Frontline (24 page)

I dig my heels into the bridge and look down at the rushing water. “Are you kidding me? No way!”

“It’s deep enough here.” Trenton tugs on my hand. “Come on. We have to jump.”

“Trenton, we’re not going to make it!”

“Just hold on to me. Don’t let go of my hand. I won’t lose you.”

“Trenton, I
—I can’t.” I yank my hand free of his grip as he brings his left leg over the rope and steadies himself on the edge of the bridge.

He reaches back over the rope for me.

“Sara, they’re coming. Come on!”

I shake my head. “There must be some other way. I
—I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

Trenton lunges for me over the rope. I jump back just as a bullet screeches past me and slams into his left shoulder. The force of the shot knocks him back.

A scream tears through my parched throat as his feet fly out from under him and his body soars over the water. His right hand tightens around the rope and the whole bridge tips under his weight, tilting it toward him. I slip and tumble down beneath the rope, but catch it with both hands before sliding over the edge.

Trenton and I face each other as we dangle from the bridge, the water surging beneath, ready to carry us away.

“Sara, let go!” Trenton says. Blood soaks his shirt. His left arm hangs at a weird angle from his body, like a tree limb broken in a windstorm.

Gunfire erupts again, this time from the helicopter, as Christopher leans out of the cabin door and opens fire. Bullets scatter through the trees and spark against the granite cliffs at the mouth of the bridge.

“Sara, let go.” Trenton gasps, as if every word and every breath takes more effort than the last. His face looks paler than normal. “I’ll be there with you. We’ll make it.”

Eyes wild with obvious pain, he moves his injured arm toward me. I tear my right hand from the rope and reach for him. To think that only a short time ago, he was handing me a small felt box in the safety of my apartment and sending me over the moon with his tender touch between my legs.

This is not the kind of plunge I dreamed of us taking together.

Our two cold, clammy hands meet. Trenton’s eyes lock on mine, and for an instant, I feel we can do this. That instant is all it takes. Our feet hit the water and the freezing river swallows us.

Cold lashes my body, clutching me in its freezing inferno; a grip so icy, it burns. Air erupts from deep inside my lungs and bursts through my pursed lips. Thousands of bubbles explode into the white water like passengers escaping a sinking ship. I’m tossed between endless volleys of waves that strike me from every direction. Mouthfuls of acrid water slosh down my throat. Above, dusk scatters beams across the river’s surface; brief flashes of blood red light through walls of gray foam before I’m pulled under into blackness.

And through it all, Trenton’s hand . . .

I wake upon a soft mattress buried beneath a mountain of down blankets, still soaked, but now with sweat. White sunlight bleaches the eggshell walls and the room glows. My pulse pounds through my head, each second a new twinge of pain surging behind my eyes. The bitter taste of the river burns the back of my throat and nausea coats me like a hangover.

I cast my legs over the side of the bed, feeling heavy cotton material travel with me across the sheets, and realize I’m wrapped in a thick bathrobe. Woolen socks cover my feet. I pull the bathrobe open and even the room-temperature air feels cool against my burning skin.

I’m still wearing my bra and thong. Whoever undressed me was apparently a gentleman. Not that the undergarments leave much to the imagination.

My purse, which I forgot in the Bugatti, rests on the nightstand. I rifle through its contents and find everything accounted for except my cell phone. I have a feeling this isn’t by accident. What’s left of my dress lies on the floor, a tattered heap of damp red ribbons. I stumble past it, the sores on the bottoms of my feet awakening, and for a moment, I’m back in the forest
—twigs, rocks, and pine needles stabbing away even as my feet sink into the bedroom’s soft, plush carpet. The sting feels slightly muted and I detect the sticky tightness of bandages beneath the socks after a couple more strides toward the door.

Footsteps thud outside, accompanied by the clinking of glassware. The door opens to reveal a casually dressed Randall carrying a wood tray piled with a mug, a stainless steel pitcher, bottled water, syrup, utensils, and two steaming hot platters. The condensation against the undersides of the glass domes masks the platters’ contents.

