of this situation he cared about. Nothing else mattered, because only Cody mattered; he didn't care about anything these men were capable of, except what they were capable of doing to his twin.
For her part, London was scared; but he wasn't exactly not afraid, either. Frankly, he was terrified witless.
"London," he began, slowly, searching for the words, for his argument. "You…you're right, I don't know, not intimately. But what I do know, is that Cody'll be intimately acquainted with whatever they are capable of because he is with them. And that is worse. He's stuck with that lowlife scum."
London shook her head; once more, outright refusing his case. "Zack, you're too close to this." She intoned firmly, and though she may have meant well, it only stirred his irritability.
That edge he was out on wobbled, that cord giving just a little bit more. "You bet I am!" he shouted before she could continue, but though his control had been snapping steadily, this barely constrained outburst was toeing the line. "That's my brother, London. Scratch that. That's my twin. I'm closer to this than anybody, and I have more to lose than any of you!" It may have been another jab, insinuating she wasn't helping because she didn't care enough about Cody to feel she would be losing anything, insinuating the authorities weren't doing everything they could because they weren't personally invested in the case and thus they wouldn't be out anything if Cody was never returned to his family; but more prominently, and thus most importantly, it was his heart bleeding through, because losing his brother would be a fate worse than death for him.
"The stakes are higher for me than they are for you, and I will do anything to not lose." His tone was quieter now, but with such a deathly serious note that it was hardened to a firm quality which brokered neither refusal of its magnitude nor dismissal of its grave nature.
"You've got to stay out of it." London's voice matched his, but beneath the gravity of their discussion evident in her tone, a desperation ran wild, even if he didn't recognize the plea beginning to slip into her words. "Let the authorities do their jobs, Zack, let them handle this. They're trained professionals. And they know the criminal climate here. We're in unfamiliar territory, Zack. This isn't our place. We can't get involved; we've got to stay out."
When did a mutual plural come into the equation? He eyed her silently for a moment, recognizing the truth and well-founded caution in her words, but he didn't want to accept that. As already stated, he was too close to this, and he couldn't just sit idly by.
On one hand, it may have seemed uncharacteristic of him to be unable to let others do all the work for him. But on the other hand, he had different fingers, and thus an entirely different scenario to contend with: his brother's life was on the line. He'd been called plenty of things—lazy, useless, an idler, an idiot, etc. —and all were essentially the same insult, and all had followed him around for years, but none of them applied now. None of them could belong to his name anymore. Because there was this tight, burning knot in his stomach that drove him on and he could find no rest—so how in the world could he be a bystander? There was no peace, and he had to do something. He couldn't stand the inactivity.
Maybe he wasn't the same person he had been a week ago; maybe he never would be. That didn't matter. What did, though, was that he would certainly be indelibly, undeniably changed, different if this story didn't end happily for him. If he lost his brother… he'd absolutely lose it.
For all that Cody annoyed him and drove him crazy, for all that he was so caustic and rude to Cody, he had never truly wanted his brother to disappear. He never truly liked being without him. For starters, being without Cody for a week—a week—while his brother was at math camp had driven him up the nearest proverbial wall, down the other side, and back up again for every waking moment and every restless snatch of sleep (which had been his only reprieve, however scant and troubled it had been) he had had to endure during that difficult time. To be without his brother for the rest of his life…it terrified him. It devastated him. It tore him apart.
"I get what you're saying, London, I do. But…" His voice suddenly choked off at the next words.
Because, being without his brother for the rest of his life…it made him come undone.
The edge dropped out from beneath him, the control he had on his emotions breaking completely, the last fibers snapping free.
"But I can't…I can't just leave him like that." And now he's crying. He's crying and he never cries, because he stopped doing that a long time ago. Maya hadn't ever seen a single tear in his eyes, for example. But this is his brother, and he couldn't leave him and he couldn't lose him. He missed him too much, and it's driving him crazy; he hurt too much, and nothing changed that; he's driving himself ragged with all this, but it's not helping. Nothing helped.
