Charlotte
Got it!
Finger and thumbnails gripping onto the corners of a box, it shifts; not by much, but it moves, just enough for me to get a proper hold. And now as I pull, it eases towards me.
Result!
One cardboard box. Contents undetermined.
And with something to haul myself up against, I can – at last – stand… The box, stout as it is, buckles under me, but nonetheless, I finish the manoeuvre upright.
What’s inside?
Old drinks bottles… whiskey, vodka, gin, beer…
A drink…
Oh, God… For a drink…
…
…
Michael… peeling foil from the bottle, prising off the wire cage and popping the cork on a bottle of cava. His blue eyes… his sunlit hair. And his smile…
Oh, God… His smile…
My Golden Lover.
My husband.
…
My Master, his dark eyes full of the promise of what is to come as he offers me a glass: a tall flute, shimmering gold in the candlelight, frothing white and fragrant as I sip wine and bubbles together…
…
The bottles rattle and clink as I take them out, stacking them at the edge of my ‘range’. The box is plastic-lined, held together with staples and packing tape. My fingers are numb and inflexible, and I work for long seconds trying to get a fingernail under the tape to peel it away and disassemble the box.
Memo to self: when this is over, grow some fucking fingernails…
When this is over…
The staples are heavy-duty, perhaps useful.
What for?
Who knows?
I prise them carefully from the cardboard and set them to one side.
Laying the disassembled box plastic-side-down, at least I’m off the damp floor and my knees, raw and red now, scream relief at the slight give to the surface as I kneel again, arranging my ‘bed’.
I tear off one of the flaps of the box. It’s four or five inches wide and I need it narrower, so I spend another minute tearing off a strip a couple of inches wide. The result’s not an art-piece but slotted between my ankle and the metal cuff helps with the chafing.
It takes me an hour to pull another of the cardboard crates into range. This one yields tubs of mayonnaise, jars of pickles, bags of nuts, potato chips and jerky. Not the greatest health food diet, but I bolt down two packets of peanuts then open a pack of the jerky to chew on.
Then, once more, I cannibalise the box as a make-do mattress. Another torn-off flap rolled up and tied with ripped off packing tape makes a kind of pillow.
I can’t reach a third box. Try as I might, the remainder are beyond me. But the two thicknesses of cardboard together at least shield me from the harsh caress of the concrete floor.
Stretching out on my hard bed, curling up as small as I’m able around my daughter, I pull the hospital gown tight around myself.
*****
James
We keep working. Mid-winter and the cold gnaw at my leg, the ache made worse by my state of mind.
Richard and Beth have been champions, arriving at our door almost as the news broke, suitcases in hand.
“We’ll stay as long as we’re needed,” says Richard. “Francis can hold the fort at the office and…” He heaves air… “…to be honest, I’d rather be here. Every time I turn around, there’s a reporter shoving a mike in my face.”
Michael kisses Beth on the temple, gives her a squeeze around the shoulders. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. You know that. It’s good to have you both here.”
Richard produces a laptop from his case, opening it up. “Let’s get down to practicalities. James, send me this security footage you have and…” He levels a finger to where Beth is booting up her own machine… “… let’s get more eyes on what happened.”
“Fine… Richard, I’m sending you footage from adjoining corridors the staff canteens. Beth, I’m giving you the in-patients’ waiting area and the entrance lobby.”
When my eyelids droop, I snatch a couple of uneasy hours in bed. Part of me wants simply to curl up into sleep and make the world go away. But the tumult inside says that isn’t an option.
Is it Klempner?
It doesn’t feel right. He spoke with me… Went out of his way to speak with me. He told me he’d leave us alone.
No…
He said he’d leave Mitch alone: allow her to get on with her life.
But abducting Charlotte certainly blows that promise out of the water…
Assuming he did it…
Where is he?
How would I find him?
He left no forwarding address… Or phone number… Or email address… Understandably enough. He’s not a man who wants to be traceable.
I press fingers to my forehead, trying to rub away the ache.
Charlotte…
My Jade-Eyes…
The panic in her eyes…
The fear on her face as she saw the needle…
My gut threatens to rise, and I try to fight it down. From somewhere, Mitch’s inconsolable sobbing echoes through the house; an assault on my already threadbare nerves.
Why?
Why would Klempner do it?
Could it be someone else? A simple kidnapping?
But who would have motive to take Charlotte?
Intended for Beth?
… The billionaire’s wife.
No ransom note.
And my mind skitters and circles back to Klempner… And why?
What possible motive could he have?
What can I do?
I’m choking on sheer helplessness, corrosive and bitter.
And guilt.
She was with me…
Relying on me…
And I let them take her…
I give up the fight for sleep and, gritty-eyed, head back down again. I find Michael on the couch. Mitch is still at the table, but she too is asleep, slumped over, head resting on folded arms.