“Good morning, Miss Peters,” he says, a wide smile accompanying his wide eyes. “I’m glad you’re finally awake. I thought I’d bring you something to eat. You must be famished.”

“Where . . .?” The rest of my words evaporate in my parched throat.

Randall lays the tray on a nearby desk and holds his hand up for me to pause. He quickly pours me a cup of hot coffee. I take a small sip and let the bitter liquid slip down my throat and rejuvenate my voice, barely swallowing before continuing.

“Where are we? Where’s Trenton?” I look at the bedside clock. It’s almost eleven in the morning. On what day, I’m still uncertain.

“He’s occupied at the moment.” Randall’s smile retreats slightly. “We’re currently in a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains. We’ve been here just over fourteen hours. This is the safest place for everyone and I’m told we’re staying put until all this business is sorted.”

“I should see him.” I set my coffee mug down on the table and spy the two earrings Trenton gave me next to the breakfast tray.

We’ll track you using Sara’s earrings.

A flood of anger fills my chest.

“How are his wounds?” My words sound cold and terse.

Sensing the shift, Randall holds his hand out and gestures to a nearby chair. “You should eat something, Miss Peters. You need to get your strength back.”

He pulls out the chair from beneath the desk and lifts the steamed domes to reveal one plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns, and another with a stack of golden waffles. My stomach, now apparently emptied of river water, groans with hunger and I’m suddenly lightheaded from the delicious aroma.

Instead of picking up the fork, I reach for the earrings. They’re delicate upon inspection, gorgeous pearls with a diamond set on top. With some force, I remove the post
—the part that spears the earlobe. A micro thin wire protrudes in its place. I give it a tug and it slips out of the pearl. The middle is coiled and at the end hangs some sort of bead. My fingernail splits the bead and it cracks in two pieces, one falling back to the desktop, nothing but a light plastic shell. The other half houses a small microchip.

Will you wear them tonight?

Trenton’s voice echoes in the memory of that moment. Tears flood the corners of my eyes and snake down my cheeks. All at once, a rush of rage and embarrassment hits me like another wave of white water. I lash out against it, pitching the microchip toward the wall where it cracks and bounces away, burying itself somewhere between the fibers of the carpet.

“Miss Peters, please calm yourself,” Randall says. “He only meant to—”

“Get out.” My voice cracks beneath the weight of the words.

Randall casts his eyes to the floor, as if searching for a quick explanation that might be found there. A moment of consideration passes before he marches to the door, still avoiding my stare. Once in the hallway, he eases the door shut behind him. It clicks into place and his footsteps fade away.

The pain arrives then, fierce and agonizing, and I’m paralyzed in the middle of the bedroom with nothing nearby to catch my fall. My legs weaken under the crushing weight of Trenton’s lies and betrayal, a burden that grew heavier the longer I ignored its inevitability.

Tears curve at the crest of my chin and plunk against the bathrobe’s thick cotton folds as I slump down to the floor. My deep breaths sputter with aftershocks, like a rapid series of hiccups, infuriating me further and intensifying my sobs.

The soft morning light hardens as the sun rises higher in the sky. A short glance out the window reveals the trunks of tall pine trees stretching above the cabin. Just a few feet beyond where their thick roots spring from cracks between rocks, a cliff gives way to a ravine that stretches out to the horizon, covered by vast green forest. I yank the curtains shut, immersing the room in blue shadow.

So much for making a run for it.

The domes are cold and have lost their condensation by the time I slam them back over the platters of the congealed breakfast and leave the tray in the hallway outside the bedroom door. My empty stomach seems to have given up on the prospect of any food and I’d rather starve than eat Trenton’s handouts.

A doorway in the corner of the bedroom leads to a small bathroom. I turn on the cold water faucet, take off my bathrobe and lay it over the closed toilet seat, and then cup my hands beneath the rushing tap water and drink several gulps. My bra and thong feel stiff with dried river water. I remove them and brush my teeth using toothpaste and a toothbrush I find perched on the back of the sink that look brand new.