And he's sinking down on to a bench, and he's crying and running his hands through his hair, and he couldn't think. He could barely breathe. He couldn't operate past the devastation swelling in his chest, feeding off the desperate misery eating away at his heart.
If London's dismissal had been the proverbial last straw, this was the world crashing down on the broken back of his shattered control and burying him six feet under all the despair he'd been fighting.
He bent his head down low and he curled in on himself. And as he placed his elbows on his knees, he clenched his hands into a tight, white-knuckled grip in his hair, crying harder than he'd let himself do in a long time. Since the first night spent away from his father, since that night when he'd been taken away from every scrap of security he had ever known.
He'd lost his father. His mother had betrayed him. His parents had torn his world to pieces. And all throughout it, all he'd had was Cody. Any constant he'd ever had since had been Cody, and now that was being torn from him, too.
"I can't do it, London. I can't leave him like that." The burning sobs were, somehow, cooling the heat of his anger, but his voice was still resolved even beneath the wobbling and cracking as he cried. He hated crying, but finally giving vent to all the pent-up turmoil and anxiety that had been haunting him was ultimately very relieving.
"I'm sorry, Zack," she whispered, and he looked up at her, his shoulders jerking with a sob, to see her face screwed up as she fought her own tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I…I can't…" he managed weakly, brokenly.
London shook her head vehemently at him; then she was rushing over to him, collapsing on the bench beside him and flinging her arms around him in a fierce hug. She, too, was crying; not a pathetic, woe-is-me-pity-me cry, but hard sobbing, the kind that's stuff of heartbreak and sheer, unprecedented misery.
As they held each other and cried, Zack forgot about all else. At that moment, nothing computed in his brain and nothing existed past the pain that roared inside of him. All the stress, unrest, and the agonizing disorder inside of him slowly sluiced from his system, and he didn't know how long he sobbed into London's shoulder, nor could he bring himself to particularly care, for the expunging of so much he had bottled up was needed and he was lost in it.
Finally, his tears had calmed to quiet hiccups and the occasional soft sob. He clung to London and slowly felt all the strain and tension drain out of him and for the first time in days, he relaxed, actually relaxed, for whatever brief amount of time it was so.
"I can't do it. I can't." He whispered.
London nodded. "I know. I know."
He shook his head, as if refuting the acknowledgment, or perhaps just the soothing quality embedded behind the words. "No. I mean I really can't. I can't leave him like that. I can't lose him. If I lose him, I… if I do, I'd…" He scrambled for words, but he couldn't articulate anything. He just ended up emphatically repeating, "I can't do it, London, I can't."
"I'm sorry, Zack, I'm sorry." Her fingers loosened and then re-fisted in his shirt as she, too, clung to him. "I don't want to lose anyone else. Zack, please…I don't want to lose anyone else."
Her words spoke volumes, and just as he'd finally broken, they'd finally reached the true cause of her refusal to help, to let him have the ransom money. She missed Cody, too; she was raw from the loss, in many ways like he himself was. And she was so worried, so scared, she was going to lose more of those she cared about, that she was going to lose him, too, to this mess.
So he loosened his grip and pulled back, putting his hands on her shoulders and bracing her. Meeting her gaze squarely, he said categorically, unequivocally, "Then let's not lose anyone."
She stared at him silently, searching his gaze for any reservations, but she could find no guile and no misgivings. Just pure, unswerving determination. The purposed sentiment steeled his blues to a hard glint, an unquestionable slate that was definitive: he would not take no for an answer, and he would stop at nothing to do what he had to do.
Who was she to stand in his way? Who was she to condemn Cody and damn Zack to having to live with that fate? She was London Tipton, but she had no place doing so. First and foremost, she knew she could not be responsible for Cody's death and Zack's bereavement. She didn't want to lose her friends, and the pull of her love for them on her heart was beginning to win out over her sensibleness in the situation.
