CHAPTER 10: Wolves
1
Sara didn't like the look on Lance's face when he came back that night. His blue eyes looked away from her, burning like lasers. His fingers drummed absently against the door after he closed it. In his other hand, a bag of Freshly hung dully.
A knot crawled up Sara's throat. Should she say something? Wait for him to speak?
"Evening," she said.
Lance liked her to be polite. Maybe politeness would shake him out of whatever state he was in. "Good evening, Sara."
His eyes met hers and froze her on the spot. No irritation in his voice and yet, the vivid certainty that this man could kill her with his bare hands flashed through her head.
He stepped closer and dropped the Freshly bag on her bed. "Sometimes," he said, "I get paranoid."
Sara tried to swallow the knot in her throat, but it only tightened. It'd be a miracle if she managed one bite of food tonight. "I'm sorry about that," she said.
"Don't be. It's worth it. Sometimes I'm paranoid, and then sometimes I'm right. You know those moments when something just doesn't strike you the right way? Like sitting at the theater. You're familiar with suspension of disbelief? Sara?"
She started, and the look on his face indicated she failed to hide it from him.
If you don't answer right now he'll think something's wrong, and so much the worst for you.
"Yes," she said.
"Smart girl."
She took deep breaths, and pictured a fork of lightning stabbing him through the head, a hurling train blowing him to pieces.
"At the theater," he said, "you sit there and watch it all unfold, and you suspend your disbelief. Right? Richard III is not just some old man wearing clown clothes. The décors aren't cheap pieces of cardboard. But sometimes the illusion drops, and you see everything for what it is."
Silence dropped between them. "I don't know where you're getting at," she said.
"You don't, really? Good. Because I just had one of these moments dealing with the delivery boy."
Sara's tongue turned to stone. The delivery boy. Had her father figured out her message? Had he sent someone?
But even then, how could Lance know—
He knows.
How do cats know when a dog draws near, even before they've started to growl? They just know.
"But like I said," Lance resumed, "sometimes I'm paranoid."
Sara didn't answer, And sometimes you're right.
"Do you want to live?" he asked.
Her tongue lay glued to her mouth.
"At first I assumed you did, like everyone does. I did do some research on you. Nothing personal. I like to be thorough. But I didn't think just because you were an addict, you'd be the kind of person who's reckless with their lives. After all, that's all in the past for you, isn't it?"
Sara said nothing. Could say nothing if she tried.
"Besides," he continued, "not all addicts have a death wish. Some do drugs because it makes them feel alive. How old were you when you started using? I have the date of your first arrest for possession and theft from the hospital, but I assume that came much later."
Sara's tongue untied somehow. "It has nothing to do with you. I'd rather not talk about it."
The look on Lance's face changed. Silence settled for a second, and Sara couldn't determine whether the change had been for the better or for the worse.
His wish for domination battled with his self-perception as a gentleman, and lost. "I shouldn't have brought it up."
Then for a reason Sara couldn't imagine, he opened the Freshly bag and peered inside. When he looked up, a salesman's smile had settled on the bottom of his face.
"You know what? I've been a really bad host, you must be tired of takeout. I'll cook tonight. Are you too hungry to wait?"
The knot in Sara's stomach hurt so bad, she thought she'd never be hungry again. She shook her head.
"Good."
Kellerman walked out of the room and locked it. On his way to the kitchen, he dropped the Freshly bag in the trash.
2
"Do we have to wait a whole day?" Lincoln said.
Michael could hear him pacing around his apartment over the phone. A creature more impatient than Lincoln would have to be science fiction. Michael remembered the first computer they'd had at home, a dinosaur by today's standards, and how the slowness of the machine used to drive Lincoln mad. He'd go to the kitchen to make himself a snack while it switched on, and if it wasn't done by the time he came back, he took a trip to the bathroom he didn't need or walked around the garden. If he'd had to sit opposite the thing while it snailed its way to ignition, he'd have probably punched a hole through it.
It was a few minutes past midnight, less than forty-eight hours before Frank's speech.
"We aren't going to waste the day," Michael said. "But yes, this is the safest way for Sara."
"And you're absolutely sure it'll work?"
"No. Absolutes at this time would be a mathematical impossibility."
"You know, you're the worst comforter Mike."
"I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to save Sara's life."
A sigh at the other end of the line. Lincoln was silent a beat. "Okay. Talk me through it."
"When I got back from my delivery, I spent the whole evening at Freshly's, studying Owen Kravecki's orders from the past few years."
"That must have been—"
"Necessary."
"I meant boring."
"I know you did. But it was worth it."
"Okay. Tell me."
"For a while in January last year, Freshly had a peanuts fad. They put them in almost every meal."
"And?"
"And Kravecki systematically called to have them removed from his orders."
"So, he's got a peanut allergy. I fail to see how it's going to solve anything."
"Tomorrow evening, we ask the people at Freshly's to put some peanuts in one of the meals. He can't eat it, so he'll have to give it to Sara. In the other meal, we crush some sleeping pills. We hide a message in Sara's meal, rolled into a tiny ball protected with plastic."
"What if she swallows it?"
"She won't. We'll dip it into some innocuous substance to make it bitter."
"If she spits it out in front of her kidnapper?"
"She's clever. She'll know how to react to make it seem normal."
"Go on."
