Watched (18 page)

“Don't make a noise or your mother dies,” Jesse's uncle told Miranda as he directed her mother to the door and dragged Miranda with him.

Miranda couldn't feel her feet against the carpet—couldn't feel anything past the sight of blood on her mother's face. She'd done this, thought she could outsmart King. Instead she'd brought this madness, this pain, this…evil into their lives.

All her fault. And now her mother was going to pay the price.

“Please,” her mother begged, her words choked with blood from her split lip and broken nose. “You don't understand. She can't leave. She has agoraphobia. Panic attacks.”

Miranda flinched with each word as if they were blows. Her mother should just run. Why didn't she run, save herself? She opened her mouth to yell at her mother to leave her, but nothing came out except for a tiny mewing noise too weak to carry that far.

“Shut up and keep moving. Now.” He jabbed the gun hard into Miranda's temple, forced her forward.

The doorway loomed, growing bigger and bigger, a monster's maw ready to swallow them. Her mom crossed through it, turned back, an arm out toward Miranda, stretching a mile or more to reach her as her mom's body grew smaller and smaller, fuzzy and blurred.

Run, please, just run.
The words thundered through Miranda's mind but she couldn't force them past the panic that throttled her.
Mom, don't die. Not because of me. Please.

The panic attack ripped through Miranda, squeezing her chest, making her heart pound with terror—somehow it was worse than the real terror of a gun to her head.

Only the fear that he might hurt her mom kept Miranda upright. As it was, she was breathing so hard and fast she couldn't feel her feet or hands or face. Jesse's uncle wrapped his arm around her throat and jabbed the gun in his other hand into her side as he shoved her out the door and into the hall.

All her fears crashed down on her. Fear of unknown people coming out of their apartments, seeing her. Where were they now, when they might actually help?

There was no one, not this early on a Saturday morning. No one but her mom backing down the hall, hands out as if ready to catch Miranda. Mom wouldn't leave her, wouldn't run to save herself.

Why not? Didn't she realize this was all Miranda's fault?

Miranda's vision darkened. She knew she had to slow her breathing, but she couldn't. She couldn't even think; the panic had taken over her brain.

Her mom was going to die. Because of her. Because she was weak and stupid and frightened and, and, and…a dozen recriminations swirled through her brain, the words turned into blows, pummeling Miranda's psyche.

Jesse's uncle's grip tightened on her as they started down the steps. Then they reached the front door to the building. The sun was up, the sky outside clear blue. But all Miranda could see was a bloodred haze.

No! She couldn't go out, couldn't go past those doors. She struggled, numb, useless fingers clawing at his face and arms, feet tripping as she tried to push him back away from the doors.

Run, Mom!
But his arm tightened, choking the words before she could say them. Her mother didn't run, didn't leave her. Instead, she stepped closer, toward the danger.

Jesse's uncle pivoted, aiming the gun at Mom, who froze, hands held up, eyes locked on Miranda.

“Stop it or she dies,” he ordered Miranda.

She gasped for breath, his words meaningless wisps in the fog of her panic. He cursed, the pressure on her neck growing from his choke hold. She saw her mother, the gun aimed at her face, fought as hard as she could to swallow the terror, to take control, to think of something brave and bold to save her mother, but then everything went from scarlet to black.

• • •

Mr. Ryder is back a few minutes later, talking on a phone with one hand and carrying a bag with the other. He tosses the bag to me: the aroma of eggs, sausage, and bacon almost makes me forget why we're here. As I chew, he's talking fast, at first looking frustrated then relieved. Finally he looks at me over the tops of his sunglasses and seems doubtful.

I wipe my face with my sleeve, worried I've got crumbs all over myself. It doesn't seem to help. But he nods and hangs up.

He gets back into the car and we continue heading down 322. I want to ask about the FBI but restrain myself. Not a whole lot I can do about it, sitting in a speeding vehicle, except trust him. I'm sure he's just as unhappy about being forced to trust me, a stranger, with his daughter's life.

We're almost to Smithfield when he turns to me and asks, “What is this Griffin business, anyway? Does it stand for anything? It's not a gang name, is it?”

“Miranda came up with it. She thought we should have screen names, make it harder for King to track us if he spotted us.” It sounds stupid. Childish. But right now, heading over to the men who want to lock me up for crimes I didn't commit and then going on to negotiate for the lives of Miranda and her mom, I need all the Griffin I can muster.

He grunts. “Sounds like something she would come up with. Like her mom, that way. Always with her head in a book. So a griffin, that's like a winged monkey or something?”

He's smiling, sort of, so I know he's joking. “Something like that. They were mythical beasts who protected the innocent against evil.”