So, despite her better judgment, she found herself caving. She was, after all, a caring person at heart.
Releasing a shaky breath, the fight left her; her shoulders dropped in defeat as she gave an acquiescent nod. "Alright, Zack. Alright." She capitulated softly, letting him know he'd won.
He pulled back further, releasing her, and strained a smile, but it was tainted by the heartache still evident in his eyes and the tearstains on his face. "Thank you, London."
She nodded absently as she stood, reaching for her cell phone. So it had been on her, and since she didn't have to turn it on, she must have been ignoring his calls. That was more proof which confirmed his growing suspicions—she had been avoiding him.
He swiped at his face as she speed-dialled her father; he let out a shaky breath of his own, a small measure of relief stealing over him for a brief moment, but he was still tense, on pins and needles, because, although he had won London to his cause, there was Mr. Tipton to contend with now and the business giant was an entirely different kettle of fish—and quite a one to be reckoned with, to boot.
So he perched on the edge of his seat, waiting with a numbing sense of dread.
"Daddy? I need three-and-a-half million transferred to my bank account pronto!"
"London! Ah, there you…oh, Zack." Mr. Moseby was coming down the hall from the opposite direction they had originally entered, intent upon his own task: which had also been to find London and talk to her about the ransom, though the manager had forewarned Zack, with a heavy doubt, that it would be no mean feat to persuade London. Zack hadn't wanted to listen, and, of course, he was nowhere near giving up then…as he wasn't now.
"Why? I told you Cody's been kidnapped. They want a ransom for him!"
But now, it was a matter that had completely escaped Zack's hands. If London couldn't sway her father, then this had all been for naught. There was no recourse, no alternative. It was lights out for Cody, wasn't it? And to say Zack was on edge as he sat awaiting that verdict—which would either be a blessing or would be a condemning sentence—was an understatement. He was practically about to be sick.
He looked up at the ship manager, giving a brief nod to acknowledge the address as Moseby slowed to a halt from his quick clip down the hall.
Moseby only had to take one look at the ill at ease edge on Zack's face, London on her phone, and having only these elements to work off of was enough to know what was going on. Hearing the one-sided conversation was a big clue, too. London was being very direct.
For London's part, this was no mean feat to stand up to her daddy. Her father was a man who would sooner teach people not to cross him than learn how to negotiate, and thus he was a very hard man to reason with, a man who prided himself on just how un-agreeable he could be.
"Londy, I fail to recognize how that has anything to do with us." Her daddy was so stubborn, so mean. And he was insulting and closed off without giving any argument a chance.
"Because, Daddy, it's our fault!" She started, but he interrupted before she could elaborate.
"And how is that?"
Remembering that virtue known as patience, she inhaled deeply and with a concerted, controlled effort forged ahead with her elaboration now. "We're Tiptons, and when they found out Cody is associated with us, they brought a ransom into the equation. If we don't pay, Cody dies." Remarkably, she managed to keep herself together on those two horrible words.
"London, I've warned you about this kind of thing. We don't get close to people. We cannot get involved; it is not our business."
"Yes, it is. It's our business!" London refuted sharply, her patience with her father quickly waning. The man just didn't understand, and he certainly didn't really know her. He might be able to distance himself from people and disregard the lives of others, but she couldn't do it. She just couldn't. It wasn't in her.
"Must I take you out of there? If you don't distance yourself, I will take measures to ensure you do." Wilfred's voice had steeled. In his defense, he was worried for his daughter, but London doubted he knew what was best for her. He knew her face, her name, but did he know who she was?
"It's too late for that, Daddy." She wouldn't be treated like a child, and she wouldn't be told to abandon the family who had been a real one to her.
"London, you cannot help these shipmates of yours. You will not. They are just people, and people for us are expendable. There are bigger issues at work, and next to them—"
"How dare you!" She snapped, not a hiss as Zack's had been, but with the same deathly incredulity that had been in the older twin's tone.
