The Trust (35 page)

Ricardo saw my flicker of understanding. “You’re kind of slow on the uptake. But I knew you’d figure it out. Time to call Claire.”

“Not happening.”

“Excuse me?” Ricardo did a double take.

“Not until JoJo’s safe.” My face was throbbing. My heart was pounding. I was doing my best to sound tougher than I felt. “Don’t you get it? I’m your hostage. She can’t talk to the authorities until I’m safe.”

“I don’t like it,” growled Jake.

“Because your meds won’t fix stupid.”

Divide and conquer. I had faced group decisions before. There’s nothing like riding one guy hard. It creates dissension in the ranks. Brokers do it all the time when they’re selling to committees.

Jake clenched his fists, but Ricardo grabbed his shoulder. “Let O’Rourke talk.”

“It’s not complicated. She’ll keep her mouth shut.”

“It’s too big a chance,” argued Jake.

“JoJo needs medical attention.”

“Don’t listen to him, Bong. One word from her, and we got nothing. And you know what that means to Moreno.”

“Hey, good point. How much does he get? I bet you send him forty and keep one sixty.”

“Shut up,” snapped Ricardo.

“The day’s running out,” I pressed, pulling out all the stops. “The longer you wait to free JoJo, the longer you wait to see your two hundred. But what do I know about cutoff times for wiring money? I only work in the industry.”

“Don’t tell me about cutoff times.”

“Let me handle this.” Jake’s eyes were crazy, the glints maniacal.

Ricardo said nothing. There was indecision plastered across his face.

“Cut this guy,” Jake persisted.

“Go ahead. And see what happens when I phone Claire.” My face was going flush underneath all the welts and bruises.

Ricardo rattled away in Spanish, lightning fast, one word turning into another. And the pilot responded in kind. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Not one word. But the two goons were arguing. That much was clear. I just watched and waited for a resolution.

“Okay,” Ricardo finally acquiesced. “You win, O’Rourke.”

It took all my self-control to keep from screaming. “Here’s how we do it.”

“Bong, he’s walking all over us.”

“When JoJo tells me she’s safe,” I said, ignoring Jake, “that’s when I call Claire. Not a moment before.”

“Cut this guy,” Jake echoed, his face going pink through the sandpaper skin.

“Nobody asked you.” Ricardo turned to me. “I’ll let her go.”

“I’m not finished with my terms.”

“That’s it.” Jake barreled forward, his body sinew and whipcord, his face bloated with rage, his neck taut. He slashed at my face. I ducked. The knife missed. But his knuckles grazed my ear and stung like a bastard.

Bong grabbed his shoulder, and that split second was all I needed. I drove my knee into his family jewels.

Contact, motherfucker.

It wasn’t my best shot. But it was good enough. Jake went down like a sack of bricks. I thought Ricardo would throw the next punch. But instead, he let me off with a warning.

“Next time, JoJo loses her nose.”

“I owed him for the beach.”

Jake was grabbing his crotch, squealing like a stuck pig.

“We call Claire from a public place,” I continued.

Ricardo pulled Jake to his feet. The pilot gasped and grunted. “You’re dead, O’Rourke.”

I ignored him. Ricardo was in command. “Once Claire wires the money, you have no reason to free me.”

“Not till the money arrives,” agreed Ricardo. He knew that money transfers are not instantaneous, that back rooms take time to process client instructions.

“Which is why we wait where people can see me.”

“And you think it’s safer in public?”

I gestured toward the pilot. “Ya think?”

“One shot, Bong. That’s all I want.” Jake had recovered his senses, but not his pride. He was seething.

“Anything else we can do for you?” asked Ricardo, mocking me.

“Buy me lunch,” I said, matching his sarcasm. “I’m starved.”

He shook his head in disgust and dialed South Carolina. He spoke his rapid-fire Spanish and then said in English, “Put JoJo on the line.”

I thought my heart would beat out of my chest.

Ricardo waited for a second. “Hold on.”

Then, he passed the phone to me. “Tell JoJo what happens if she calls the police.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She sounded weak.

But her voice was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. “They’re letting you go. Just don’t call the cops.”

JoJo knew I was in a bind. “You’re with that monster?”