I make a fresh pot of coffee and resume my post, setting the video to play at double-speed to save time, scanning image after useless image, this time of shots taken in the parking lot. A few dozen blurry shots of an ambulance with, as it’s turned out, fake plates, before it vanishes off-camera.
I down another coffee, then realise I’m rubbing my temples, trying to ease away the stress stabbing behind my eyes.
Tossing back a couple of painkillers with a mouthful of water, I watch the footage from the security cameras again…
Some clue…
Who?
Why?
At least with the surveillance footage, we know how. I understand those who object to our ‘Big Brother’ society these days, sympathise with them even. I like my privacy as much as anyone, but without the spy-cameras everywhere we’d have nothing…
Spy cameras…
Spies…
Raising my face to the ceiling, I huff out air…
Spies…
… then set off at a run for my office, yelling as I move. “Michael.”
He stirs, sitting up, fog in his eyes. “What? James, what?”
Still moving, I shout back. “Had an idea.”
He follows, forehead creasing as he watches me scrabbling through drawers and cupboards. “Idea? What idea?”
Where the fuck did I put it?
“Can I help? If I know what you’re looking for…”
I straighten up, brandishing my find; a small metal and plastic object, an inch or so wide, trailing a couple of wires.
Michael stares at it then holds up palms, shrugging. “Okay, I give up. What is it?”
“Klempner’s bug. The one he had installed in your car. The reason we believed for months that we had a spy in the camp.”
His eyes widen. “You kept it? Why?”
I talk as I work, sorting through a storage box normally stashed on the bottom shelf: a jumble of cables and connections left over from long-defunct computers, tablets and phones: the paraphernalia that gathers for no special reason other than inertia. It might be useful sometime.
“No reason. I’d forgotten I still have it until just now… It was harmless enough once it was disconnected from a power supply, but there’s no reason it shouldn’t work perfectly once it boots up again.”
I find what I’m looking for, clipping in a connection then plugging the transformer into the wall.
Michael whistles in. “A direct line to Klempner? That’s what you’re thinking?”
“That’s just what I’m thinking. Listen, when he was holding me, that night his men broke into the house, Klempner was listening to you in your car via his phone. Perhaps the connection’s still live, or at least recoverable.” Flicking the ‘On’ switch, I watch a small indicator light. It remains stubbornly dark…
Come on…
… Come on…
… then starts blinking red.
Michael takes a breath, swiping over his mouth and chin with a palm. “How long?”
“Not sure. A few minutes should charge it up enough to do something useful.”
“What are you planning on saying to him? If Klempner’s the kidnapper, an appeal to his sense of honour’s not likely to achieve much.”
“Fuck his sense of honour. I’m going for his Achilles heel.”
He frowns, then his face clears. “Mitch?”
“Mitch.” And the indicator flicks to blinking green.
“So, he can hear us now?”
I click my tongue. “Maybe.”
“Can you talk with him?”
“No, it’s just a transmitter, not a receiver. One-way only. This won’t be a conversation.”
My heart thumps. My mouth is dry. But pressing a finger to my lips to Michael, I speak anyway.
Mitch…
“Klempner, if you can hear this… If Charlotte’s abduction is anything to do with you, you should know that Mitch is devastated. You told me you would stay out of our lives… Mitch’s life anyway. And I took that as a promise…”
I hesitate.
How much to say?
“Charlotte is close to term. Dangerously so. She could go into labour at any moment. She needs medical support. She needs Michael. She needs me. She needs her mother…”
I run out of saliva and pause for a few moments, sucking at my cheeks and tongue.
“Klempner, I believed you and I had an understanding, but know this. If any harm comes to Charlotte or to the baby, your grandchild, I swear I will hunt you to the grave…”
The door swings open. Mitch stands there; dishevelled, her beauty eclipsed by a pallid, swollen face and puffy eyes. “Who are you talking to?” She looks down. “What’s that?”
Michael lays an arm over her shoulder, talking quietly. “James thinks we might be able to talk to Klempner through…”
“Larry?” Her eyes dart to mine; wild with hope and despair and rage. “Larry can hear you on that?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a long shot…”
But she tugs free from Michael, leaning over the desktop, shrieking at the device. “Larry! How could you? How could you?”
She shudders into wailing tears. “You promised you would leave us in peace. You promised! What have you done with Jenny? Let her go. Please, let her go.”
She’s growing more and more hysterical, her breath coming in short gasps. “Oh, God! Twenty years of thinking she was dead. I only just got her back and now this… I just want her back, Larry… Please.”
“Mitch…” Michael takes her by the shoulders, then in his arms, trying to calm her. He pulls her close, face into his chest, shaking his head helplessly at me.
“Get her downstairs.”
“Sure. Come on Mitch. Let James work. He’s doing what he can.”
He guides her to the door, nodding down to the green-blinking LED. “Can you tell if the signal’s been received?”
“No way of knowing.”
*****