"London, I will have Captain whatever-his-face leave Jamaica altogether if you do not—"
"His name is Lunceford, Daddy, and you can't stop me from helping my friends. I'll just get off the ship right now with my family and there's nothing you can do about that." Because she knew, ultimately, even Mr. Moseby would be on her side—even if it cost him his job—and if the manager was, then there was no one on the ship to order her detention.
"London, I am your family—"
"Daddy!"
Her tone was enough to communicate she was serious and her father couldn't win this one. That she wouldn't be deterred or convinced to do otherwise.
The line grew silent for several moments; only London's quiet fuming and her father's contemplative heavier breath echoed in the receivers. Then, at last, "Fine. We will pay the ransom for this Brody fellow."
"Cody, Daddy." She corrected with the calm exasperation of one practicing a routine.
"Whatever." Her father dismissed indifferently, unfazed. "On one condition, London. You stay on the ship, where you are safe."
She briefly contemplated if her father was going to double-cross her, by getting her to comply and then telling the captain to leave instead of paying the ransom as agreed. But it was a risk she would have to take, and she'd put precautions in place to ward against such a betrayal coming to fruition.
"This is a dangerous situation. Getting involved with criminals is never something done lightly, and the criminal climate there is different than our own. Bear that in mind. London, we have no jurisdiction. You must be careful. Stay on the ship." Her father's worry seemed genuine, and knowing she had no other choice, she found herself complying.
"Yes, Daddy. I will."
"Good. Now I'll see you next week in Peru."
"Uh-huh," she started doubtfully, then caught herself and answered cheerfully with a big (forced) grin, "Alright, Daddy! See you then! Bye!" Then she hung up before he could answer and released a heavy breath. That had not been easy, and now she was tense as well as stressed and worried for Cody. She needed a massage and pronto.
But first, priorities.
She turned to face the other two waiting behind her, Moseby's expectant gaze and Zack's apprehensive aura. She met Zack's gaze and the older twin stared back, searching her eyes for an answer with a desperation that made her hurt worse. At least she could give him some scrap of good news…
"He said yes."
The reaction was instant, and while Moseby sighed with relief, it was Zack's reaction that was the more prominent. She could visibly see the tension flee him, like a flood rushing out when a dam breaks.
For Zack, the announcement was the last block between him and relaxing. Now, with the promising words hanging in the air, relief swept through him, and in the wake of the way he felt purged after his hard cry, all the pressure and the strain drained out of him and he slumped into his seat, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and empty.
"He only had one condition," London continued, "and that is that I stay on the ship."
Zack nodded absently, agreed with this stipulation, but his thoughts were elsewhere. And elsewhere as in his thoughts were scattered and muddled; he couldn't string a proper thought together now, as, in the wake of his relief, the past several days began to catch up with him.
"Good, London." Moseby answered, clearly relieved with this course of action as well.
Zack wasn't listening anymore; his head was pounding from having cried, and his ears felt awash with muted sounds as though he were underwater. In fact, he didn't quite feel right. It was the stress of the last few days catching up to him, and the way he had been driven restlessly on since that call about the ransom yesterday.
He tried to concentrate, tried to focus. When he stood, intending to speak with Mr. Moseby about all these new developments, vertigo seized him. His vision slanted sharply out of focus, the world spinning, and he felt weak, so weak…
"Zack!" the voice must have shouted his name, but it sounded muted, slowed, and far away, as though coming to him from across a great distance and through many leagues of water, and he was resting at the sandy bottom with a million tons of water weight crushing down on him…
No, wait. That was the floor. And it was carpet bristles underneath him, not sand. And his ears were swimming with vertigo, not water.
He felt light-headed, yet his head also felt far too heavy, too heavy to lift. Someone's hands were on his shoulders, and he wished they'd stop jostling him. He felt sick enough already; in fact, he rather suspected he would be sick.
Whoever was touching him lifted him into a sitting position, but the movement didn't settle well on him. Head spinning, vision blurred, he suddenly found himself being sick right there on the carpet. Since he hadn't eaten since whatever he had nibbled on yesterday at lunch, harsh stomach acids burned his throat as he spit the bile on to the floor.