“Don’t worry about me. Call this number from the hospital. Let me know when you’re safe. But nobody else. Forget Claire, the police, all your friends. And stay away from downtown Charleston until you hear from me. No other calls, okay?”

Ricardo snatched the cell phone. “You go to the police, and O’Rourke dies.”

Fifteen minutes later, we walked through the house into a courtyard bursting with palms and the sun’s golden embrace. I was glowing inside. I had just outnegotiated Ricardo, Bong, whatever he called himself. My instincts had served me well, and I felt victorious. Like a guy who prevailed against the odds and kicked an adversary’s ass.

Yeah, right.

Ricardo played me.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

PROVIDENCIALES, TURKS AND CAICOS

My joy was short-lived.

Every second morphed into a living hell as I waited for JoJo to dial Jake’s number from the hospital. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, and still there was nothing. No word from her. I knew her drive from Rafter’s would take a while. But the anticipation was killing me.

Hot. Humid. Hazy. Outside, we stepped into a small garden brimming with red passionflower and prickly pear cactus. I remember seeing a rough-hewn wall of broad wooden beams fashioned into an island-industrial look. There was a huge Caicos Caribbean pine sitting to the right. But the tree offered no clue to our whereabouts because the species is endemic to the islands.

Even now, I have no idea where we were.

The problem was a pillowcase. Jake bagged my head fifteen seconds into the garden. I couldn’t see a thing. But the fabric smelled like a mangy dog, fleas and all. “I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“Oh, let me help,” chided Jake, his tone sarcastic. Then he slapped my nose hard. I could feel my eyes well over.

The two men prodded me like a cow, the difference being cattle don’t wear hoods. One of the goons, probably that dumb-ass Jake, sucker punched me in the gut. When I doubled over, the wind wheezing from my lungs, he pushed me into a car and forced me head down on a seat. We drove five, maybe ten minutes, and still no word from JoJo.

The click, click, click of a turn signal. I could feel our car slowing. I could hear the transmission whine. Honking horns. Pedestrians’ voices. A bicycle’s bell. Jake ripped the bag from my head and snarled, “Sit up, asshole.”

I blinked several times, my eyes adjusting to the brilliant light. We were driving through a Caribbean-style business district. There were orange tile roofs and white stucco walls. Postcard palms, their green fronds parched at the tips, lined the streets. The emerald ocean shimmered in the distance, winking at us from every direction. And I would have thought the place a paradise. Except there was a fifty-something beatnik in a tie-dyed shirt holding a knife to my side.

“Try anything, and I’ll cut out a kidney,” warned Jake.

I stayed silent, trying to get my bearings in the unfamiliar town. Ricardo passed the Bahamas Banking Company, double glass doors in the front, and I thought he would park. But he drove the equivalent of three New York City blocks before pulling over.

The loaner shirt hung like a burlap sack across my frame. The pants bunched under the clinch of my belt. Except for the sandals, which fit fine, my clothes belonged on a fat man.

My teeth had survived intact. But my face was a mess, the beatings ugly. My nose was broken and my left eye swollen shut. My head felt like somebody had inflated it with a bicycle pump. And it hurt to breathe, pain searing through my ribs every time my diaphragm moved.

We walked toward the Bahamas Banking Company, back along the palm-lined avenue. A few tourists passed us, a few executives wearing jackets and collared shirts. They gawked at my face, all dents and bruises, but looked away when I caught them staring. One mother winced. She grabbed her little boy’s hand and scooted him away.

Ricardo, ever observant, noticed the commotion. “Give me your sunglasses,” he ordered Jake.

“What for?”

“Prince Charming is scaring the local wildlife.”

“Give him yours.”

Ricardo stopped, turned around, and squared to punch Jake. He could smell $200 million. He could almost taste the cash. But the money’s lure was making him a nervous wreck. Earlier he had been so controlled, his words terse, his responses calculated. He answered questions with questions. Now he seemed jittery.

I was glad to see the goons argue. The minute JoJo was safe, I was making a break for it.

Why hasn’t she called?

Ricardo’s eyes blazed, and Jake melted. The pilot removed his sunglasses, clear frames tinted pink, lenses the color purple. He blinked and made a big show. Like the sun was scalding his vision. Like there was a second hole in the ozone. Like he was taking one for the team. He passed them over to me.

“Put them on,” snarled Ricardo.

