I say nothing. I can’t. If I have a speech center in my brain, it’s shut down so the rest of me can work on pure survival. I know from four years on the Island that the mind can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Thoughts loop through me, triggering a rush of fear so great I think it’ll tear my skin into ribbons in an attempt to flee my body.
Because my body is the target.
Drew’s in police custody? For stalking me? What does that all mean? He didn’t stalk me.
My mind scrambles to put the pieces together.
Set up. It’s a set up. Drew’s being turned into the scapegoat.
Oh, God.
If they’re telling the truth, how will he get out? How will he rescue me?
I can’t look at them. Screaming won’t make a difference. Out of the corner of my eye I see Silas outside, right by the double doors to the house. My heart squeezes in my chest. As we rise higher and higher, he gets smaller and smaller.
He failed.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he failed.
Drew
I wake up on a thin blanket on the floor in a holding cell, my cheek ice cold, the throbbing in my head a bass drum. The ground beneath my body is clean. It smells like mildew and bleach. The distinct ammonia odor of piss is mixed in there.
I know this scent.
It’s the smell of jail. I’ve spent plenty of time immersed in it in the past, but always as the jailer.
Not the jailee.
Gingerly, I start to sit up, inch by inch. My body is unclothed except for my boxer briefs. Shoes are gone, pants are gone, shirt is gone.
Dignity – long gone.
I hear the click and clack of a heavy-duty lock opening. The door to the cell moves and there stands Mark Paulson.
He’s white as a sheet and his jaw is tight.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not mad at me.
He’s in crisis mode.
“Just got off the phone with Harry Bosworth. Re-establishing a connection was hell. According to the senator, his assistant Anya was told Mark Paulson would bring the helicopter to take Lindsay back to the Island. She escorted Lindsay halfway to the helicopter, then I -- ” He chokes on the word, running a furious hand through his blond hair, face exploding with rage “ -- someone impersonating me escorted her to the copter, where they took off.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Sweet Jesus, I’ve been out cold for an hour?”
“Look, Drew, this is a fucking mess.”
“This is fucking unreal. We need to get Lindsay now!”
“You’re being charged with so many federal and state crimes you’ll be lucky to get out of jail when you’re a mummy.”
“Not funny.”
“Not joking.”
“What the hell are you doing to rescue her, Mark?”
“Everything we can. We’re trying to track her, but the chopper turns out to be...” He gives me a bleak look.
Yeah. I can guess. It’s not one of Harry’s. Not government-issued, but made to look like one.
We’ve been had. Badly. Outsmarted and outmaneuvered.
“She’s chipped,” I blurt out, talking more to myself than him. Reassuring myself.
Because that’s all I have right now. Words.
I don’t give a shit about Mark’s feelings right now. Losing a client is one of the worst experiences for a person whose sworn duty is to protect people. Losing my girlfriend turns this into a clusterfuck of emotional madness.
The look on his face when I say that gives me hope.
“You chipped her?” He grimaces as he confirms what I said. “That won’t do us any good. A microchip only gives us information about her when we scan. It’ll be good for identifying her body if -- ”
Might as well kick me in the gut.
“It’s a GPS-enabled microchip.”
“Those don’t exist.” Mark shoots me an incredulous look. His eyes narrow as if he’s rethinking my mental state.
I’d do the same if the roles were reversed.
I give him a sour look. Of course they do. He should know better.
“Whoa,” he hisses. “I thought we were years from that.”
I don’t bother to answer. My tongue licks the corner of my mouth, finding a raw split and blood.
“How do you track her?” he asks, bending down to talk at eye level.
My skin starts to crawl with awakening. The aches and bruises will fade over time, but time is of the essence now for Lindsay. She must be terrified.
And I know she’s waiting for me. I can’t fail her.
I won’t.
“Get me out of here.”
“I can’t! They’re --”
“Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.”
“For a guy who’s being charged with enough offenses to stay in prison for the rest of your life, Drew, you’re awfully demanding.”
“And for a guy who just kidnapped my girlfriend, you’re being an asshole, Mark.”
His eyes widen, jaw dropping, face gobsmacked.
And then he bristles.
“You know damn well that wasn’t me.”
“And you know damn well I didn’t do any of the things I’m charged with,” I reply.
“I know that!”
“Then DO SOMETHING about it! You’re Mark Paulson, for fuck’s sake!” I explode.
“Like what?”
“You’re the famous Senator James Thornberg’s grandson. According to Harry, you walk on water. Use that influence. Make calls. Get me the hell out of here so I can go get Lindsay.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Make it that simple.”
“There are limits to what I can do, Drew.”
“Push them all. Push every fucking limit until it breaks, then get me out of here.”
“If – if! -- there’s even the smallest chance I can get you out, it’ll take days. Weeks. Give me the microchip information so I can start pinpointing Lindsay’s location now.”
I stare him down.
Here’s the thing: I trust Mark Paulson with my life. With Lindsay’s life.
But my brain feels like someone filled it with wet helium balloons. I just got the shit kicked out of me in custody after a raid on my apartment for crimes I didn’t commit. “Mark Paulson” kidnapped my girlfriend from her father’s high-security compound.
I don’t know who to trust.
A flash of insight into Lindsay’s frame of mind the day we left the Island hits me between the eyes.
Mark lets out a nasty sigh of disbelief. He knows what I’m thinking. “That wasn’t me.”
I just look at him. He’s blurry on one side. I reach up to find a very raw right eye socket on my face. Pain blooms as I touch it.