"Zack!" A hand worriedly touched his brow, and the touch felt refreshingly cool against his skin.
"I'm fine," he whispered hoarsely, wearily sitting back and was silently thankful for the arm around his shoulders supporting him.
"You're flushed and throwing up, Zack. You are unwell." Mr. Moseby quietly refuted him, and he suddenly equated the hands supporting him with the manager's voice, and thus the manager's person.
He managed a sigh in response.
"When did you last eat?" Moseby demanded, carefully helping the unsteady teen to his feet.
Zack searched his memory, his foggy head refusing to clear. "Yesterday…lunch…" he answered slowly as the details surfaced.
"You ate half a bowl of soup," Moseby countered. "Have you eaten nothing else since then?"
Frowning at the concern in the older man's voice, the older twin pushed away from his support and backed up. "Moseby—" he started, but was unable to finish due to a bout of vertigo. He closed his eyes against the dizzy rush and tried to not let his legs give out from beneath him again.
"Have you at least had anything to drink?" London pressed, flanking his other side and placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up at her blankly and her frown grew more pronounced.
"Zack, not taking care of yourself isn't going to help get Cody back," Moseby admonished sternly.
"Let me guess, you didn't sleep last night either?" London prodded sarcastically, but when she didn't receive a response, her expression darkened. "Really, Zack. What good will you be to Cody if you collapse and end up back in the hospital because you aren't sleeping, drinking, or eating?"
"That's it, Zackary," Moseby announced in his fatherly, in-charge voice. "You're to rest this afternoon. The doctor told you to take it easy./"
"But, Mr. Moseby—" he started protesting. Rest? What a ludicrous notion! He couldn't rest…sleeping didn't help. If he wasn't awake and haunted by all this, then he was sleeping and tortured with dreams and nightmares and fears. Why should he rest when his brother's fate hung in the balance?
"Zippit," Moseby cut him off. "No buts. There's nothing you need or can do at this juncture. For now, you will rest. Your blood sugar level is low, you are dehydrated, and you are still recovering from a concussion. London will help you back to your cabin, while I find someone to clean up this mess. When I have, I will drop by your cabin. If you are up to it, we can discuss all of this and come up with a plan of action. But you, sir, will rest."
And he knew there was no arguing with the manager. He felt too weak and drained to do so anyway.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been left alone, but Cody was beyond bored. After all, there was only so many times one could count the stains on the ceiling and contemplate the square root of that number or factor in the number of cracks in the floor and ceiling as well and find the common denominator or median of the various numbers.
With nothing to do, he was doing an exorbitant amount of thinking about his family and his life and anything to keep his mind occupied. Mostly, he thought about his mother, wondered if she knew he was missing, how worried she must be; just as often, he thought of his brother, and wondered how Zack was coping. Oh, he knew his brother cared about him…but how upset was Zack really? He couldn't really picture his unflappable, aloof brother frantic.
As he ruminated on these questions, he heard the clank of the door unlocking and the handle turning. He was sitting on the floor, resting his head against the wall, but when he heard the noise, he wearily lifted his head and stretched the stiffness out of his neck.
He glanced up as Sam entered, familiar frizzy curls and lopsided grin first sight of a friendly face in hours. She carried a bowl of what he presumed was soup, as he could not see from his seat on the floor, and a cup of what he knew would be water. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and he realized it'd been too long since last he ate.
"Hey, Cody," she offered him a small smile, absently tossing her hair out of her face as she nudged the door closed with her foot.
"Sam," he greeted back, wincing at his dry throat. It was hot in here and the room was so dry. Still, he tried to smile back, and shake loose the dark, miserable thoughts.
Sam winced. "Ooh. You don't sound so good, you sound like—"
"I'm a prisoner in a room without proper ventilation or the means to keep myself hydrated, awaiting my fate that's in the hands of traffickers." He finished with grim humor.
