Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

Bo called for Timon. He walked over and looked where Bo was looking, but he didn’t say anything. Then Timon crouched, too, pulled out his knife, and did something really strange. He grabbed the dead man’s pants at the knees and sliced them open. Timon stepped back, and Bo said something, and there was a rushed exchange that I didn’t need to understand to feel the deep concern.

“Bo?”

He seemed almost dazed when he looked at me. “Give me the weapon.”

“What? Oh.” He wanted the Glock back. “What’s going on?”

“You must leave here,” he said. “You must take Harvey and leave at once.”

I WANTED TO TAKE HARVEY TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, but Bo said we couldn’t risk it. He said they would look for us there but didn’t bother to tell me who. He said we didn’t have time to discuss it and that Radik would take us home and keep watch. Watch for what? The ride home with the sleeping Harvey and the English-challenged Radik was completely silent, leaving me plenty of time to wonder. Also to think about what had just happened. While the adrenaline had been flowing, I hadn’t felt much of what I had seen. Now I was starting to.

The bodies. The blood. The smells. I saw the tattooed man lying on his back with both eyes open. They were blue. Pale blue. There was a third hole between them, and there was no weapon in his hand. I didn’t have to wonder why. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He’d had no warning, but maybe that was part of why we were all still alive and Harvey was in the backseat on his way home.

Or maybe it was just murder.

Bo must have given Radik specific instructions, because when we got home, he carried Harvey into the house and put him in his wheelchair, then did a complete sweep of the inside while we waited in the foyer. Once I had the all clear, he went outside, presumably to patrol, and I wheeled Harvey into his bedroom. As I was trying to work out the logistics of how to get him into bed, he stirred, and then he opened his eyes and blinked at me.

“Where are my glasses?”

I reached out to pat his jacket. “They’re in your breast pocket. How are you feeling? Are you injured?”

“Just tired. Very tired.”

“What can you tell me?”

He looked at me hard, as if he were trying to pick me out of a Where’s Waldo? puzzle. Part of it was the fact that he didn’t have his corrective lenses on, but much of it, I was sure, had to be due to the trauma he’d just suffered. I wouldn’t get much from him before he got some sleep, but I had to get my basic questions answered.

“Harvey, where’s Rachel?”

“I…I do not know. Is she not with you? Is she all right?”

“She’s not with me. She sent me to Quincy to an empty house. There was no husband or jewelry or photos or anything else. Why did she do that?”

“An empty house?” I hoped that his confused look was because he hadn’t known about it.

“Yes. She moved out last week in the middle of the night. It seems to me she wanted me out of the way so that whoever grabbed you could do it without interference. Does that sound right?”

“No. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she have to? I would have gone with her, had she asked.”

Sadly, that was probably true. Rachel had to know that. There would have been no need for the elaborate subterfuge just to get Harvey to go somewhere with her. “Do you know who took you?”

“No. I…” He tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but his arm was a little floppy. “I cannot remember much. I have been sleeping.”

“What can you remember?”

He looked around his room, as if absorbing the familiar might sharpen his memory. “We were listening to music, Rachel and I, and…” He squeezed his eyes shut. One of his arms slipped off the armrest, which caused him to tilt slightly. “She left. She had to go, and then I was alone in the music room-”

“The room upstairs with the turntable?”

“Yes. It was our music room when she lived with me.” The thought seemed to relax him, but only for a second. “Someone came up the stairs. I thought it was you, but they put a bag over my head. They put me in a vehicle, in the back of an SUV, perhaps. I was lying flat. I tried to think about how long the trip was, but I was disoriented. I was…” His voice trailed off.

“Did they speak?”

“No one spoke. I asked them several times who they were and what they wanted. They would not answer.”

I sat on the corner of his bed and looked at him. “Harvey, the FBI was here earlier. They were asking questions about Roger Fratello and Betelco and some cash they found in Brussels.” I looked for a reaction. There was nothing but dazed confusion. “They believe you helped Fratello flee the country after he defrauded his company. Is that true?”

“I do not know where Roger Fratello is.”

My stomach tightened. “But you do know him?”

“I might. Perhaps a client? I…” He looked as if he wanted to answer my questions, but he’d been without food or medicine for hours, and he was fading fast. “Must we speak of this now?”

I gave it one more shot. “Rachel was the outside auditor for Fratello’s firm. Could she have been the one involved in this somehow? Is that why she was here this morning? Maybe she was looking for your help?”

“Help…yes. But I cannot remember. I cannot…” He shook his head. “I cannot go another second without washing the stink of this ordeal from my skin. I must shower.”

“I need you to tell me about Fratello. I need details. I need-”

He lifted his hands with difficulty and began to unbutton his shirt. “I can do it myself.”

On a normal day, he could have. He had the kind of modified shower with a seat, plenty of handrails for maneuvering, and enough pride that he could still find a way to take care of the deeply personal aspects of his self-care. It was pride and, I suspected, fear that crossing that particular threshold would take him downhill fast. Faster. This wasn’t a normal day, but he still had his full measure of stubbornness.

“Just tell me one thing. Do you know where Rachel is?”

He shook his head. I had never had to wonder before if Harvey was lying to me, but I wondered then.

I helped him unbutton his shirt and peel it off. Then I pulled his T-shirt over his head. Without letting him notice, I checked the soft white expanse of his back and then his chest for bruises or cuts. Saw none. I took off his shoes and socks. He unzipped his own fly, and I helped him stand so he could step out of his trousers. It was all very clinical and mechanical until he was stripped down to his boxers.

“Um…do you need me to-”

“I can manage from here, thank you.” He tried to turn his chair and roll himself to the bathroom. Left to his own devices, it would have taken hours. I pushed him in, turned on the shower, and made sure a fresh towel was in reach. I went back to the bedroom to find his pajamas and robe hanging on a doorknob. When I got back, he was listing to the right in his chair.

“You should have let me go.”

“What?”

“I was ready to go.” He turned his head slightly. “You should have let me.”

I had hoped that his wishing to die had come from the stress of the situation, but he looked like a man who had already given up. I hoped that a shower and a good night’s sleep in his own bed would change his outlook. All I said was, “I’ll be right out here.”

I hung his bedclothes on the inside knob and pulled the door almost closed. The clothes I had stripped from him were piled on the floor across the room. I didn’t feel comfortable pawing through them, but maybe they could tell me what he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.