And then, just like that, back on. Or maybe not ‘just like that.’ It’s more like a climb up a mountain where you can see the peak, but it’s so far away no matter how much you climb you never seem to get any closer, even when the climbing gets harder. And laying down wherever I was laying down, that peak was a lamp of orange light, smothering me like a large animal.
Closer and closer, but still too far away. My eyelids flicker but don’t open all the way, even when I want them to. My brain tells me I’m still a far cry from being back in control of my body, but my will begs for me to keep trying anyway. And I do. I’ve got nothing else to do.
“Hey,” someone says. “He’s waking up.”
“Already?” someone else says. I strain and fight and force my eyelids to stay open, even though it makes my eyes go all teary and hot.
I see red wallpaper, a painting of a landscape that looks like a generic hotel print, a TV, a few chairs, people in the chairs. One of whom looks exactly like Theo Butler.
“Quinn.”
Son of a bitch. What the hell is he doing here? I try to ask him but my lips are heavy and clumsy, and all I get are a few puffs of air and some moans.
“What’s he saying?” another guy I recognize—the motel manager asks.
“He’s only trying,” Theo says, taking a sip from his scotch. Kirill’t know why I’m not surprised by any of this. Could be because the water and the snow turned my brain to such mush I can’t tell what’s real from what should freak me out. Maybe none of this is real. Just some interactive dream. That’d make more sense—it’d account for the reason I can’t move or talk, or even see very clearly. Everything’s still in the same underwater haze. The snowy, salty haze.
Theo turns to the kid and adds, “You’ve been very, very helpful,” meaning he wants to talk to me alone. If talking is what he’s got in mind. Suddenly I’m remembering Maya’s contract. Could Theo know about that? There’s no way. She only gave it to me last night, and it’s not like she’d go out of her way to tell anybody. There’s just no way. Last night? When was last night? How can I even know how much time has passed since… since everything? What if it’s been days? Weeks? Christ—what if Maya’s dead already? That’d be reason enough for Theo being here. I’m not a guy who gets scared easily, but I forget that when Theo moves his chair in closer to get a better look at me. I shrink a little.
“You’ve had a lot of exposure to the elements,” Theo says. “It’ll be some time before you’re able to talk. At least that’s what the paramedics said, although I have a feeling that it’ll be sooner than that. I know your type. I knew it the moment I hired you. You’re a fighter. Why, that’s the very reason I hired you. I needed someone who could fight when the time called for it.”
He sits back and takes another sip. “You’ve done your job; that’s certainly clear. So don’t try to talk until you’re comfortable. Let me do the talking for both of us. After that, we can have our little dialogue.” He sets the scotch down on the carpet—bright red patterned motel carpet.
There’s something different about Theo Butler. Something I’d never noticed before, not during any of the times when I went over to his mansion to get my intel on his daughter or the goings-on of the company. He looks tired, for one thing. For another, I see the lines in his face very clearly, like they’ve been traced with a pen. He doesn’t smile either. The look on his face is the furthest from a smile I could imagine, and I realize it’s not one thing I’m noticing now about Theo Butler, but a whole bunch of different things, all of which add up to someone who looks extremely old and extremely tired of life. Maya asked me to put a bullet in his heart, but to me, the guy already looks dead.
“A little less than two days ago, my daughter stole a car from my garage and drove to a part of the city, the best word for which I can find would be unseemly. She stayed there several hours. I know all of this because every one of my cars is installed with a GPS tracking system that instantly tells me their whereabouts and the duration of each stay. Maya was reported missing to me by my staff within the hour, and it didn’t take us any more than ten minutes to piece together her disappearance and the missing car. I was asked whether I wished to pursue her and take her back: it is my regret I did not answer immediately.”
He pauses, sips his drink down to the rocks and clanks them around in the empty glass.
“We’ve had a severe difference of opinions these past several weeks, you see, over the fate of poor Kit Holcomb. My daughter holds firmly to her idea that I’ve made her a prisoner of my will, possibly involving her in deaths of which she has the highest disdain and disgust. Over these past weeks, she’s transferred this disgust over to me, for what I do and for what I stand for.”
Another pause. “And I understand entirely why she feels the way she does. My daughter believes I am a monster. What is more, I feel like one myself.”
