James Siegel - Detour

Okay, Miles was saying, you have more time. It’s like those threatening past-due bills you get in the mail—they’re just trying to scare you.

But Paul did feel sick to his stomach—in addition to feeling sweaty, filthy, and physically exhausted. He closed his eyes, rubbed his throbbing forehead with a hand that still smelled of gas station soap.

“You okay?” Miles said with evident concern. “I mean relatively ? Look, I need you to stay with me. We’ll work this out, we’ll find a way—but I need you, okay?” He looked down at his scribbled-on pad. “Let’s review our options.”

Paul wasn’t aware that they had any.

“One—we go to the authorities.” Miles seemed to contemplate this notion for a moment; he shook his head. “Uh-uh. Your first instincts were probably dead-on. I mean, which authorities exactly would we go to? The NYPD? The State Department? The Colombian government? They haven’t been able to free their own people. Never mind a foreigner. Plus, if FARC finds out we’ve got people looking for Joanna and the baby, she becomes a liability to them. Then they might do something to her. And there’s something else. You did smuggle drugs into the United States— a lot of drugs. Under duress, sure, the worst kind of pressure, but we’re still talking narcotics trafficking, a federal offense. Okay, we don’t go to the authorities. Agreed?”

Paul said, “Yes.” He was enormously heartened by Miles’ use of the we word. It made him feel a little less alone in the universe.

Miles held up a second finger. “Two. We could do nothing. We could sit and wait for them to contact you.” He shook his head again. “Not so smart. How do we even know they know how to get in touch with you? Odds are, they don’t and who says your wife told them? Okay, scrap that. We can’t sit on our hands. Now . . .” He held up a third finger, leaned slightly forward. “Three. We can contact them ourselves. We can tell them we’ve still got their drugs. All we’re looking for is someone to give it to. We give you the drugs, you let Joanna and the baby go. No Joanna and baby—no drugs. Drugs equal money, lots of money. They’ll want the money.”

Okay, Paul thought, it sounded like an actual plan.

Perfectly logical, simple, even hopeful . Except . . .

“How are you going to contact them? They’re not answering that number. I’ve tried.”

“The driver,” Miles said, snapping his finger. “Pablo. I’ll call Santa Regina. María must have his number somewhere.” Miles opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small phone book. “Let’s see . . .” He scanned down one page, then flipped to the next. “Consuelo . . . Consuelo . . . here we are.”

He picked up his phone, punched in a number.

Some people chat on the telephone as if the person they’re speaking to is right next to them in the room. Miles was like that. When he said hello to María, he grinned, smiled, shook his head, as if she were sitting there right in front of him.

Fine, Miles said, and you?

Yes, growing up. And how are yours?

That’s wonderful—I’d love to see a picture . . .

They continued in this vein for a minute or two, small pleasantries, polite inquiries, general catching up.

“María,” Miles said, “I wonder if you could give me the number of a taxi driver—Pablo. I’m not sure what his last name is . . . Yes, that’s right. I’m thinking of using him for another couple . . . Really? Oh great.”

Miles gave Paul the thumbs-up. He waited, flipping a pencil back and forth between two fingers.

“Ahhh . . .” He scribbled something down. “Thank you, María . . . Of course. Talk to you soon.” He hung up the phone.

“Okay.” He looked up at Paul. “We have the number. Now . . .” He looked down at the pad and dialed again.

This time there were no hellos, no pleasantries exchanged, no small talk. That was because there was no talk at all. Miles waited, flipped the pencil, looked at his watch, stared around the room. Then he shrugged his shoulders, hung up the phone, and tried again.

Same result.

“Okay,” Miles said, “no one’s home.” He put the phone down. “I’ll try again later.”

Paul nodded. The question was, how much of later did they have?

“Look,” Miles said, “I’ve been thinking about this. You probably shouldn’t go home. Not yet. They didn’t want anyone knowing you’re back, correct?”

“Yes.” He’d been lifted up, borne along by Miles’ optimism, but now that they’d failed to connect with anyone, he felt his spirits plummeting.

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we? At least for the time being. You can stay here. Until we get through to them. That all right with you?”

Paul nodded again, willing to be reduced to childlike obedience. If Miles were recommending he stay here, he’d stay. Yes, sir. He was drained, dog-tired, in dire need of a pillow.

Miles made some explanation to his wife—Paul heard him whispering in the next room. Then he led Paul upstairs, past his children’s room, where two boys with remote controls in their hands looked up from their Nintendo.

There was a small guest room at the end of the hall.

Miles clicked on the light.

“Make yourself comfortable. If you want to take a shower, the bathroom’s down the hall. There’s pillows in the closet.”

Paul said, “Thanks.” He did need to take a shower, remembering what had transpired in the middle of the Triborough Bridge. But he didn’t have the energy.

Miles turned to leave, took a few steps, then turned back. “I’ll keep trying the number. If we don’t get him today, we’ll get him tomorrow. We’re going to save them, okay? Joanna and the baby, both of them. We’ll do everything we can.”

It was as good a good-night prayer as Paul could hope for.

He took off his shoes and socks and lay down on the bed without bothering to get a pillow.

PAUL WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. HIS WATCH SAID 3:14.

There was that moment when he wasn’t aware where he was, or even what had happened to him. When it was still possible Joanna lay next to him in bed and in the next room lay Joelle, softly sucking on her pacifier.

Then reality intruded. He knew where he was. He knew why . Understood that eighteen hours had come and gone and his wife either was or wasn’t alive. He shut his eyes and dug his head into the mattress in an effort to get back to sleep.

He couldn’t.

He felt suddenly wide-awake, infused with the energy of the seriously panicked. He turned one way, then another. He got a pillow from the closet; lay back and closed his eyes again. No dice. His mind couldn’t stop racing.

Hello, Arias, nice to see you. How’ve you been?

Buenas noches, Pablo.

Galina, good to see you again.

He pictured Joanna too, locked up in that room. His wife, his warrior princess.

After an hour he gave up.

It was dead quiet, the time of the night when it seemed he might be the only one on earth.

Don’t be silly. The darkness can’t hurt you, his father used to say to him as he lay shivering under the covers.

Hard to believe that was true. After all, Paul had been assured that other things wouldn’t hurt him, only to find out differently. Cancer, for instance, which he’d been told was nothing much, even though it had already reduced his mom to the human skeleton he’d discovered lying on her bed, before it killed her just three days past his eleventh birthday. His father was distant, and not home much. His mom was the nurturer in the family. He’d resorted to serious and constant prayer on her behalf. When she succumbed anyway, when the family priest fastened onto his hand as his mom—not his mom, her body —was brought down the stairs draped in a white sheet, he’d secretly renounced his belief in a higher deity. He’d embraced the cool logic of numbers. He’d carefully constructed a universe of structure and compliance. Where probabilities and ratios were your friends. Where you could statistically calibrate the odds of bad things happening to you, then take comfort in them.