“No, not short on patience,” she responded, “but you sounded rather anxious on the message you left earlier.”
Maleek sighed. “Well, I do suppose ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages, and kings.’”
He paused. Olivia could imagine a smirk on his mysterious face. “‘And why the sea is boiling hot,’” she continued, finishing the stanza. “‘And whether pigs have wings.’”
“Ah, Olivia. You know one of my favorite poems.”
“It’s fitting you quote The Walrus and the Carpenter to me, isn’t it? A twisted tale of a monster who lures a dozen innocent babies away and feels no remorse whatsoever.”
“You know something, Olivia? We’re not so different, you and I.”
“I don’t even know you,” she spat. “But, I can assure you, we couldn’t be more different.”
“You think so, do you? That’s true. You may not know me, but I know you. I’ve been watching you for some time now, Olivia.” His voice was calm, even, collected. An unwanted chill ran through her. She had no idea who this man was or what he looked like, but just from his menacing tone alone, she felt as if he were able to see into her soul. All her pain. All her happiness. All her secrets. He knew it all.
Olivia glanced at Agent Long, not knowing how to respond. She shook her head, indicating she wanted her to stay quiet.
“You believe it’s okay to break the rules for the greater good, just like your husband, who I’m sure is sitting right next to you, having difficulty controlling that famous temper of his.”
Olivia faced Alexander. He gritted a smile at her, encouraging her to keep going, despite the personal attacks.
“Am I right, Olivia?” Maleek asked.
She swallowed hard. “I haven’t broken any rules.” She was confident even a complete stranger could hear the uncertainty in her tone.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe. We all do. Some are bigger than others, having consequences that are hard to imagine. And why do we do that? Why do we stray from social norms and mores?”
Olivia stayed mute at his apparent rhetorical question. Her skin flamed. It felt like the walls of the dining area were closing in on her, every set of eyes focused on her and the conversation she was having with a complete stranger. Her secrets and faults were laid bare for all to see. Every wrong, every mistake, every slip of the tongue were plastered on her face.
“Because we believe in something. In a cause, if you will, Olivia. We believe so strongly in it, we’re willing to break the rules, and even a few laws, to further that cause.”
Her face flushed, heat coursing through her body as her mind reeled. Her lungs tried to fill with the oxygen they needed to function, but no matter how many deep breaths she took, it wouldn’t satisfy them. The room spun around her as she wondered if this man, this complete stranger, knew her secret. When she caught Martin’s gaze from across the room, he gave her a reassuring look.
“What is it you believe in that could possibly justify you taking my daughter?” she asked, praying her voice masked the panic coursing through every inch of her body. She knew this conversation would be analyzed under a microscope by the FBI agents listening in. It was only a matter of time before they put the pieces together.
“Retribution,” he barked in a clipped tone. “Honor. Justice.” There was a pause, then he spoke in a subdued voice again. “I believe there’s someone at your front door. You’ll find what you’re looking for in there, as well as proof I’m not messing around. See you in an hour, Olivia.”
“Wait!” she exclaimed, jumping up. “You didn’t tell me where!”
She listened for a response, but heard only dead air, followed by the doorbell. Everyone snapped their heads toward the entryway, the extravagant chandelier hanging from the high ceiling overhead casting an ominous light below.
Alexander bolted from his chair and darted toward the front door.
“Mr. Burnham, wait!” Agent Moretti called out, chasing after him. “I don’t think—”
“What?!” He spun around, his eyes wild with an emotion that was much more than anger or rage. The look on Alexander’s face was one Olivia had never seen. This was a man at the end of his rope. A man who was done playing games. A man who was ready to go into battle for the ones he loved. “You don’t want me to answer the door to my own house? Well, thank you for your concern, Agent Moretti, but I can handle whatever this is.”
Before Moretti could respond with some half-assed justification to mask his need to always be the one calling the shots, Alexander jumped the few steps up to the entryway landing and pulled open the front door.
Olivia inched toward the foyer, trying to peek beyond the open door at whomever was outside. He wore a navy blue cap, pants, and a matching jacket with the name of a courier service displayed prominently on the chest.
“Sign here,” the man said in a disinterested voice with a heavy Boston accent. His lack of enthusiasm was a marked contrast to the intrigue and nervous energy contained within the four walls of the house.
Alexander closed the front door, then turned to face the crowd that had assembled in the entryway, a square box in his hands.
“It’s for you.” He stared blankly at Olivia. All eyes went to the box he carried as worried thoughts ran through her head, particularly after the events earlier in the day.
“Do not open that,” Agent Moretti ordered, walking toward Alexander, keeping his eyes on the box. “Gibson, go question the courier for any information he may have. I’ll get the bomb squad out here as soon as I can.”
“It’ll be at least twenty minutes before they get here!” Alexander yelled in frustration as Gibson dashed out of the house. “You heard him! She has exactly one hour to get to wherever she needs to make that drop! It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he sent this! It may be a clue as to where Olivia needs to go because he certainly didn’t tell her on the phone. He has no reason to send a bomb, not when he knows Olivia has the money he thinks we owe him! So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to open this. Time is running out.”
“Mr. Burnham, sir…,” Agent Moretti continued, rushing toward Alexander, his arms outreached as if about to wrestle the box from his grasp.