My nose felt like a puffy snout. It was so swollen, the shades didn’t fit. The pain from their touch, the glasses resting on my black-and-bruised flesh, was excruciating. Shivers raced up my spine through the back of my head.

“Shit, that hurts.”

“Get over it.”

That’s when Jake’s phone rang.

“Give me that thing,” ordered Ricardo. “Yes,” he grunted into the receiver. He listened for a moment, rubbing the back of his head, lost in thought. “Oh happy day,” he finally said, his tone sarcastic. “Now you can get that manicure you’re overdue.”

“Is that JoJo?” I grabbed for the mobile. I couldn’t help myself.

Nodding to Jake, Ricardo handed me the phone. The pilot pulled in close, too close. I could feel his hot breath, moist and rank. Something sharp poked me in the side. It was Jake’s serrated knife.

“I’m begging you to give me a reason.” Jake jabbed, not deep, but enough to punctuate his threat.

JoJo was on the line. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“My hand.” She was crying.

“Where are you?”

“The hospital in Mount Pleasant.”

“Give the phone to the first woman you see.” Right or wrong, I assumed her abductor was a guy.

“Why?”

“Hey!” snapped Jake.

“Do it, JoJo. Do it now.”

Ricardo snatched my throat and tried to grab the phone from my outstretched hand. “I said no tricks.”

“And I need verification. For all I know, your goon has a knife to JoJo’s throat.”

A thin man in a tan poplin suit passed us, white shirt, no tie. Ricardo eased his grip and nodded for Jake to back off.

“Hello,” came a woman’s voice over the phone. It wasn’t JoJo. In all my life, I had never heard a sweeter Southern accent. No way the woman was one of Ricardo’s confederates.

“Ma’am,” I said. It was important to start with the South’s trademark respect.

“Yes?” Her tone telegraphed discomfort.

“The lady who gave you the phone. Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“She looks shaken up. Are you her husband?”

“No, just a good, good friend. Is she alone?” I tensed for the reply.

“Yeah, except for the dog. They probably don’t want pets running around the hospital.”

Phew.

“Thank you.” I could feel the tension lifting from my shoulders. “Would you put my friend back on the line?”

The stranger handed her the phone.

“Have you seen the doctor?”

“They’re calling me now.”

“Give me that thing.” Ricardo snatched the mobile from my hand.

“Once they finish sewing you up, you go home,” he ordered. “You stay out of sight. You’re not seen. You’re not heard. You’re a ghost. The phone rings, you forget it. Your computer is shit. You send any e-mails, even one, and O’Rourke dies. Don’t think about the cops. If you do, O’Rourke dies. And guess which body part you get in the mail? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not his finger.”

“Won’t take much postage,” the pilot sneered.

“So much time. So little brain.” I shook my head ruefully at Jake while listening to the phone call.

Ricardo clicked off, though. And he told me, “We’re calling Claire.”

He punched in the numbers to the Palmetto Foundation and reached Jill, our receptionist. “It’s Father Ricardo and Grove. Put Claire on the line.”

“Right away.”

We held for an agonizing few seconds. The mobile beeped. The battery was going low. And in that instant, I decided the limitations of modern technology were a beautiful thing. A dead phone would delay wire instructions to Ricardo’s sweep account.

No such luck.

Jake poked me, deeper this time. Blood was blotting the sack of a shirt they had given me. And he leered like an idiot.

Claire’s voice came over the handset’s speakerphone. “Father Ricardo?”

He pointed his index finger at me.

“No, it’s Grove.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

Ricardo shook his finger no. Then he drew it across his neck, the slashing motion of death. Jake’s knife blade pierced a little deeper into my skin.

“It’s not important.”

“What’s going on?”

Ricardo cautioned me, the finger, the raised eyes, the furrowed brow.

“JoJo’s free,” I said.

“Oh, thank God.”

“I traded myself for her.”

“Oh, dear God.” I could almost see her eyes, usually so clear. I bet they were murky, listless and gray with strain from the past few days.

“Listen carefully, Claire. Get a pen.”

Ricardo mouthed two words: “No tricks.”

“The instructions from the ransom note are no good,” I explained. “Write these down.”

She stopped me when I read, “‘The Palmetto Foundation.’”

“We don’t have an account down there.”