He takes a long, slow breath. My eyes are fixed on his old, wrinkled face. Everything about this man is sad and pathetic.
“Then last night, something strange happened,” he goes on. “We traced the location of the car but still held off from any interference. I thought if I gave her some space to collect herself it would help our relationship. She’d see in time that what I did was done entirely for her benefit and for the sake of her welfare. So we let her stay here. The car registered four hours: we’d determined that she’d stopped for the night and would be returning tomorrow morning. Then just after midnight, something alarming happened. My men awoke me with the news my daughter had just committed suicide by drowning herself in the Gulf of Maine. My grief was indescribable.”
Theo bows his head over the weight of the terror of the memory. I feel some of it myself, thinking about how I felt when I saw those men moving Maya into the car. Those men. Her kidnappers.
“Of course I had to go and see her body myself. It’s been years since I’ve driven a car—forty years, perhaps longer, and never on snow. Nevertheless, I managed, though I still do not know how. I saw the broken rail, the marks in the snow. I was near inconsolable, as you can imagine, and my inconsolable grief soon transformed into rage, which for no reason I can think of, I directed here. A motel with guests, and staff. How could they have allowed this calamity to pass? Surely they would have heard something. I was determined to know. But when I arrived, I found something entirely beyond my expectations. Which is, of course, you, Quinn.”
He sets his back heavily against his chair, the majority of his speech concluded. He doesn’t bother to move his coat over the handle of his sidearm. My guess is that he intends for me to see it. For a few seconds, he sits like that, letting me take it all in. I do, and much more. Clearly, judging by the looks he’s giving me now, Theo thinks I’ve had a hand in murdering his daughter.
“Theo.” The name comes out thick and heavy.
“Can you speak? Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to speak.” He adjusts his seating position in order to show off the gun once more.
“I do-do-do,” I trip over the word. It’s too heavy: I try another. “Maya,” and this one I have better luck with. “Maya.”
“What has become of my daughter?” Theo’s voice is a harsh, sharp whisper. “Understand—your answer is the only thing that has kept you alive. If you’ve had a hand in her death, you’d best tell me quickly to keep from prolonging your own.”
“Maya. Not d-d-de.” But that’s as far as I get.
Theo frowns, looking at me like he’s looking through a magnifying glass. “Not dead? Is that what you’d like to say?”
I nod. I can’t describe my relief in not having to spell the whole sentence out.
“You’re speaking like a child. Perhaps I should do all the talking for now. Nod if you agree with me.”
I agree.
“Understand: if you’ve said this only because you’re hoping to buy yourself more time, the death that comes to you once I’ve discovered the truth you’ve been concealing will be exponentially more terrible than your death now, if you tell me the truth. I would scour the ocean for my daughter, and if you don’t believe I have the resources to do so, you clearly don’t know a thing about the man you’ve been working with.”
I nod.
“Were you alone in the car when you went into the water? My daughter was not there with you?”
Yes.
“That was no ill-conceived suicide attempt, I figure. You did not intentionally drive my car into the Gulf.”
Yes.
“Then our most obvious mystery is solved.” His voice lowers, almost a hush. “From what you know and from what you’ve seen, bearing in mind that nearly twelve hours have passed since I discovered my car in the water, do you believe she is still alive?”
I hesitate—remembering how she looked when she was being taken out to the car—and then nod.
Theo’s face relaxes visibly. Even his eyes seem to brighten, but with a kind of guarded interest.
“You’ve let my daughter out of your sight. You’ve failed me utterly, and yet I trust you. I don’t know why myself. Maybe it is an old man’s foolishness, his hopes, and wished-for fancies. Whatever it is, I am sure that you are telling the truth. But our work is hardly finished now—we have achieved no ground in uncovering her whereabouts. Tell me, although I’m afraid for the question I am going to ask I know I have to ask it regardless—has my daughter been kidnapped?”
Yes.
“Do you know by whom?”
No.
“Was it because of her kidnappers that you were knocked off the road?”
Yes.
“Did you see what her kidnappers looked like? Hair color? The build of their bodies? How many there were in total? Any details at all?”
