Ransom Read online

  “Is that weird?” she asked Ted, looking embarrassed, and he shook his head. He hadn't left her in days. He just stayed at the house with her. He had brought clothes with him. She knew some of the men were hot bunking in Will's bedroom. They took turns sleeping one at a time, while the others kept watch over the house, the phones, and her. As many as four or five men used the bed in shifts in any twenty-four-hour period.

  “Nothing's weird if it gets you through this. Do you want me to see if I can get someone to come out, or is there someone you want me to call?”

  “It doesn't matter,” she said, looking shy. It was strange, but after the past few days together, she felt as though they were friends. She could say anything to him. In a situation like this one, there was no pride, no shame, no artifice, there was only honesty and pain.

  “I'll make a few calls” was all he said. Two hours later, there was a young man at the door. He seemed to know Ted, and walked in quietly. They spoke for a few minutes, and then he followed Ted upstairs. She was lying on her bed and he knocked on the open door. She sat up and stared at Ted, wondering who the other man was. He was wearing sandals, a sweatshirt, and jeans. She had been lying there, willing the kidnappers to call, when he walked in.

  “Hi,” Ted said, standing in her doorway, feeling awkward, as she lay on her bed. “This is a friend of mine, his name is Dick Wallis, he's a priest.” She got off her bed then and stood up, walked over to them, and thanked him for coming. He looked more like a football player than a priest. He looked young, somewhere in his mid-thirties, but as she spoke to him, she saw that his eyes were kind. And as she invited him into her bedroom, Ted went quietly back downstairs.

  Fernanda led the young priest to a small sitting room off her bedroom and invited him to sit down. She wasn't sure what to say to him, and asked him if he knew what happened. He said he did. He told her then that he had played pro football for two years after college, and then decided to become a priest. He told Fernanda as she listened raptly to him that he was now thirty-nine, and had been in the priesthood for fifteen years. He said that he had met Ted years before when he was briefly a police chaplain, and one of Ted's close friends got killed. It had put a lot of things in question for him about the meaning of life, and how senseless it all was.

  “We all ask ourselves those things at times. You must be asking yourself those same questions right now. Do you believe in God?” he asked her then, and took her by surprise.

  “I think so. I always have.” And then she looked at him strangely. “In the last few months, I haven't been so sure. My husband died six months ago. I think he committed suicide.”

  “He must have been very frightened to do something like that.” It was an interesting thought, and she nodded. She had never thought of it that way. But Allan was afraid. And had opted out.

  “I think he was. I'm frightened now,” she said honestly, and then started to cry. “I'm so afraid they'll kill my son.” She couldn't stop crying now.

  “Do you think you can trust God?” he asked her gently, and she looked at him for a long time.

  “I'm not sure. How could He let this happen, and let my husband die? What if my son is killed?” she said as she choked on a sob.

  “Maybe you can try to trust Him, and trust these people here to help you and bring him back. Wherever your son is right now, he's in God's hands. God knows where he is, Fernanda. That's all you need to know. All you can do. Leave him in God's hands.” And then he said something so strange to her that she had no idea what to say in response. “We're all given terrible trials sometimes, things that we think will break our spirit and kill us, and they make us stronger in the end. They seem like the cruelest blows, but in a funny way they're like compliments from God. I know that must sound crazy to you, but that's what they are. If He didn't love you and believe in you, He wouldn't give you challenges like this. They're opportunities for grace. You'll be stronger from this. I know it. This is God's way of telling you that He loves you and believes in you. It's a compliment from Him to you. Does that make any sense?”

  She looked at the young priest with a wistful smile and shook her head. “No.” She didn't want it to make sense. “I don't want compliments like this. Or my hus-band's death. I needed him. I still do.”