“I'd say we need all the help we can get in that arena.” He jerks his chin, decision made. We pull into the driveway of a small house just off campus. “The college owns this place, uses it for visiting professors, but it's vacant right now. And not in range of any security cameras.” There are two black SUVs parked in front of us. It's a small house, made of fieldstone, with a sloped peaked roof, like something out of “Hansel and Gretel.”

“These guys—” he starts.

“They're FBI?” I'm a little nervous. Regular cops are bad enough but the FBI?

“No. My friend at the FBI put me in contact with the US Deputy Marshal running the FAST team. I met the guy a few times when I was in Pittsburgh on the warrant squad. He's a bit of a cowboy, is going to want to test you,” he says. “His butt is on the line here if anything goes wrong, so let him do—”

“Excuse me, sir,” I interrupt. “But isn't it Miranda and Mrs. Ryder's lives on the line? I'm sorry, but I really don't give a damn about anyone else.”

“Good man. But we need Oshiro and his team on board—otherwise, they'll just lock you up and we're shit out of luck.” His hand is resting on his pistol as he says this, so I'm pretty sure he won't let it come to that. “Answer his questions honestly, like you have with me, and everything will be okay. Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because we're running out of time.”

When Miranda came to, she was surrounded by darkness. They'd placed a pillowcase or something like it over her head. They hadn't done it to help her, but she was grateful for it. Because of it, she'd been able to breathe in the extra carbon dioxide she generated while hyperventilating, helping to end her panic attack. Plus, even though she knew she was lying on the floor of a car in motion, in the darkness she could imagine herself still safe inside her room, on her bed, hiding under her covers.

It even smelled of fabric softener—a tiny detail but powerful enough to ease the panic, enough that she could regain control. Of her body at least. Well, not even that. As feeling returned to her limbs, she realized her hands were duct taped behind her back and that she was lying on top of them. And she was barefoot—couldn't blame that on Jesse's uncle, she rarely wore shoes since she never went anywhere. But her feet were cold.

Not bound, though. She could run if she had the chance.

Her heart stumbled into a headlong whirl and her breath quickened with panic. She concentrated on slowing it. Right. How the hell could she run when the thought of the world beyond this nice, clean pillowcase was overwhelming?

She took a few more deep breaths. Finally the cobwebs clouding her brain cleared.
Mom!
She hauled in a lungful of air, ready to scream when a man's shoe planted itself on her chest, squeezing all the air out so she couldn't make a sound.

“Don't,” he said. “It gives me a headache, and it won't do you a damn bit of good. Your mom is safe—as long as you do what I tell you to do. Do you understand, Ariel?”

She nodded but wasn't sure he could see with the pillowcase. He eased the pressure on her chest and she was able to gasp, “Yes.”

Ariel. He'd called her Ariel. Jesse's uncle didn't know her by that name. And his voice was different—it was the man on the phone. King.

Her stomach twisted, and she had to swallow twice to keep from vomiting. She breathed through her nose, slow, deep, gulping in the fake flowers from the fabric softener. Mom. She had to find her mom.

Miranda swallowed, tasting lint. Fear edged aside, making room for anger. Her mom. They'd hit her mom, pointed a gun at her. They said they'd kill her mother.

Not. Going. To. Happen.

That one decision made, her heart slowed to a steady pace. Miranda might die today—a day sooner than she'd planned, but that was okay. As long as her mom was safe.

“Good girl,” he said dismissively as she stopped struggling beneath his foot. As if she were a trained dog. In a way, she supposed he had trained her—but not the way he thought.

If he hurt her mom, she was going to kill him.

“Have you heard from Nina lately?” he asked in a casual tone, his foot still pressed against her chest.

Nina? That was her friend, the one whose house she was in when…it was Nina's big sister who'd taken the pictures King found two years ago. The ones that destroyed her life. A giddy drunk girl doing a silly striptease. Fake, for fun, not even taking everything off, but the camera caught enough, more than enough.

“No.” She decided to stick with simple answers. Like her dad did when he had to testify. Dad? Were he and Jesse coming? Or did King have them as well?

“Poor, poor Nina.” He sighed dramatically. “She's not doing so well. Failing school, acting out, fighting with her parents. Don't you want to know why?”

“Why?” she said. What did Nina have to do with her and Jesse? Shouldn't he be asking where Jesse was? What their plan was?

“Because of me. You see, your photos weren't the only ones I snagged that night.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, guilt descending over her. She'd never seen any pictures of Nina, had assumed hers were the only ones, that she was King's only victim that night.

“You refused my offer,” King continued. “Tried to fight back. As pitiful as that was, it was amusing. But Nina begged me to not publish her pictures said she'd do anything. So now she belongs to me.”

He went silent. Lesson over: there was no winning with King.

