Chapter 7: Father and Daughter

1

The sound of a telephone ringing was enough these days to scare Frank Tancredi half to death. Maybe it would last, even after the kidnapping. A kind of post-traumatic stress symptom. Frank pictured himself in a room halfway between a shrink's office and an AA meeting, possibly because he unconsciously associated his daughter with both.

What if Sara didn't get out of this alive?

Lincoln Burrows' warning snaked back into his mind.

Would Frank ever hear the ring of a telephone that didn't seem to tell him, You let your daughter die, you let your daughter die.

Frank looked at the caller ID. He was at home, alone, in his study. He identified the number as the kidnapper's and became livid.

The last time they had talked had not gone well. Frank had done as the brothers asked and tried to stall for time. If only the company gave him more time, his veto on the reform bill would feel so much more plausible. But Frank had been a politician too long not to know when his audience was getting the wrong impression.

Those damned brothers. They were supposed to tell him what to do in order to get Sara back alive, not give him things to say that would anger the people who had her.

Frank was too proud to think they had told him how to get her back, and he simply hadn't listened because it implied complying with her kidnapper's demands.

He needed someone to blame, and was in too much distress already for that someone to be himself.

Frank picked up the phone. There was nothing else to do. Part of him knew this was wrong; it was too early. He had talked with the kidnapper only hours ago. He wished the brothers could be in this room with him, that they hadn't gone to check this small town after all. That he didn't have to do this alone.

His hand trembled as he swiped the RECEIVE CALL button.

"Hello?"

"Frank," the voice of the kidnapper was like spiders down his spine.

Silence set in. Frank realized the man was expecting him to talk, and rage flooded his system at how degrading it was to be at his mercy. Mayhem speared into his mind. I should have never had a daughter. I should have lost her as I lost her mother: a tragic passing, beyond my control.

"Is everything okay?" Frank managed.

"I'm glad you asked, sir. I was going to wait until our next phone call tomorrow, but I've been giving our last conversation a lot of thought. If I'm going to be honest, I find it—a little worrisome. You don't mind my saying so?"

"Of course not."

I should have been one of those childless politicians. Spinsters don't do good, but widowers get by. They would have assumed my wife couldn't have children. No one would have thought less of us for it.

To have a child momentarily felt to Frank like the most absurd of ideas.

Creating something you were bound to love, something completely independent from you that could cause you harm by harming itself or getting harm's way—

Absurd. Cruel.

"Good. I've talked to your daughter about it. She's a very good listener, isn't she?"

"Uh—thank you."

The man laughed. "You don't have an opinion? Maybe I've talked to her more this past day than you have in a whole year. Maybe you and your daughter aren't that close, Governor. Would you say? I've asked her, but ultimately it's what you think that matters, isn't it?"

Frank felt at a complete loss. Words were passing him by like drifting pieces of woods down a greyish river.

"I don't—I, eh—"

"You don't know."

"Just—what do you want me to say?"

"You know what I want from you, Frank." The voice darkened. "I've been very plain with you. Don't act confused. Earlier, you were confident enough to suggest we give you more time. That wasn't too smart. I didn't like you overconfident, but I like you less as a stammerer."

Urges for violence had never been part of Frank's emotional reactions. Those he experienced now surprised him so, he forgot to feel anger. Images of brains splattering walls, a face disappearing into red mush.

"Do you know why?" The man asked. "Because it's not what you should feel, if you planned on doing everything we asked. Overconfidence suggests bluff. Your present reaction—that suggests fear. Why are you afraid, Governor? Aren't you going to ensure your daughter comes to no harm?"

"I—you son of a bitch—of course I am."

That was the best Frank could do in his state of turmoil. The kidnapper sighed. Being called a son of a bitch didn't seem to throw him off one iota. "I want to believe you. Do you believe him, Sara?"

Frank's heart froze up. He realized part of himself already believed the man had killed his daughter.

"Mmm." The voice said, as if Sara's answer had made him pensive.

Frank heard himself say, "I want to talk to her." He couldn't wish the words back. It felt like a necessity.

There was silence. Frank expected the kidnapper to sweep away the request with his chilling laughter. Now, you hardly deserve that, Frank, do you?

Instead, he said, "In a minute. First, I want to hear you say we understand each other."

"I—we do."

"Two days from now, during your speech, you're going to veto the bill on gun reform."

"Yes."

"No. I want you to say the words."

Frank felt exasperated then scared. He wants me to say the words because he'll know if I'm lying.