"In the message, we'll tell her rescue is coming, that if her kidnapper falls asleep in front of her she should take the key from his pocket and get out as soon as possible."
"And if he doesn't? How do we know when he's eaten, when to come in?"
Michael thought of the slabs on the ceiling he had seen in Kravecki's hall. He could crawl in there if need be. He said, "Leave that to me."
3
Kellerman dabbed oil into a baking pan and poured a frozen bag of lemon rice inside. He had nothing fresh to cook, and he didn't remember buying that rice. Maybe it belonged to the apartment's initial owner, or maybe the company had packed the freezer full before releasing it to him along with his fake ID.
The face of the delivery boy flashed through his mind as the smell of frying rice rose in the kitchen. Come to think of it, he hadn't been a boy. Not old, but old for this kind of job. The two keen orbs of his eyes made Kellerman want to reach for his gun. Was he right, or was he paranoid?
He took his cell phone from his pants pocket and called Freshly on speed dial. After a few-second wait, the familiar response arrived, "Freshly, what can we do for you tonight?"
"I'm calling about one of your delivery boys, David Apolskis."
"Uh—sir, I'm not supposed to give you information about that."
Lance tamed the turmoil in his voice so it came out sweeter than melted ice cream. "I heard he was sick, I just wanted to make sure it was nothing serious. I have a little girl at home with no immune system. Since I've been in contact with David last night, I'd like to know if I need to check into a hospital to make sure my girl will be all right."
"Oh gosh, I don't know." He heard the girl put her hand over the phone and ask, "Is Dave sick?"
He pricked his ear to catch the answer over the ambient noise. "Apolskis? No. He just went on a delivery, we had smokes before he started his shift."
The girl spoke into the phone again, "Look—"
"I understand," Kellerman interrupted. "I won't take up more of your time. Have a lovely evening, miss."
"Good luck. I hope your girl's going to be all right."
This flash of sympathy surprised Kellerman. "So do I."
He hung up. A sour smell seeped into his nostrils and he looked down at the pan. The rice was stuck to the bottom, turning brown around the edges.
"Shit."
He cut the fire under the pan. The face of the delivery boy—Michael—filled his mind.
No delivery boy at all, but a wolf with his paw dipped into flour to make it white. Such a wolf may fool a lamb, but not another wolf.
Sighing, Kellerman poured the content of the pan into a plate, grabbed a fork and headed back to Sara's room. She sat on the bed above her hands, legs crossed. Nervous, but who wouldn't be in her situation?
"Here," he put the plate on the bed, aware of how she held her breath as he drew near her. "I'm afraid I burnt it. It won't taste good, but I don't think it'll kill you."
"Thanks."
The word must have torn the skin off her throat, and yet he couldn't hear how much it cost her. A rich girl like her, he supposed she'd had to be polite to a number of disagreeable men before.
He usually stepped back from the bed after giving her the food, but this time he didn't move. Why shouldn't she be uncomfortable? People reveal themselves best under pressure.
"You believe in honesty, Sara?"
Her eyes didn't waver from his. No choked sobs in her voice. "That depends," she said.
"So, you don't."
"I don't believe in anything absolutely."
"Fair enough. Well, I think in such a situation, you and I should be honest to each other. Don't you?"
He watched her throat, but she didn't swallow. "It sounds appropriate," she said.
"To tell you the truth, I'm upset."
Still, her face didn't move. No eye twitch, no tremor at her lips. "About what?"
"I think someone may try to come after you, tonight or tomorrow." He gave her time to react and watched her composure come undone, only for a few seconds. "Yes, that means your father broke my rules and hired someone behind my back. What I'd like to know is, did you know about it?"
He spoke softly. After all, he wasn't angry at Sara. If anyone was ever to judge him for the wrong he'd done in his life, he hoped they would note the softness in his voice right now.
"Not that it'll change what happens to you. If your father screwed us, you'll pay for it. Unfair, I know, but there's nothing fair about politics. I'd just like to know."
Her jaw clenched. She had recovered her strength. "From the moment I woke up kidnapped inside this room, I've had no contact with my father aside from those you supervised. Whatever he's done, I don't see how I could have known about it."
"You're cleverer than he gives you credit for. Maybe I've underestimated you, too."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Not yet."
If he said Yes, she'd drop all efforts for politeness and everything between them would end. In thirty seconds, she'd be a mask of teeth and nails, trying to tear her way out of here. He didn't want this to happen. Better spare her from turning into a mass of brute survival instincts. Better for them both.
"I may have to move you," he said. "But now, your father will have someone watching the area. They'd follow us. If we stay here though, we're playing into their hand."
Seconds stretched like molasses as they looked deep into each other's eyes.
"I know it was you who told them how to find us," he said. "Through the deliveries. You said something about that, I can't remember what exactly. It's the only way they could have found us."
She said nothing.
"Are you waiting for your lawyer? Hate to tell you, he isn't coming." Still silence. He sighed, "What good will it do you to make me angry?"
"It changes nothing," she said. "You won't kill me because you're angry. I could say exactly the right thing and you'll still kill me."
"There are ways to die," he said. "You think it doesn't make a difference now, but it will."
"Not to me. I'm not going to be on my best behavior so you can stay on yours. I don't want your kindness. We can both stop playing nice."
"What a pity," he said, and meant it. He liked playing nice so much better than bad.
…
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