Chapter 30
ZLED ASHLYN AND ME through a maze of broad corridors. At first I thought we must be heading to the kitchen for lunch duty, but after we bypassed those doors, I gave up guessing our destination and simply followed in his wake.
He hadn’t bothered to shackle our wrists. Nor did he walk between us. Instead, he strode forward several paces, shoulders loose, body language relaxed, a man who might as well be on a Sunday stroll.
Now that the ransom wheels were set in motion, did he figure he had little to fear regarding an attempted escape? Or, when it came to him versus us, did he just figure he had little to fear?
Ashlyn was moving slowly. She should be resting in bed, not roaming a vast, hard-floored building. When we got home, I’d take her directly to the doctor. As well as have a long-overdue heart-to-heart chat.
Z finally arrived at a heavy steel door. He opened it and we entered a modest room, with floor-to-ceiling wood paneling against one wall and a raised dais. A gold cross was mounted on the wood paneling. Chapel, I realized. We had reached the prison’s sanctuary.
Radar was already there. He had every light on and was walking around the space with his iPhone, either filming or snapping photos. He looked up when we entered, but his face was as expressionless as always.
“We’ll start them here,” he said to Z, pointing to a spot on the dais. “Should give us enough light, with a neutral-enough backdrop. I gotta go with a wider frame to include two people, so the viewers are going to see more. But wood paneling’s pretty nondescript.”
“Their jumpsuits?” Z asked.
Radar held up his phone, aimed it at Ashlyn and me. “Not gonna happen. Orange collar clearly visible.”
Z nodded, apparently having expected this answer. He gestured toward the corner, where I saw a pile of clothing on the floor. Our clothing. From the first day. Was that yesterday, or the day before? Time grew murky when you spent 24/7 under the glow of fluorescent lighting. I didn’t know how lifers learned to stand it.
“Tops only,” Z instructed us. “Just throw them on over your jumpsuits, then we’ll figure out the collars.”
I finally understood what they were trying to do. Disguise us and our location. Of course, the ransom demand had to be beamed to the authorities, who would scrutinize the video footage for any clues as to our whereabouts. For example, cinder-block walls, orange prison jumpsuits, anything else they could see in the frame. So we’d film against the one noninstitutional wall in the entire facility, while wearing our last known garments.
As usual, Z had thought of everything.
I handed Ashlyn her baby blue waffle-knit shirt. Raising her arms over her head clearly pained her, so I helped drag the form-fitting sleep top over her oversize jumpsuit. The jumpsuit top bulged awkwardly, while the bright orange collar poked through the waffle shirt’s crewneck like an out-of-place bird of paradise flower.
Z took one look and shook his head. “Top of the jumpsuit, off.”
Ashlyn and I looked around. The room was one open space. No alcove to tuck inside, or half wall to duck behind.
“We need privacy,” I stated primly.
Z stared at us, cobra tattoo nearly hissing. “Why? Radar’s already seen it all, and I could care less. Get it done.”
We remained standing there, staring at him. Myself, I could do it. But strip my daughter, bare her to these two men who’d already taken so much from us? Ashlyn’s shoulders had hunched, her body unconsciously rounding as if to make herself small. I couldn’t take it. I positioned myself in front of her, crossed my arms over my chest, and faced off against Z.
“We need privacy,” I repeated.
Z sighed. He spoke as if addressing two small children. “Let me explain how this is going to work: You will do exactly what I tell you to do. You will say exactly what I tell you to say. Or, if you misbehave”—he leveled his gaze at me—“I’ll let Mick beat the shit out of your daughter. Or, if you misbehave”—his gaze switched to Ashlyn—“I’ll let Mick beat the shit out of your mom. Now, fix the wardrobe.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Ashlyn whispered behind me. “Remember, when I was little, at the beach? We can figure it out.”
When Ashlyn was little, it was often just her and me at the beach, given Justin’s work schedule. Ashlyn hadn’t the patience for the overcrowded changing room, let alone the long line. So I would hold a towel around her as a makeshift curtain, while she wiggled her suit on or off. Later, I got to the point where I could lie in the sand with a towel draped over the top of my body, and make my own wardrobe adjustments while my four-year-old giggled uncontrollably.
If I thought about it, it had been her and me against the world for a long time. And my daughter was right: having come this far, no reason we couldn’t figure things out.
She reached her hands under her waffle shirt and worked the snaps. She got one arm out, then the other. With the waffle shirt hanging loose around her shoulders, she divested the short sleeves of the jumpsuit top, then got her arms back in the waffle top. We left the top of the jumpsuit hanging down at her waist, where it would be out of the video frame.
Next, my turn. I’d been wearing a champagne-colored wrap top. Also form-fitting, and never going to work layered on top of a baggy jumpsuit. I gave Z and Radar my back, and got to it. Undressing wasn’t so bad. Snap, snap and the top of the jumpsuit dangled down while I kept my arms crossed protectively over my chest. Ashlyn handed me my top.
For a moment, I smelled oranges and my eyes welled with longing before I realized it was simply the citrus notes of my perfume, embedded in the silky fabric. Postcards from another life, one that I knew hadn’t been that long ago—one day, two days?—and yet already was completely alien to me.
It felt wrong to pull such a delicate fabric over my sweat-encrusted skin. To surround myself in silken finery after days of wearing a stiff, oversize man’s jumpsuit. My hair was too rank, my nails too dirty. A jail cell made the filth easier to take. But this, a visit to the past, a note of refinement amid the abyss…
“Mom? Let me.”
