Nick Stephenson - Panic

“Whoa, hold on a minute,” said Mary. “What do you mean, ‘lying’?”

They had barely begun their drive from the senator’s house back toward Manhattan before Mary let loose a torrent of questions. Leopold had yet to provide a satisfactory answer, and Mary wasn’t trying to hide her irritation.

“Spit it out then,” she pressed. “We can’t go round accusing senators of lying without any evidence!”

“I’m not going to accuse him of anything,” Leopold replied calmly, turning in his seat to face her. “I know he’s lying, which will help us figure this whole mess out. I’m not saying I know what the truth is. Yet.”

Jerome turned onto the main road back to the city and put his foot down. The SUV reached cruising speed quickly, the sound of the engine and the wind noise coming through from the gaps in the crumpled chassis forcing Mary to raise her voice.

“Fine. Then at least tell me why you’re so convinced he wasn’t being honest,” Mary demanded.

Leopold sighed. He had hoped that Mary would simply trust his judgment, but he supposed he was far too used to Jerome’s unquestioning loyalty.

“First of all,” he began, “picture what the senator was wearing.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Mary. “He had been up all night, still dressed in the same clothes he was wearing the day before.”

“That was the intended effect,” the consultant explained, “though his shirt was a creased mess, it was clean on that morning – I could smell the laundry detergent. A man doesn’t wear the same shirt for more than twenty-four hours and still smell like he’s just put on freshly washed clothes.”

Mary didn’t look convinced.

“Add to that,” Leopold continued, “his behavior throughout the visit. Take his drinking, for example. He poured himself a measure of scotch from a sealed bottle. Why wait until we’d arrived to start drinking? I didn’t see any empty bottles or used glasses in the other parts of the house, and the scotch was the only bottle in the cabinet.”

“So what?”

“So, he’s either running out of booze, or he simply wants to be seen to be drinking. As though that will give him the appearance of a desperate man.”

“I’m not buying it,” said Mary.

“Why else would he only start drinking when we arrived, except to be sure we would be there to see it?”

“It seems like reasonable behavior to me,” said Mary, “considering the circumstances.”

“By itself I wouldn’t have thought twice, but it was other things too. His bed was unmade, but he hadn’t slept last night? A sloppy mistake.”

“He’s just distracted, that’s all.”

Leopold leaned in closer to the police sergeant, his voice becoming more animated. “Do you remember what he asked us to do, Mary?”

“Of course,” she replied. “He asked us to find Christina.”

“Think carefully. The senator’s actual instructions to us were that we needed to find the kidnapper , not his daughter. He couldn’t even bring himself to mention Christina’s name. I’d bet my life Senator Logan knows exactly who the kidnapper is, but what I can’t figure out is why he wouldn’t tell us.”

“If he’s involved, why would he hire you?” asked Mary.

“He’ll want to be seen doing the right thing. It’s better to have someone like me – someone you’re paying – working for you, rather than getting the FBI involved,” said Leopold. “Unfortunately for him, he thinks I’m the kind of person who would allow himself to be controlled.”

“Say you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, but let’s pretend what you’re saying makes any sense – how do we get some answers? I’d like to avoid getting into any car chases, if I can help it.”

“Oh, that’s easy. We go find Christina and ask her a few questions,” said Leopold, pulling the folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “These two names are a good place to start looking.”

“What if someone’s tracking us? Those guys that ran you off the road probably aren’t the only ones looking for you.”

“We can do a sweep for any tracking units once we get into the city,” said Leopold. “If we find anything, there shouldn’t be any issues removing it. Anyone wanting to follow us is going to have to use a more old fashioned approach.”

Christina’s eyelids flickered, letting in some of the dim light. She was sitting upright, that much she could tell, and the chair was cold and hard. She tried to stand up, but found she couldn’t move. A quick glance confirmed she was tied to a chair with some kind of rope, unable to move her limbs or hands. The room where she was sat was warm and smelled of dust, as if it hadn’t been used in quite some time.

She blinked hard several times and the room shifted slowly into focus as her eyes tried to make out familiar shapes in the gloom. A gray shadow moved in the corner. There was something else in the room with her.

“Are we awake?” asked the shadow.

Christina tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. The shadow moved again, drawing nearer. She could make out a face now, and eyes flecked with silver, catching the little light available in the room.

“We’re going to have some fun with you,” said the shadow.

Christina felt a hand on her shoulder. The shadow caressed her bare skin with thick, rough palms, gently stroking her neck and arms. She wanted to be sick. Whatever drugs were in her system were playing tricks on her mind. This wasn’t happening.

Then Christina saw the knife and screamed.

Jerome pulled the SUV over to the curb on West 114th and turned off the engine. After a cursory sweep of the vehicle’s exterior, the bodyguard located a small black box fixed to the inside of one of the wheel arches. He tossed the device into a nearby trash can and kneeled down to get a better view of the undercarriage. Satisfied, he gave the all clear and gestured the others out of the car.

Columbia University’s enormous Butler Library backed onto the street, which was lined with rows of brick-fronted apartment buildings owned by the University Trust. The street was adorned with flags, hanging haphazardly from the many bookstores and apartment blocks that loomed overhead, but the wind hadn’t yet picked up enough to rouse them. Jerome fed a handful of change into the parking meter, and the three of them made toward a set of tall black gates that opened onto the rear entrance path to the University’s Morningside campus.

It was only just midday and the sun was out in full, along with what seemed like the entire university student body. The path opened out onto an enormous courtyard, with Butler Library at the closest end and the Low Memorial Library at the farthest. In between the two buildings was an expansive grassy area signposted as South Lawn, which was intersected with pathways leading up to the steps of the library, where a crowd of students shuffled around looking for their parents following the graduation ceremony earlier in the day. Hundreds of others were either walking through the campus or were sitting on the grass reading, laughing, or playing Frisbee. Leopold led the way toward the Low Memorial Library steps at the far end of the lawns, where the University’s administrative departments were housed, weaving in and out of the crowd.

“I ran a search on Stark,” said Jerome, catching up to Leopold and holding out his cell phone. “There’s an entry on here from several years ago that caught my eye.”

“Ex-military?” asked the consultant.

“Yes, just like the senator said. Except this particular branch of the military only takes the best of the best. Stark was the leader of a black ops team stationed in the Middle East until five years ago.”