She gave a short, wry laugh. "And your humor is about as dry as the air in here."
"Hello," he emphasized dryly, brows rising slightly, glancing around as if viewing the air itself.
She laughed again. "Well, how about a drink then?"
"I'd love one." He reached out a hand for the cup as she came over to sink down beside him. He drank deeply, water as he had known, and reached the bottom wishing there were three or four more cupfuls for him to down.
"Food." She offered, holding the bowl up as he set the cup down with an unsatisfied sigh.
"Anything at this point." He took the bowl and began eating, ignoring the metallic taste that told him it was something out of a can. At this point, he knew better than to be his usual picky-eater self.
As he ate, Sam leaned back against the wall and absently twirled a lock of hair around her finger, covertly eyeing him. He was intent on the food, though how he managed to be so hungry at a time like this, and considering he couldn't do more than sit around and be chased to insanity by boredom, she couldn't fathom. It must just be one of his quirks… she smiled.
So she'd developed a bit of a crush on the captive. He was generally a nice sort, he'd treated her fairly and kindly, which was less than she could say for many people she had run into in this business in which her father carried on, and he was so different than everything else she'd ever known. Like a taste of freedom or a world outside of the only one she knew, the one she had grown up in knowing there must be more beyond…
She shook herself lightly, trying to dispel these thoughts.
"So…" Sam began softly.
Cody glanced up at her and quirked a brow. "Yes?"
"Er…" she continued intelligently. Great, now you sound like an idiot! "It must get pretty boring in here." She gestured around the room as she sought desperately to come up with something to talk about. She wanted Cody to like her and she wanted him to share something, anything about himself. She'd already tipped off a little bit of her hand when she came in and spoke to him about her father and about her life in general.
"It does." Cody answered as he spooned the last of his soup into his mouth.
"How do you fill the hours?" Sam asked, straining a smile at him.
Cody eyed her; his eyebrows drew together to form a slight furrow above the bridge of his nose. "With the only thing I can do. Think."
She nodded. "Sounds like fun," she teased, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"Oh it is." Cody retorted. "Loads. Next time you have a moment, just try it out. Long stretches are the really good ones, of course."
Sam laughed. "Please. You're so full of it, Codes."
The younger twin gave a soft start, startle racing through his eyes. No one had called him "Codes" in years, and the last person who had called him that was his brother…man, he really missed his brother. He missed his friends and the boat; Mr. Moseby and Ms. Tutweiller; his bed and clean clothes; nutritious food and decent water; textbooks and school; routine and even his job…but most of all, he missed his twin.
Suddenly, he found that Sam's usage of the old, long-unused nickname…hurt. It hurt like the dickens and then some. It hit too close to home and brought him so much strife—from missing his brother, for the reminder it brought to him of Zack, and also from the distance between them, for they had been drifting apart as they grew up, and Zack hadn't called him "Codes" in what suddenly occurred to him as far too long.
And he hated it.
"Don't…don't call me that," he whispered hoarsely, but emphatically. Abruptly, he felt no one had the right to call him that except his brother, even if Zack hadn't called him that in far, far too long. Sweet textbooks, how long had they been drifting apart? The time had never occurred to him, that they hadn't been close in years, but all of a sudden, the years and the distance bowled him over and he ached with the loss, a loss he had never realized he'd been carrying around all this time.
Funny, how chaos and tragedies and disaster can bring realizations like that to the forefront. It was almost tragicomic.
Except that it hurt more than it was humorous. Fancy that.
Sam looked startled at his outburst and withdrew slightly. "I…I'm sorry, Cody," she stuttered out. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Great, now he felt like a slug, too, on top of all the miserable, dejected hurt broiling around in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Scientifically speaking, the blood-pumping organ was still there and it hadn't changed, but right now it felt like it had been replaced by a tight knot of pain instead.