“Four,” I say. My lips aren’t shaking anymore. The cold is still there, but I can feel it begin to empty out of me. “Big. One small. M-maybe more.”
“And were they armed? Did you see?”
“No—I didn’t. Armed, maybe.”
Theo pauses and doesn’t ask any more questions. What’s he thinking? I try to read his face, but all I get is a page of wrinkles and frowns. He’s concentrating intently on something, but I can’t tell what it is: a question, or maybe he knows something more.
“These men whom you saw leading her out—you don’t recall many of their details specifically to mind. But would you recognize them if you were to see them again? Do you believe you could distinguish them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you will. Look here for me—” He pulls a large cell phone out of his pocket and begins to shift through different screens until he comes to the one he wants. He hands me the screen so I can look.
“You’ll recognize one of these men I’m sure.”
“Mattias Kroll,” I say, remembering the time I met the old Irishman in Theo’s study. Cuchullain’s. Business partners. Kit Holcomb. Old friends—Theo’s introduction comes back to me in pieces. I recognize the granny face and thin hair in the picture, but I don’t recognize the figure standing next to him. A younger type, and as thin as a twig.
“You remember him. A very dear friend, very dear.” Theo is talking like he’s the only one in the room. Something’s agitating him.
“Perhaps you recall the rendezvous we made several months ago in my offices. I believe Mattias made mention of his son to you.”
“Oren.”
Theo’s eyebrows go up slightly. “That’s quite a memory you have. Particularly for someone who’s just experienced such a traumatic accident.”
“Why are you showing this to me?”
A cloud passes over Theo. His face goes rigid like it was made of plastic. Though when I look closer, I see it moving, trembling with some hidden emotion powerful enough that if left alone it’ll explode from inside out.
“We never spoke about Oren Kroll, Quinn. Frankly, we’d hoped the threat he’d once posed to our partnership had expired years before. And yet the events of last night have proven us wrong. Oren is a much more dangerous man than we’d ever feared or imagined. Spurred on by a hatred and insanity so fierce he’s murdered the very father who was doing all in his power to help.”
“Mattias? Murdered by his son?”
“Murdered, yes. About seven o’clock last night Mattias was seized by several of his own men—relatively new employments in his service—and driven far from town. I’ve had several of my own men at my late friend’s address who were given instructions to follow and keep their attention on any strange or unexpected proceedings. At eight o’clock they found themselves in a parking lot outside some abandoned buildings where they were instructed to wait and report on the situation. An hour passed before Mattias’s assailants, Oren among them, emerged from the building and drove away. My men entered the building a short time later. They found him. What—what remained of him. His body was burnt thoroughly. At the back of his head, they found the entrance wounds of two bullet holes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Several hours after that, a video surfaced, confirming what we already knew. Whether it was a revenge killing or simply the results of a long-held and ignored insanity, we don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. Oren Kroll killed his father in cold blood and then, if my instinct is right, drove here to kidnap my daughter.”
“But why do you say those two things like they’re related?” I hand back the phone. “I don’t know if it’s the same person. They’re both thin. Other than that I don’t know anything.”
“And yet I’d comb this whole city looking for her with less information than you’ve given me. As to what you first told me, that’s simple. They are related. Seven years ago, Oren and my daughter began a relationship I thought was only an expression of those foolish emotions young people mistake for infatuation, or maybe even love. My daughter recovered after some time, and their early relationship was brought to a close—much against Oren’s wishes. Then, earlier this week, Mattias proposed to my daughter. I won’t try to disguise the fact that I’d encouraged him. I have the highest love and regard for my daughter, but she is naïve and quite stupid in regards to the real nature of the world. It had been my hope Mattias might develop the maturity I’d failed her in. She didn’t accept, and we had our falling out shortly after.”
“You make it sound like this was a surprise.”
“It was a surprise and a very grievous one. Our families were to experience peace, cooperation, partnership. The things people in our profession can seldom dream of, let alone attain. And for her part, she was to be provided for by a man of good standing, of sound reason, charm, and firm judgment. You think I sound like a nineteenth-century matchmaker, but this isn’t the truth. Mattias would have loved my daughter and done much more for her than any young man. And she would have loved him if she’d only seen what he might have offered her.”