  “We never want challenges like this, Fernanda. No one does. Look at Christ on the cross. Think of the challenge that must have been for Him. The agony of betrayal by people He had trusted, and death. And afterward came the resurrection. He proved that no challenge, no matter how great, could end His love for us. In fact, He loves us more. And He loves you too.” They sat quietly for a long moment then, and in spite of what seemed to her like the insanity of what he was saying about the kidnapping being a compliment from God, she felt better, and she wasn't even sure why. Somehow the young priest's presence had calmed her. He got up after a while, and she thanked him. He gently touched her head before he left, and said a blessing over her, which comforted her somehow. “I'm going to pray for you and Sam. I'd like to meet him one day.” Father Wallis smiled at her.

  “I hope you will.” He nodded, and left her then. He didn't look anything like a priest, and yet in a strange way she liked what he had said. She sat alone in her room for a long time after that, and then went downstairs to find Ted. He was in the living room, on his cell phone, and he ended the call when she walked into the room. He'd been talking to Rick, just to pass the time. There was no news.

  “How was it?”

  “I'm not sure. He was either terrific, or nuts. I'm not sure which,” she said, and smiled.

  “Probably both. But he helped me a lot when a friend of mine died, and I just couldn't make sense of it. The guy had six kids, and his wife was pregnant with another one. He was killed by a homeless man who stabbed him for no reason, and just left him there to die. No act of bravery, no hero's death. Just a lunatic and a knife. The homeless guy was nuts. They had let him out of the state mental hospital the day before. It just didn't make sense. It never does.” The killing of the four men in her kitchen and the kidnapping of her son didn't make sense either. Some things just didn't.

  “He said this is a compliment from God,” she shared with Ted.

  “I'm not sure I agree with him. That does sound nuts. Maybe I should have called someone else.” Ted looked sheepish.

  “No. I liked him. I'd like to see him again. Maybe after this is over. I don't know. I think he helped.”

  “That's how I always felt about him. He's a very holy person. He never seems to waver from what he believes. I wish I could say as much for myself,” Ted said quietly, and she smiled. She looked more peaceful. It had done her good talking to the priest, however odd his words.

  “I haven't been to church since Allan died. Maybe I was mad at God.”

  “You have a right to be,” Ted said.

  “Maybe I don't. He said this is an opportunity for grace.”

  “I guess all hard things are. I just wish we got fewer opportunities for grace,” Ted said honestly. He had had his share too, though none as bad as this.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “So do I.”

  They walked to the kitchen then to find the others. The men were playing cards at the kitchen table, and a box of sandwiches had just arrived. Without thinking, she picked one up and ate it, and then drank two glasses of milk. She didn't say a word to Ted while she did. All she could think of was what Father Wallis had said about this being a compliment from God. Somehow it sounded weird, but right, even to her. And for the first time since they'd taken him, she had the overwhelming sense that Sam was still alive.

  Peter Morgan got to Lake Tahoe in the Honda only two hours after Carl and his crew arrived with Sam. When he got there, Sam was still in the canvas bag.

  That's not very smart,” Peter told Malcolm Stark, who had put the bag in a back bedroom, and dumped it on the bed. “The kid's got tape over his mouth, I assume. What if he can't breathe?” Stark looked blank, and Peter was glad he'd come. Addison was ri
ght. They couldn't be trusted with the boy. Peter knew they were monsters. But only monsters would do the job.

  Carl had questioned him about why he'd come to Tahoe, and Peter said that after the killing of the cops, their boss wanted him to come up.

  “Was he pissed?” Carl looked concerned.

  Peter hesitated before he answered. “Surprised. Killing the cops complicates things. They're going to be looking for us a lot harder than if it was just the kid.” Carl agreed. It had been rotten luck.

  “I don't know how you missed the cops,” he said to Peter, still looking annoyed.