"No, Sam. I am sorry. It's just…" he hesitated, that knot of pain twisting and wrenching slightly at the thoughts that overloaded his mind; a lump suddenly formed in his throat. He forged past that, trying to quash down the heartache threatening to quite unexpectedly make him come unglued. That would not do right now. "My…my b-brother used to call me that."
There, he gave her an explanation, since he had owed her one, and he had managed it without too much difficulty, too much stuttering. He blinked rapidly and dropped his eyes, for there were tears in them and he just didn't know about actually letting himself cry right now.
"Do you…do you miss him terribly?" Sam asked softly.
Ha! wasn't that putting it lightly? Oh, if only she had any idea… "Quite," he answered quietly, swallowing hard.
"Well…maybe you will see him again soon," she offered with a helpless, slight shrug.
Cody looked up, his brows drawing together as he frowned at her. "What do you mean?"
Sam shifted and glanced around, as though to see if anyone were eavesdropping, but no one else was in the room and the door was shut. Then she leaned in closer and whispered, as though afraid of getting caught divulging sensitive information, "They're going to ransom you."
"What?" It was not that what she said didn't make sense; it was that it caught him off guard and he found the suddenness and unexpectedness of it caused him some disbelief. They were…ransoming him? Since when and why? What would be the significance or point of…oh. Because he was friends with London Tipton. They figured they could get something more for the cost of his life than if they sold him into slavery to some irking, unprincipled lowlife.
It certainly explained a few things. But that did not make reality any more comforting.
If nothing else, it bothered him that in these people's minds, his life was so worthless it could have a price tag put to it and he could be bartered for and haggled over for paper and ultimately meaningless currency when one considers that life is priceless.
He kind of had to wonder if people in this business, both the wretched seller and the revolting consumer, would quickly change their tune if it was their own life being degraded thus.
Funny how that worked.
"Yeah…" Sam shifted uncomfortably, looking a little unsettled. "Um…Cody?"
"Yes?" he prompted, turning his attention back to their discussion.
Sam fiddled around with her shirt for a moment. "Your brother…is he…would he…he's the kind of person who will stop at nothing to get you back, yes?"
Cody leaned back against the wall, considering his answer. Something was eating at Sam and he didn't want to rush his response, especially considering the miserable thoughts and feelings that had been keeping him company all these long hours. And even somewhat during their conversation.
"Yes," he finally answered. "Yes, he would. Zack can be very…determined. When he wants to. And he always comes through when you really need him." And Zack, I really need you now… This is bigger than anything before, I know, but please don't fail me, buddy.
Sam nodded, looking a little bit relieved. "That's good. Then he'll come by that money no matter what he has to do for it."
"Yes," Cody answered quickly this time. After all, he had to hold to that. He'd go mad without that thread of hope to cling to.
The girl looked even more relieved with this response. "Excellent, then," she said softly.
Cody frowned. "Why?" he asked, clearly referring to her reactions.
"Cody, it's a ransom. Why do you think?" she retorted.
He pondered over this, but the only possibilities which came to mind unsettled him and did not make him feel any better. "What happens if the ransom is not paid?" he asked quietly.
Sam shifted around uncomfortably, disturbed.
"Sam?" he pressed. "What happens?" He wanted a confirmation or a denial of what he was thinking…
"The stipulations I heard were that if the ransom is not paid in time…it's…lights out for you." She whispered these last words so quietly he almost missed them, but hear them, he did.
His heart sank as it exploded with sheer fear and disbelief and pain. No, no, no… He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to consider it. Death? Why death? It terrified him.
Zack wouldn't be afraid of death, that little voice of inadequacy taunted him. He tried to shake it off, but he knew the retort. Zack wouldn't even be here. Zack knew better.
Which is why he had to take a page from Zack's book. Zack always knew how to find a way around any situation. Always knew how to exploit his resources to get whatever he needed or wanted.
So Cody, mind already made up and plan already laid out in his mind, leaned closer to Sam and whispered, "That's why I'm not just going to sit around, waiting on everyone else to decide my fate. I'm going to find a way out of here."