“You never asked her what she felt.”
“It was irrelevant what she felt. No more than temporary flashes of emotion, totally without consideration or substance. She would have said the most terrible things about him and would have flung herself on the ground and thrown a tantrum like a spoilt brat. She would have convinced herself she despised me even more than she already did, and then she would have worked her emotions into a weapon to jab into my side, and Mattias’s whenever she felt she needed to drive us away. She would have succeeded in alienating herself completely from what she ought to be embracing. This is what would have come from her emotions. Expression, but with no thought to the reason behind her decision.”
“But you never asked her.”
Theo runs a hand over his face, clearly exhausted and clearly not in the mood to explain himself again. That’s fine—I don’t want him too.
“Maya’s always made it clear to me how she’s felt about you,” I say, thinking over my words carefully. Theo may look like a broken old guy, but he’s killed dozens. If he thought for a moment I wasn’t on his side, he’d have no problem adding me to his list of the permanently disappeared. “I’ve heard lots about you in the past few months. But she never told me she hated you.”
“She’d never say it,” he interrupts.
“She wouldn’t ever say it because she doesn’t think it. She despises you sometimes. You and your work. She feels caged in by you: she thinks you suffocate her. But the truth is, I don’t think your daughter is capable of hating anyone. Not even Oren.”
What makes me say this I don’t know. I haven’t forgotten about her ultimatum, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that was only her anger speaking for her. If she’d have seen what Theo saw: a man executed by his own son in cold blood, there’s no way she could be serious about me killing Theo. I trust this. Even if I have no evidence for it, I trust it.
“She talked about getting away from you as long as I’ve known her, but she’s never done it. Not because she’s a coward. I’ve ever met anyone braver in my life than your daughter. She didn’t know how to leave you, but that’s because secretly, she didn’t want to. Not completely. Your daughter isn’t ungrateful to you, Mr. Butler. She doesn’t think you’re a monster. It’s your job she hates. That’s what she’s tried to get away from. Not you. What you are.”
I’ve never talked like this to anyone, about anyone, ever. I don’t know where any of it came from, or even if someone had said all of this to me before I said it, whether I’d believe it or not. But talking here in front of Theo, the ice melting out of my body, I start realizing things I’d never given any thought to before. Things like how much I pity Theo Butler and Mattias Kroll for having been who they’ve been, and how sorry I am for Maya and what she’s had to endure by the men in her life that she hasn’t been able to save. God—if only I could see her again. If only there was some way to track her down. Some clue left behind. Anything.
“No one’s ever talked to me like you’ve talked to me now, Quinn. Do you know why?”
“I don’t think it’s important.”
“It’s not important. It’s because of fear. I’ve had to be feared. Fear is my armor, and I’ve worn my armor for so long it’s become attached to my very skin. But now you’ve proven something to me.”
“What?”
“My armor has broken. When daughters run from their homes, and sons execute their fathers, and men speak to me as you just have, I can no longer even pretend to be my former stature. And so long as I am not feared, I cannot continue my work. I’m finished. My retirement and my penance await.”
He smooths out his pants and rises. But what the hell is this? Is he just going to walk out? Is he giving up just like that?
“No—you can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
Can’t what? Give up the work like Maya’s always wanted? Admit he’s been wrong—let her have the freedom she’s wanted since day one when we drove out to Sunrise Apartments? Admit his guilt? Ask her forgiveness?
“What do you propose? With no leads and no clues, and when my daughter’s kidnappers have a lead of so many hours before us?”
“There has to be a way. People always leave clues. There has to be—” I stop. “You said your guards tailed Oren and his men after Mattias had been captured?”
“Yes.”
“Do they remember the car they were tagging?”
“Black BMW. I don’t know the plates. Why?”
I’m out of breath suddenly, like someone’s just punched me in the gut. The hotel. The kinky sex shop. Sunrise Apartments on our first day together. My God.
“There are thousands in this city alone—tens of thousands in the whole state. If you’re planning on what I think you’re planning—”
“I’m not planning anything.” I plant my feet and wobble my way up to standing. My legs are jelly, but I’ll have strength back in them in no time. Nothing’s keeping me back now. “I already know. I know exactly where they are.”