Nina. Poor Nina. After Ariel was cybersmashed, her world crumbling around her, she'd been so angry at Nina's sister that she'd barely spoken to Nina except to yell at her.

Nina had said nothing. Not during the weeks they were still in school together, before the first time Miranda's parents transferred her to another school in another part of the city. Nina's life must have been even more hellish than Ariel's, but she'd never once asked for help.

“You used me to threaten Nina,” she said, her anguish muffled by the pillowcase. Anger blossomed into something hard, enduring, tougher than any panic or phobia. She'd let Nina down. Had spent all that time and energy chasing after King's victims and hadn't even known her best friend needed help.

“Of course, dear. That's what I do. Oh, the money is nice, but the real joy comes from watching people destroy themselves.” His foot jiggled and she could tell he was excited. Sick bastard. “I was going to take her viral—your birthday present, watching your friend's life come crashing down, all because of you. But this, finally getting to play with you in person, this is so much more fun, don't you think?”

She lay at his feet, tied up, blind, and she smiled. He thought he had Ariel—weak, meek Ariel—here. He thought he'd already won.

Wrong. She'd left Ariel far, far behind. She wasn't weak or meek. She wasn't about to lose; in fact, she had nothing left to lose. Her only choice was to win.

She was Miranda.

• • •

As soon as we step out of Mr. Ryder's car, there are two men with big, black machine guns, aiming at us from the doorway of the house. Another from beside the garage, putting us in a cross fire. Mr. Ryder doesn't seem to notice—or he pretends not to, because I see he's keeping his hands out to the side, away from his gun, as he walks up the front steps.

“Oshiro is expecting us,” he says to the two guys at the door, nudging their machine guns aside as he walks past them. They're dressed all in black: cargo pants with holsters and small bags strapped to their thighs, gun belts, bulletproof vests under black Windbreakers. They glare at me as if expecting me to quiver and melt into a pool of jelly.

It feels good, disappointing them, following Mr. Ryder's nonchalant lead.

“Morning,” is all I say as I pass through them.

Mr. Ryder leads the way into the front room, a dining room with a map spread out on the table and two more men bent over it. Their polos say
U.S.
Marshal
above an embroidered star. There's another skinny guy wearing jeans and a polo shirt under a Windbreaker that has
ATF
stenciled on the back. He's the youngest of the group and doesn't seem to quite fit in with the rest.

And finally there's the leader, who must be Oshiro. The guy isn't tall, yet he's massive. Think sumo wrestler without the beer belly. Broad shoulders, no neck, big hands.

His glare stops me in my tracks. “This the kid? Where were you at 0620?”

“With me,” Ryder answers, not at all taken back by Oshiro's abrupt question. “Why?”

“Because according to his life-support monitors, that's when someone killed Leonard Kerstater, the brother of the guy you said was one of our subjects.” Oshiro planted both palms on the table. I swear the heavy oak groaned as he leaned forward. “So either you did it together, or—”

“I'm innocent.” I can't believe I said it like that, daring him to not believe me, but I don't back down. Every instinct is telling me that showing fear or weakness to this man will get me eaten alive. “So can we stop wasting time?”

He jerks his head, dismissing me, and focuses on Mr. Ryder.

Mr. Ryder gives him a quick summary of everything that's happened.

“You disabled your cells? Both of you?” Oshiro frowns. “Good way to alert our subjects that you might be working together, get them suspicious.”

I'm surprised at his tone. Like Mr. Ryder's an idiot or something. But Mr. Ryder shrugs it off, handing Oshiro his cell. “Didn't have much choice. This place would be on my patrol route, so if you want to put the battery back in and set it outside—”

“Got a better idea. Hey, junior G-man,” he calls to the ATF agent, using the same dismissive tone. “Take this phone for a walk around campus. Do not speak to anyone, do not answer your own cell, turn your radio to mute.”

He tosses the agent Mr. Ryder's phone. The agent catches it but looks confused. “For how long, sir?”

“Until I tell you to stop. Go.” The younger agent leaves, and Oshiro turns to stare at me. Without saying a word, I hand him my cell and the battery. “This the phone our subject called on? Your not-so-dead, according to you, uncle?”

“I heard him as well,” Mr. Ryder puts in.

“Yes, sir,” I answer. “He called from Miranda's cell, so I'm not sure if it will help you—you're already tracing her number, right?”

“As soon as Ryder filled us in on what was going on. No help there. Seems our subject is also smart enough to remove a cell battery. Got any other bright ideas?”

Suddenly they're all staring at me like I have all the answers. I'm just a kid; they're the experts. But maybe this is the test.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

He chuckles and raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Okay, then. Tell us, Mr. Jesse Alexander, how do we save our two damsels in distress without getting anyone killed?”