Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

Wyatt drew three big Os, based solely on assumptions and guesses and gut feel. A lot of maybes, given an entire family was on the line. Ashlyn. Libby. Justin Denbe.

Wyatt set down his pen.

He sighed heavily.

Tessa, standing across from him, seconded the motion.

“Tomorrow, three o’clock. It’s not going to happen,” she stated simply.

“No,” he agreed. “Even if the insurance company pays… No good reason for a bunch of professionals to let that family walk away.”

“We have to find them.”

“Yep.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty-six hours and counting.”

“I want to know the identity of Ashlyn’s mysterious boyfriend,” Tessa muttered. “Innocent bystander, or one more person with access to the security code for the house?”

“Good point.”

“Is it just me, or does every member of this family have a secret?”

Wyatt shrugged. “Find me a family that doesn’t.”

“Good point.” But her tone said she wasn’t happy about it. For that matter, neither was he.

Wyatt looked around. FBI’s command center had emptied out, everyone pursuing various leads, their own insider information. Dividing and conquering, the best way to cover the most investigative ground in the shortest amount of time. Frustrating, though, when others were covering the questions you wanted answered most.

“FBI is covering Ashlyn,” he stated now, refocusing. “That puts us on Denbe Construction. You know, interviewing all the various liars on the management team.”

Tessa brightened. “I wonder if Ruth Chan’s plane has landed.”

“Excellent idea.”

They left the mobile command unit, and went to find the CFO instead.

Chapter 32

MICK ESCORTED US TO DINNER. The moment he appeared at the cell door, Justin was tense. By unspoken agreement, Justin took up position on one side of Ashlyn, while I stood on the other.

In contrast, Mick seemed relaxed, positively grinning as he gestured for all three of us to exit the cell, no hand restraints, no person-by-person procession. Like Z, he took the lead, allowing the three of us to walk unhindered behind him. He kept his right hand lightly caressing the Taser holstered at his waist. Otherwise, Mick strolled along as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

The promise of nine million dollars making him giddy? Or simply the joy of the final countdown? In twenty-four hours or less, this would all be over. We’d be gone, one way or another. Picked up by the police, or…killed by our captors? Maybe Mick wasn’t as excited about the possible payout as he was the opportunity to finally exact his revenge. I couldn’t picture Radar shooting us down in cold blood. But Mick, he would do it with gusto.

While Z would keep it quiet and quick. Nothing personal. All business.

I missed Radar. For one thing, my nausea was returning, not to mention a general sense of gloom and doom. Withdrawal symptoms, creeping up on me as insidiously as any black-clad commando. I needed a pill. Wanted a pill?

My beautiful orange prescription bottle. Two, three, four hydrocodone tablets. That lovely feeling of melting. The world slipping sideways, till no hard edges existed anymore. Don’t worry. Don’t overthink. Just go with the flow.

Fuck the methadone. I wanted real drugs.

We arrived at the commercial-grade kitchen. Mick spread his arm expansively.

“Liked the cinnamon buns,” he said. “Now go work some magic.”

I walked through the refrigeration unit and dry storage, trying to muster some enthusiasm, but mostly thinking I’d like to poison the whole lot of them. Undercooked hamburger? Improperly handled chicken? People got sick off meals all the time. Surely I could think of something.

Of course, we ate the same food. Meaning what would I gain in the end? Six people down with a GI bug? If our captors were incapacitated at all, most likely they’d leave us in our cell to rot. Maybe even postpone the ransom exchange. Earn us another night in this hellhole while they recovered.

No. No food poisoning. Comfort food. An iron-rich, carbo-loading, strength-building meal to fortify my own family, so that tomorrow, come game time, we’d be as ready as we could be.

I wanted hamburger, but couldn’t find it in the refrigerator. Funny, because I could’ve sworn I’d seen some this morning, when I’d grabbed the bacon for breakfast. Of course, they must’ve fed themselves lunch. Maybe they grilled up burgers?

I settled for cans of stew meat from the dry storage, then returned for a block of cheese, only to discover it was also gone. Sliced up to toss on their burgers?

My head ached. The stark overhead lights, bouncing off all the stainless steel, hurt my eyes. But I forced myself to contemplate both the walk-in pantry and the massive refrigeration unit. Both were definitely sparser. In fact, if I conjured up that very first meal of pasta and sauce, what I’d inventoried then versus now… Z and his team were either eating up a storm or…cleaning out.

Our captors were covering their tracks. Preparing for the end.

“Hello?” Mick called out, voice already threatening. I forced myself to return to work.

I set up Ashlyn with two cans of spinach. She promptly wrinkled her nose. I added canned corn, a jar of onions and canned carrots.

Mick gazed at me doubtfully. “That ain’t cinnamon rolls.”

“Quiche?” I asked him.

“Gesundheit,” he said.

“Shepherd’s pie it is.”

I put Justin in charge of making mashed potatoes from a box mix, while I dumped the stew meat into a skillet with olive oil and the drained pearl onions. It looked like dog food and smelled about as good. I reminded myself of the cold Hormel raviolis my mother and I used to eat from cans all those years ago. Of our elderly neighbor who did eat canned cat food because it was cheaper than tuna and she had to save as much money as she could in order to buy more vodka.

After Ashlyn had drained the vegetables, I had her add them to the stew meat. In the pantry, I found garlic powder and Worcestershire sauce. I added both liberally, while Ashlyn and Mick continued to wrinkle their noses.

Next I found a lasagna pan. Vegetables and stew meat on the bottom. Instant mashed potatoes, dotted with butter, spread on top. The pan went into the oven and I set about making rolls while Justin did the dishes and Ashlyn set the table.

“Seriously?” Mick asked me.

“Seriously what?”

“That…food.”

I shrugged. “Fresh hamburger and potatoes would be better, but you work with what you got.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Don’t eat it.”

“Hey, I’ve lived on MREs. I can eat that slop.”

“Then don’t complain.”

“What is this, housewife warfare?”

“Sure. Now, be nice, or next time, I’ll dust you.”

Mick laughed. Which might have made me feel better, except his eyes were too bright and the laugh too long and in the end, Ashlyn moved closer to her father while I switched to the other side of the prep table to roll out the dough.

Compared with the morning’s cinnamon roll fest, my makeshift shepherd’s pie was greeted with considerably less enthusiasm. But as Mick had said, soldiers were used to low standards.

Mick filled half his plate with a look that said he’d eat it all just to spite me. Z inspected the layers with a scientist’s cool-eyed study, then shrugged and dug in. A plate was set aside for Radar, then my family had their turn. Justin took easily as much as Mick. Ashlyn sighed heavily and delicately scooped out just enough to feed a bird.

“Spinach.” She shuddered.

“Iron,” I corrected my daughter, who’d started her day with massive blood loss.

“Spinach,” she insisted.