  “Neither do I.” Peter kept wondering if something Addison had said in his FBI interrogation had tipped them off. Nothing else could have. He had been impeccably careful in watching Fernanda. And up until then, Waters, Stark, and Free had made no mistakes that he knew of. Once they ran into the police in Fernanda's kitchen, they had had no choice but to kill them. Even Peter agreed. But it was still shit luck. For all of them. “How's the kid?” he asked again, not wanting to seem too concerned. But Stark still hadn't gone to the back room to get him out.

  “I guess someone should check,” Carl said vaguely. Jim Free was bringing the food into the kitchen, and they were all hungry. It had been a long day, and a long drive.

  “I'll do it,” Peter volunteered casually, sauntered into the back room, and untied the knot in the rope tying the bag. He opened it gingerly, terrified that Sam had suffocated, and two big brown eyes met his. Peter put a finger to his lips. He wasn't sure whose side he was on anymore, the boy's mother, or theirs. Or maybe just the boy's. He pulled away most of the bag, and gently peeled the duct tape off his mouth, but left his hands and feet tied. “Are you okay?” he whispered, and Sam nodded. His face was dirty and he looked scared. But at least he was alive.

  “Who are you?” Sam whispered.

  “It doesn't matter,” Peter whispered back.

  “Are you a cop?” Peter shook his head. “Oh.” Sam said no more, he just watched, and a few minutes later, Peter left the room and walked into the kitchen where the others were eating, and someone had put a pot of pork and beans on the stove. There was chili too.

  “We'd better feed the kid,” Peter said to Waters, and he nodded. They hadn't thought of that either. Nor even water. They had just forgotten. They had bigger things on their minds than food for Sam.

  “For chrissake,” Malcolm Stark complained, as Jim Free laughed, “we're not running a daycare center here. Leave him in the bag.”

  “If you kill him, they won't pay us,” Peter pointed out practically, and Carl Waters laughed.

  “He's got a point. His mother is probably going to want to talk to him when we call. Hell, we can afford to feed him once in a while, he's getting us a hundred million bucks. Give him lunch.” He looked at Peter when he said it, and assigned him to the job. Peter shrugged, put a slice of ham between two pieces of bread and walked it into the back room, and once there, sat down on the bed next to Sam, and held it to his mouth. But Sam shook his head.

  “Come on, Sam, you've got to eat,” Peter said matter-of-factly, almost as though he knew him. After watching him for over a month, he felt as though he did. Peter spoke to him as gently as he would have to his own children, trying to get them to do something.

  “How do you know my name?” Sam looked puzzled. Peter had heard his mother say it a hundred times by then.

  Peter couldn't help wondering how she was doing, and how badly shaken up she was. Having watched how close she was to her children, he knew what it must be doing to her. But the boy was in remarkably good shape, particularly after the trauma he'd been through, and a four-hour ride tied up in a canvas bag. The kid had guts, and Peter admired him for it. He offered him the sandwich again, and this time Sam took a bite. In the end, he ate half of it, and when Peter looked back at him from the doorway, Sam said, “Thanks.” Something else occurred to Peter then, and he turned back to ask him if he had to go to the bathroom, and Sam looked awkward for a minute, and Peter guessed correctly what had happened. He had wet himself long since. Who wouldn't. He got him out of the bag then completely. Sam didn't know where he was, and he was afraid of the men who had kidnapped him, including Peter. He took him to the bathroom, and waited while he went, and carried him back again and left him on the bed. He couldn't do more for him. But he covered him with a blanket before he left, and Sam watched him leave.

  Peter came back before he went to bed that night, and took him to the bathroom again. He woke him to do it, so he wouldn't have another accident. And gave him a glass of milk and a cookie. Sam devoured both, and thanked him again. And when Sam saw him appear the next morning, he smiled.

  “What's your name?” Sam asked cautiously.

  Peter hesitated before telling him, and then decided he had nothing to lose. The child had seen him anyway. “Peter.” Sam nodded. And Peter came back a while later with breakfast. He brought him a fried egg and bacon. He rapidly became the official baby-sitter. The others were happy not to do it. They wanted their money, not baby-sitting for a six-year-old kid. And in an odd way, Peter felt as though he was doing it for Fernanda, and knew he was.

