Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

“Where’s Lorenzo?” Nat said.

“We took him down to the cave. She-Grace wanted company in case it was a long wait.”

They fell silent, waited. After a while Izzie picked up a mirror, made a few adjustments to her hair. “I wish you wouldn’t be like this,” she said.

“Like what?” Nat said.

“Brooding, or whatever it is. What’s the point? It’s done.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not? The only way to undo it is to make us look like idiots.”

Nat said nothing. There was an unfamiliar sharpness in her tone; he put it down to tension.

“You know what your problem is?” she said.

Tension, for sure. He’d never heard her on edge like this, not close. She wasn’t herself. Perhaps the girls had made a mistake: maybe Izzie should have waited in the cave while Grace handled things up here.

“What’s my problem?” Nat said.

“Fear of success,” Izzie told him. “Which I always took for psychobabble. Now I’m thinking it exists after all.”

He felt that one, so close to ambition should be made of sterner stuff. It didn’t matter now. Someone with the money was on the way. Someone gave the money to Izzie. Izzie gave the money to no one. Grace emerged. A little hanky-panky, then back to normal life. It sounded simple, like a beginning case study in economics.

She came over to the chair, stood behind him. “Let’s not fight,” she said, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mmm,” she said. Her hands were cold.

There was a knock at the door. Nat’s eyes met Izzie’s. Was her heart suddenly beating faster too? Probably not, from the casual way she said, “Come in.”

The door opened: a UPS man in his brown uniform.

“Izzie Zorn?” he said, reading the name from the package in his hand.

“I’ll take it,” said Izzie, and laid the package on the other desk. The UPS man went away.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Nat said.

Izzie opened the UPS package, unwrapped bubble wrapping, pulled out what was inside: a laptop. She looked puzzled for a moment, then laid it aside.

“New computer?” Nat said.

“The old one disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Stolen, I guess.”

“When was this?”

“Not too long ago.”

“You never mentioned it.”

She shrugged.

“Did you report it?”

“Report what?”

“The theft.”

“To whom?”

“Campus security.”

“What good would that do?”

“Maybe none,” Nat said. “But there was Wags’s TV, the TV from the lounge, now this.”

“Probably Wags doing it himself,” Izzie said.

That had never occurred to Nat. “Why would he?”

“Why would he build a snowman in your room?”

Nat realized he still had a headache, very faint. “I don’t think Wags-”

Another knock on the door.

“Was I supposed to sign?” Izzie said; and, as casually as before: “Come in.”

The door was opened again, but not by UPS. Two men in suits came in, very nice suits-even Nat knew that. The first man, the smiling one-not Albert, not Anton-was Andy, who’d sat beside him in the limousine to the airport; behind him, not smiling, was Mr. Zorn.

Someone coming with the money: why hadn’t he expected Mr. Zorn? Nat had no idea what to say or do; and felt transparent.

Not Izzie. She leaped up, ran to her father, threw her arms around him, started crying. Actually shaking, wracked with sobs: Nat was amazed, would never have thought her capable of this. It was almost as though she were really afraid for Grace. Mr. Zorn watched him over her shoulder.

The smiling man extended his hand. “Hi, Nat. Andy Ling. Met you over Christmas. More pleasant circumstances.”

They shook hands. “Maybe I’d better go, Mr. Ling.”

“Not necessary,” said Andy. He turned to Mr. Zorn, patting Izzie’s back, his eyes still on Nat. “Is it, Mr. Zorn?”

“We’d appreciate your staying,” said Mr. Zorn.

Nat nodded.

“Good man,” said Andy. He opened a closet, peered inside, beckoned Nat over. Was Nat supposed to notice something? He noticed shoes; had never seen so many outside a shoe store. Andy Ling lowered his voice. “Why don’t we give them a moment or two?” Andy led Nat into Grace and Izzie’s bathroom, shared, because of their corner room, with no one.

Andy closed the door. He glanced in the toilet, drew aside the shower curtain. “Scared, Nat?” he said.

“Yes,” Nat said. It was true.

Andy opened the medicine cabinet, closed it, ran his eyes over the bottles on the shelf above the sink: nail polish remover, body lotion, shampoo, conditioner, Clairol. “Scared of what, exactly?” said Andy.

“This… this situation.”

Andy turned to him, still smiling. He had one of the friendliest faces Nat had ever seen: asymmetrical, lumpy, cheerful. Nat tried to remember his job description. Albert was Mrs. Zorn’s personal assistant, Anton was her personal trainer, and Andy? He didn’t recall anyone ever telling him.

“I don’t blame you,” Andy said. “Being scared.” He dumped the wastebasket on the floor, poked through the mess, poked through it with his gloved hands; not till that moment did Nat notice he’d kept his winter gloves on the whole time.

The mess: tangled strings of dental floss, balled-up tissues, Q-tips, an empty bottle of Clairol, another bottle, also empty, that Nat recognized: Bidoit Paradis, Grande Champagne, 1880. Andy picked it up, sniffed at the opening, set it on the sink. “Don’t blame you one bit. Something happen to your nose?”

“Just a bump.”

Andy opened the bathroom door and reentered the bedroom. Nat checked himself in the mirror-the nose wasn’t bad, but there were other problems, hard to define-and followed.

Izzie, no longer crying, sat on Grace’s bed, hugging her knees. Mr. Zorn stood by her, gazing out the window.

“Imagine spending four years here,” said Mr. Zorn.

“Doesn’t get any better,” said Andy.

“You agree, Nat?” said Mr. Zorn.

Nat couldn’t manage a reply of any kind.

Mr. Zorn looked past him. “Anything?”

“Nope,” said Andy.

“What’s going on?” said Izzie.

“You’re asking the right question,” said Mr. Zorn.

Andy got down on his hands and knees, checked under the beds. Nat had a premonition of what was coming. Stop, he thought. Enough. He almost said it.

“What are you doing?” Izzie said. “And where’s the briefcase?”

“Briefcase?” said Mr. Zorn.

“Or whatever you brought the money in.”

Mr. Zorn sat down beside her. “Why don’t you tell us the whole story?”

“But I already did,” said Izzie.

In fact, Nat realized, it was Grace who had told the story, told them on the phone as though she were Izzie. How well did she herself remember it? Sequential, nondenominational, whatever it was, blah blah. How well had she listened in the first place?

“Please tell it again,” Andy said, soft and gentle.

Izzie shrugged. She told the story, second hearing for Mr. Zorn and Andy, first for Nat. She didn’t try to sell it at all, didn’t even look at anyone as she spoke, just sat there on Grace’s bed, still hugging her knees, spoke as though it was all unfolding again in her head. She told how Grace had risen in the night, complaining of an upset stomach; how Grace had gone down to the Coke machine in the Lanark basement; how she, Izzie, had fallen back asleep and been awakened by the kidnapper’s phone call. A male voice. Perhaps a slight Japanese accent. He’d put Grace on the line for a moment, to prove he had her. “I’m all right,” Grace had said. Grace had been Grace, poised and cool. But Izzie could tell she was just being brave; they’d have to take her word, the word of a twin, for that. Then the man came back on with the demand: one million dollars in nonsequential low-denomination bills. He would get in touch again to arrange the delivery. Click.