"I'll veto the bill," he said. "I'll ruin my career. I'll put on a tutu and do a little dance, I'll do whatever the hell you want, is that good enough for you?"

Frank caught his breath. He hoped anger would mask whatever the kidnapper was searching for in his voice.

There was a click at the other end of the line. For a moment, Frank thought the man had hung up on him.

Then he heard Sara's voice, "Hi dad."

2

She couldn't screw this up.

Sometimes, when it's a matter of life and death, the imperative is strong enough that you don't think of screwing up. Your body forgets it's even an option. You pick up the scalpel and your hand should tremble as it dives into the intricacy of flesh and blood vessels and organs, but it doesn't.

If Sara could perform open-heart surgeries and not kill her patients, surely she could go through this one conversation without screwing up.

It was her life on the line.

If she said the wrong word, allowed tremor into her voice—

"Hi dad."

She could feel Lance's eyes on her, scanning for cracks.

Her voice was confident, somewhat cynical. After months of sobriety, she lapsed back into that old persona without difficulty. The girl who didn't mind so much if she OD'ed and died before reaching thirty. It'd suck, but it was part of the risks.

Right now was just like that.

Her father was stabbing the syringe in the noodle-shaped vein inside her arm, and her job was not to panic, to pretend he was just putting her to sleep.

"Sara," she heard the fear in his voice. Idiot. Fear would get her killed. "Are you—"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Really, I just watch a lot of TV and get some rest. I've been overworking at the hospital, anyway. I needed the time off."

Her face burned under Lance's stare.

She was so focused on trying to send her father the message, she thought her brain might burst.

Just catch my drift, dad. Let's play this like it's a nasty time to get over with, like my life's not in danger, like you'd do anything to save me.

"Are you—" Her father started. She wanted to think his voice was a little surer. "Unharmed?"

"Perfectly unharmed."

"They're treating you right? Feeding you right?"

"The food's fine."

A thought flashed into her mind.

Such a wild risk, yet she had to take it. If she didn't sprinkle clues into her talk, she would die in forty-eight hours. How tempting it was to just lie low, to wait for that deadline to arrive without taking the smallest chance of making her kidnapper suspicious.

But she had to assume that if her father didn't intend to do as Lance asked, then he was at least trying other measures to save her life.

She had to help him out as much as she could.

She forced out a chuckle. Her old addict-cynicism fit like a charm. "It doesn't change much from usual."

Lance's eyes didn't suddenly become sharper. He didn't pierce laser-holes into her skull or put an end to the conversation.

If people searched her apartment, they'd find dozens of bills for Freshly meals. Knowing that her kidnapper bought her meals from the same company might narrow down their search a little. It wasn't much, but it was all she could give them.

She threw herself into conversation to drown that crucial piece of information. "You don't have to worry, dad. I'm all right."

An icy cold spread through her body as Lance's hand closed around her shoulder. Fear black as midnight opened up inside her and she tried to bury it as she met Lance's eyes. There was that ever-friendly smile on his lips. He spoke softly, "Remember what we said about getting the message to sink in?"

Sara swallowed.

It's all right it's all right he doesn't suspect yet he does I'm going to die.

"You just have to do everything they tell you," she said. "I know you're afraid they'll kill me anyway." That was a good way to excuse Frank's behavior. "But they won't. If they did, you'd have nothing to lose, and you could become a problem. If you give them what they want, you'll get what you want. It's just—business."

"Wow," Lance said.

Sara's eyes burned into his.

"Isn't your daughter something, Governor? You know, I haven't found myself in that situation too many times, but I'm pretty sure usually it's not the kidnapped daughter who does the reassuring."

Frank's voice hardened at the other end of the line. Good, Sara thought. Let us all go back to our precut roles, the hostage and the kidnapper and the angry father.

"If you so much as touch her—"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Governor." Lance removed his hand from Sara's shoulder and gave her a look, like they were both in on the same joke.

It was a good thing he'd interrupted Frank in the middle of his threat. Sara didn't think he had the imagination to finish it.

"Like your daughter said. You get what you want. We get what we want. Everybody wins." Lance's smile widened. "Sounds good?"

"Yes," Frank's tremulous voice.

There was a while of silence, and Sara repressed an eye-roll when Lance's gaze indicated he wanted her to say it, too.

"Yes," she said. The word tasted like rape.

"Yes," Lance repeated, then hung up the phone. "That went well, didn't it?"

Sara didn't answer, didn't move.

Sometimes faces tell the truth, and she was afraid hers was doing just that at the moment, saying, Someway or other I'll kill you.

…

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