I’d been trying to fasten the complicated tie system at the waist of the wrap shirt, but my fingers were shaking too badly. Now Ashlyn brushed my hands away and took over working the knots.
I admired her dexterity as much as I admired her bravery. We had screwed up, obviously. A family of three absolute fuckups. And yet, each of us, in our own way, was holding up. My fifteen-year-old, highly privileged, officially sexually active daughter had not collapsed. She was not sobbing hysterically or shutting down or whining constantly. She was functioning. We were all functioning.
We would get through this, I told myself. We’d survive, we’d return home and we would…
We would forge on. We’d forgive, we’d forget. That’s what families did, right? Muddled through in full, imperfect glory.
Ashlyn and I finished our preparations. Her top in place, my top in place. We moved to the spot Radar indicated on the dais, then Z handed me a newspaper, the Sunday edition. I tucked it beneath my arm as he gave each of us a one-page script. He had the piece of paper flipped over, blank side up.
Now he said, “On the count of three, Radar will start filming. You will each start reading, alternating line by line, Ashlyn going first. Remember, no adlibbing, no straying from the script, or the other one pays the price.”
My first tingle of apprehension.
“One.”
Why wouldn’t he let us preview the script?
“Two.”
Why the need to threaten us with Mick?
“Three.”
Radar nodded his head. We flipped over our pages and once again, my heart sank in my chest.
“MY NAME IS ASHLYN DENBE,” my daughter whispered. In the background, Z scowled at her, cupping his hand around her ear.
“My name is Libby Denbe,” I filled in, my voice louder, as he’d indicated.
Ashlyn cleared her throat. “Today is Sunday.”
I provided the date, then, following the note from the script, hastily unfolded the newspaper and flashed the front page.
“We are here with my father, Justin Denbe,” my daughter intoned.
“To secure our freedom,” I read, “you must wire nine million dollars to the following account.” I read off a long list of numbers. The script instructed me to repeat. I licked my lips, and repeated.
“Tomorrow, three P.M., eastern standard time, we will call you,” my daughter recited.
“On Justin Denbe’s iPhone,” I read. “The call will be in FaceTime. You’ll be able to see us. We’ll be able to see you.”
“You will verify that we are alive,” Ashlyn said. Her eyes flew up; she glanced at me almost eagerly.
“You will then have ten minutes to wire the money.”
“Once the full payment is received,” Ashlyn read, “we will provide the address of the location where we can be retrieved unharmed.”
“By three eleven P.M.,” I said, “if the full nine million dollars has not been successfully wired to the account provided…”
“The first member of our family…” Ashlyn paused, glanced up. Z stared at her hard, both willing the words from her mouth and reminding her sternly of the consequences if she failed to utter them. “The first member of our family will be killed,” Ashlyn whispered.
“To be selected at random,” I intoned, my voice equally quiet.
“There will be no negotiation.”
“No additional contact.”
“The money will be received,” Ashlyn murmured.
“Or one by one, we will die,” I finished.
“Pay the money,” Ashlyn read flatly.
“Keep us alive.” Did my voice sound pleading?
“Jazz,” Ashlyn said.
I frowned, spotted the word on my own script. “Jazz,” I repeated.
Then, just like that, Radar lowered his phone and the show was over.
Ashlyn and I didn’t talk again. We retreated to the corner of the room, peeling off the clothes that were once ours and now felt as if they belonged to other people from another life.
Radar had exited immediately. Probably to deliver the short video. E-mail it? I wasn’t a techie, but he seemed to know what he was doing.
Z waited for us beside the door, hands in the front pockets of his black cargo pants. He didn’t attempt to sneak glances as we changed, seeming immune to our presence. Of our captors, he was the one I could least figure out. Clearly, he was the leader of this operation. The brains who was equally respected for his brawn.
Former military. Current private mercenary? The kind of man who would do whatever, hurt whomever, as long as the money was good? Kidnap a family, beat a husband, terrify a wife and teenage daughter?
As of this moment, was he double-dipping? Receiving payment from whomever had wanted us taken, while also attempting to earn an additional nine million in ransom funds?
Or, would that be unethical? A break in some mercenary code?
There was a thought there. A kernel of an idea I struggled to hold. Given what we knew thus far—the locked front door, the insider knowledge of our routine—we’d assumed someone we knew must’ve hired Z and his team to take us. Except, we’d never figured out who or why. Which brought up the logical question, would this same person who was willing to pay for us to disappear really want us returned home again, safe and sound? The ransom exchange made sense for Z, Radar and Mick, each of whom stood to receive millions of dollars. But what about the mystery mastermind? What did he get out of all of this?
Surely it had to be in his best interest for us to never be found alive. Which might explain the current take-it-or-leave-it approach to the ransom demands. Certainly, the script that Ashlyn and I had just read hadn’t allowed any room for negotiation, good faith exchanges or counteroffers. Just pay nine million dollars by 3:00 P.M. tomorrow, or members of the Denbe family will start turning up dead.
It was as if Z was waiting for an excuse to kill us.
Maybe because that was still his overarching charge, the terms of the first contract. And as strange as it sounded, Z struck me as the ethical type. A man as good as his word. The kind of guy who made a promise, then kept it.
I shivered, and once I started, it was hard to stop.
Twenty-four hours, I thought.
Twenty-four hours and then either a miracle would occur, and we’d find ourselves safely back in our own home.
Or, we were as good as dead.