Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

The room had no charm except for the patterned quilt covering her legs and feet. It appeared to have been hand stitched, and the fabric remnants from which it was made were color coordinated.

The only other decorative item was a sweet potato vine growing from the tuber that had been suspended in a jar of water sitting on top of the bureau. Its roots had formed a thick nest inside the jar, while the leafy vine nearly filled the corner all the way to the ceiling, its tendrils curling around a network of string tacked to the wall.

The room was humble but tidy. His clothes were no longer on the floor or in the chair where he’d left them last night when he joined her on the bed.

Her hands were free, although she still had bands of tape around the wrists. The edges trailed fine, white threads. She pushed off the quilt and got out of bed. The door to the living area was closed, but through it she could smell fresh coffee. The aroma made her mouth water.

After using the bathroom, she hesitantly opened the bedroom door. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the front door jamb, staring through the screen as he sipped from a large mug of coffee.

The same thing happened to me.

Following that startling statement, he’d continued staring down at her for several beats, then he’d rolled off her, switched off the gooseneck lamp, and stretched out on his back beside her. They had touched nowhere except the backs of their hands that were taped together.

He hadn’t moved. She hadn’t dared. In minutes he’d been breathing evenly, obviously asleep. Impossible as it seemed now, she’d soon fallen asleep, too.

Sensing her presence, he turned. As they continued to look at each other, she wondered about his level of hostility this morning. He would hold a grudge forever, that much she knew. But if he’d meant to get retribution with bodily harm, he wouldn’t have freed her hands. His expression was blank. At least it appeared to be. It was hard to tell what the beard concealed.

Testing the waters, she said, “The sweet potato vine is a nice, homey touch.”

He looked at her for several seconds more, then nodded toward the kitchen area. “Coffee mugs are in the cabinet on the right.”

The sisal rug that covered most of the floor in the living space gave way to vinyl in the kitchen. It felt cool against the soles of her feet. She took a mug from the cabinet above a stained Formica counter and poured her coffee. It tasted as strong as it looked, but it was good.

“I think there’s some sweetener somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I’d use milk if you have it.”

“In the fridge.”

Once she’d added milk to the coffee, she sat down in one of the chairs at the small, wood dining table and began peeling the sticky silver duct tape off her wrists.

Watching her, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I had hairs caught in mine. Hurt like hell to peel it off.”

She gave him a wan smile. “It makes me feel better.” When she finished the task, she wadded the tape into two tight balls. He extended his hand, and she dropped them into it. He tossed them in the trash can.

“How’s your head?”

“I still have a goose egg. And the roots of my hair hurt.”

“The hazards of being an uncooperative kidnap victim.” She gave him a withering look. Unrepentantly, he added, “I had to make you think I meant business.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but she figured it was all she could expect. “At least I paid you back,” she said, motioning toward the scratch on his cheek just above the beard.

“If your knee had connected with my balls, you would have paid me back.” He turned and opened the refrigerator. “I assume you’re hungry.”

“Last night you were my abductor and this morning you’re the gracious host?”

He turned on the flame beneath a burner on the gas stove, set a skillet on it, and began lining up strips of bacon in the skillet.

“Mr. Gannon? Raley?” she said when he still didn’t respond. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why did you take the tape off? Why am I free now?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said last night?”

“About believing me because the same thing had happened to you?”

“That’s why the tape is no longer necessary.”

“You could have told me that over the telephone, or in some other civilized manner. Why did you put me through all that fear and anguish last night?”

“Meanness. Retaliation.”

“You admit it?”

“That was partially it, yeah. But fear and anguish are also good motivators. I needed to satisfy myself that you were telling the truth about losing your memory.”

“And did you?”

“If I hadn’t, you’d still have your hands and feet taped together.”

She thought about it for a minute, while the bacon sizzled in the skillet and he whipped eggs in a bowl. “If you believed me last night, why didn’t you let me go then?”

“If I had, you would have been so anxious to get back to your TV station and report your story, you would have hightailed it out of here, in the dark, not knowing where to go or even where you are. You would have plunged headlong into the wilderness.

“In order to keep you from hurting yourself or getting lost, never to be seen again, I would have had to chase after you. It had been a long day, I was tired, I wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t even want to argue with you about it. It seemed easier just to tie you down so you couldn’t leave.”

Privately she acknowledged that was precisely what she would have done if she’d been free to attempt it. “What’s to keep me from doing that now?”

“You won’t.” He’d removed the bacon from the skillet and poured the eggs into it, then put two slices of bread into a dented, rusty toaster. His motions were economical, like this was his daily routine.

“You committed several crimes, you know.”

Keeping his back to her, he shrugged.

“Think what a story that would make.” She glanced through the screen door toward the pickup truck parked only steps away from the cabin. “‘Raley Gannon broke into my house and kidnapped me. ’ l could have it on the news by noon today. There’s bound to be a main road not too far from here.”

“Four point seven miles. But you won’t go.”

He came to the table with a handful of flatware, which he dropped onto it with a clatter. The mismatched utensils were followed by a roll of paper towels. He divided the food between two plates, one of which he slid over to her. He sat down, doused his eggs with Tabasco, then picked up a fork and began eating.

The breakfast smelled delicious, but she didn’t dig in. It had just now occurred to her why he was so confident that she would stay even though she was free to leave. “I won’t go now because I have only a portion of the story.”

He stopped eating to rip a paper towel off the roll and wipe his mouth with it. Behind the beard, she saw a trace of a smile. “Your curiosity is much more binding than my duct tape.”

“This relates to what Jay was going to tell me, doesn’t it? And it must harken back to what happened five years ago. Right?” To her consternation, he continued eating. “When are you going to tell me the rest of it?”

“Your food is getting cold.”

He would tell her the whole story. She was sure of that. She wouldn’t have to outsmart or cajole him in order to get it, either. He wanted to tell her. Just as Jay had. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a story. Possibly a career-making scoop, as Jay had promised.

But it could wait until after breakfast.

She ate ravenously. When she was done, he cleared the table. She dried the dishes he washed. Her curiosity was killing her, but he didn’t speak a single word, so neither did she.