Sam stared at him, startled and wide-eyed. "What? How?"
"Sam, I have to get out of here," he began his explanation slowly. He felt he could reveal a little bit of his plan, because if she wasn't on his side, anyway, it was history. He was history. Well, not textbook history, as he hadn't accomplished anything worth note in that department just yet, but rather…never mind. "I have plans; I have a future. I have a family. Sam, you have to help me."
She quickly pulled back, vehemently shaking her head. "No, Cody, no. I can't. My father—"
"Your father doesn't have to know. Please, Sam, when it is time, promise me you won't give my escape away."
She sat back, pondering this. Could she do it? Could she cross her father? Did this young man deserve to die simply because her father was in an unsavory business and she was afraid of standing up to him? Could she live the rest of her life with his life on her head along with all the others she had only ever seen? Perhaps it was that it was Cody and she had gotten to know him a little and he'd been so nice to her, but she knew his blood on her hands would be a weight she couldn't live with.
She had to choose and she had to pick a side. For now, though, she had to play things carefully. She didn't want to cross her father and she didn't want Cody to wind up dead…what a dilemma, that one was. She had to play her cards just right…she had to find a way to walk that line between the two extremes.
"Alright, Cody, I'll do what I can."
Concealed by shadows stretching across the dock, Edwin stood watching the SS Tipton, brooding darkly and unhappily. This ship, these people, this whole circumstance had become nothing but a thorn in his side. He was a quick-tempered, hot-headed man…and all of this made him angry. Which was never a good thing—anyone who had half a wit about them knew this.
That teenager, that Zack Martin, was making a damned nuisance of himself. Edwin didn't give a flip about the investigation, not truly, and he didn't care that the boy could—probably would—lose his brother. None of that mattered to him. Like Mr. Tipton, to Edwin, people were expendable. Whatever gave him the leverage to get just a little bit more ahead.
But nothing was going as smoothly as he wanted it. Nothing was going exactly the way he wanted it.
Jack Matthews…Edwin should have known he hadn't seen the last of the old cop. He'd forced him off the precinct, but it seemed that that had not so easily and totally gotten rid of the bluenose. More importantly, Edwin was no idiot and he was quite aware he'd been one of Jack's targets ever since; he knew that the PI was out to get him, for all the blood on his hands and the crimes to his name.
Yet, Edwin hadn't come this far just to be ousted by some goody-goody with a twist in their PI khakis.
He knew better than to take his chances with that Jack Matthews. The other man would stop at nothing to see him taken down.
Edwin smiled without any real humor at that thought. Perhaps, in that, they were not so different. Both would do whatever they had to in order to get what they were after.
Edwin would have to play a good game from here on out. He couldn't let on that he was stonewalling the investigation. He needed, though, some proper leverage and to come by some false leads. He needed to lay some false trails.
Wouldn't that be peachy? To see that old thorn in his side, that wretched Jack Matthews, run around on a wild goose chase, trying to do the right thing?
At this, Edwin grinned with true humor and malicious glee. That would make all this quite worth it.
What Edwin didn't know, though, was that while he was eyeing the ship and planning his next move, he was also being watched and another was planning their next move.
Jack Matthews, equally concealed by shipping containers and piles of rope, after all, hadn't worked all those years with Edwin without learning much…perhaps too much. He knew enough of Edwin's tricks. And he had learned them well.
That would be why right now, instead of being back at his office poring over records and examining whatever police files he could come by, et cetera, he was spying on the chief of police.
Jack's true motive was to see Edwin taken down. The PI would stop at nothing to see that done. No more lives needed to be destroyed. No more.
So he had decided to take a few pages from Edwin's book and now he was tailing the police chief with a solid purpose of seeing the other go down with this investigation. Wherever Edwin had gone, he had gone. Whatever Edwin intended to do, he would know it.
Wherever Edwin went from here, he would be right on the other's heels. This all ended now. It would all end this time around.