  He sat with the boy for a while that afternoon, and came back again that night. Peter sat on the bed next to him, and stroked his hair.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Sam asked in a small voice. He looked frightened and sad, but Peter had never seen him cry. He knew how terrifying this must be for him, but he was remarkably brave, and had been since it happened.

  “No, I'm not. We're going to send you home to your mom in a few days.” Sam didn't look as though he believed him, but Peter looked as though he meant it. Sam wasn't so sure about the others. He could hear them in the other room, but they had never come in to see him. They were more than happy to let Peter do it. He told them he was protecting their investment, which they thought was funny.

  “Are they going to call and ask my mom for money?” Sam asked softly, and Peter nodded. He liked the boy better than he did the others. By a long shot. They were a nasty lot. They'd been talking about the cops they'd killed and how good it felt to do it. Listening to them made Peter feel sick. It was a lot more pleasant talking to Sam.

  “Eventually,” Peter said in answer to his question about their asking Fernanda for money. Peter didn't say when they would, and wasn't sure himself. In a couple of days, he thought, which was the plan.

  “She doesn't have any,” Sam said quietly, watching Peter, as though trying to figure him out, which he was. He almost liked him, but not quite. He was one of the kidnappers after all. But he'd been nice to him at least.

  “Any what?” Peter asked, looking distracted. He was thinking of other things, like their escape. Their plans were set, but he was nervous about it anyway. The other three were heading to Mexico, and from there to South America with false passports. Peter was going to New York, to try to see his daughters. And then he was going to head for Brazil. He had some friends there from his days of dealing drugs.

  “My mom doesn't have any money,” Sam said softly, as though it was a secret he was supposed to keep, but was sharing with Peter.

  “Sure she does.” Peter smiled.

  “No, she doesn't. That's why my dad killed himself. He lost it all.” Peter sat on the bed and stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he knew what he was talking about. He had that painful honesty and sincerity of kids.

  “I thought your dad died in an accident, he fell off a boat.”

  “He left my mom a letter. She told my dad's lawyer he killed himself.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sam looked embarrassed for a minute, and then confessed, “I was listening outside her door.”

  “Did she talk to him about the money?” Peter looked worried.

  “A lot of times. They talk about it almost every day. She said it's all gone. They have a lot of ‘bets’ or something. That's what she always says, there's nothing left but ‘bets.’” Peter understood better than he di
d. She was obviously talking about debts, not bets. “She's going to sell the house. She hasn't told us yet.” Peter nodded, and then looked at him sternly.

  “I don't want you to say this to anyone else. Do you promise?” Sam nodded, looking very somber.

  “They'll kill me if she doesn't pay them, won't they?” Sam said with sad eyes. But Peter shook his head.

  “I won't let them do that,” he whispered. “I promise,” he said, and then left the room to go back to the others.

  “Christ, you spend a lot of time with that kid,” Stark complained, and Waters looked at Stark with disgust.

  “Just be glad it's not you. I wouldn't want to do it either.”

  “I like kids,” Jim Free volunteered. “I ate one once.” He laughed uproariously at that. He'd been drinking beer all night. He'd never been convicted of hurting a child, and Peter assumed it was bullshit, but he didn't like it anyway. He didn't like anything about them.

  Peter didn't say anything to Waters till the next morning, and then he looked at him with concern, as though he'd been worrying about something.

  “What if she doesn't pay up?” Peter asked him directly.

  “She will. She wants her kid back. She'll pay whatever we ask.” They had actually been talking the night before about asking for more, and taking a bigger cut.

  “And if she doesn't?”

  “What do you think?” Carl said coldly. “If she doesn't, he's no use to us. We get rid of him, and get the fuck out.” It was what both he and Sam had feared.