The mirror above the sink reflects my puffy eyes, chapped lips, and frizzled hair. Dried tears leave crusty streaks down my cheeks and my body is bruised in a few places. Yesterday when I looked in a mirror, I felt Denim’s careful hands shaping my hair, and I shared her warm smile when she finished my makeup. Moments later, Trenton’s eyes shone as he looked at me in the dress and shoes he picked out—and then wearing the earrings he presented me.

And I thought you couldn’t look more beautiful, Sara.

Those moments seem like they took place in a different lifetime.

Back in the bedroom, wrapped in the bathrobe, tears come again, but only in small bursts, my ducts as exhausted as the rest of me. I slump against the end of the bed and keep my eyelids closed, easing the sting of tears as they spring from my raw, red eyes.

When I open them again, it’s impossible to see any of my surroundings, except the bedside clock, which tells me it’s now late evening. Darkness seeps through the closed curtains and coats everything. I strain to focus until I see a thin beam of golden light glowing from beneath the bedroom door. The second fake earring glints on the desk. I pick it up and drop it into the bathrobe’s right pocket.

Dark hardwood flooring runs the length of the hallway outside the bedroom, past three closed doors on the left, before the corridor ends at a wooden staircase. A matching wood banister to my right tops a row of long, thin spindles that overlook a massive sitting room enclosed by a vaulted ceiling. Smooth river rock frames the fireplace on the far wall, in which a tall fire burns newspapers and blackened logs. A kitchenette opens at the opposite end of the room. I wipe the sleeve of the bathrobe across my eyes, ensuring all traces of tears are gone, then walk softly toward the light and peer over the banister.

Sean and Chris sit next to each other on one couch, wearing white dress shirts with no ties and light gray dress pants, typing quickly on laptop computers. Stacks of papers spill from file folders and litter the coffee table in front of them.

Randall stands before the fire with his arms folded, staring pensively into the flames.

Trenton lies across a second couch, opposite Sean and Chris, a bloody cloth wrapped roughly around his left shoulder. Dark violet crescents sit beneath his wide, glassy eyes. He hasn’t changed out of his tattered tuxedo. He looks like a Wall Street bigwig who survived the jump from his office tower during the 1929 crash.

“And do we have any idea where that might be?” Trenton says.

“They’re New York plates on the van, but the license hasn’t been renewed in three years. It last belonged to someone named Edward van Sykes, a plumber, now deceased,” Chris replies.

“Any offspring?”

“Two sons, both with records . . . breaking and entering, car theft. It’s pretty minor stuff.”

Randall chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound. “Congratulations, Mr. Merrick, you have two of New York’s finest delinquents after you.”

Trenton shakes his head. “There’s no connection. Where would they have gotten that kind of firepower? They had semi-automatic weapons.”

“That they didn’t know how to use worth a damn,” Sean says.

“And there’s something else.” Chris looks up from his computer. “They were picked up a year ago for allegedly being hired to kill some woman’s cheating husband. The whole thing went bad. The husband survived, later reconciled with the wife, and dropped all charges. Because of a family connection with the courts, miraculously, it never made it to trial.”

“So what are two inept thugs doing chasing you?” Randall asks. Sparks erupt from the burning logs as he jabs them with a poker.

Trenton shakes his head again. “It doesn’t make any sense. None whatsoever.”

“Unless you weren’t the one they were after,” Chris says.

All eyes fall on Trenton.

“I doubt it.”

“Why?” Sean says. “Maybe you don’t know as much about her as you think you do.” His head jerks slightly when he says “her”, motioning toward the upper story. I dip back into the shadows.

“I know enough to know she’s not in any kind of trouble right now.” Trenton hoists himself onto his good arm and reaches for a bottle of water on the coffee table.

Randall steps over, reaching the bottle first, and hands it to Trenton.

“A patient she didn’t treat properly? Someone bitter about their medical bills?” Sean says.

“No,” Trenton replies.

“An ex-boyfriend? Ex-husband?”

“No!” Trenton growls the word, almost spitting his last mouthful of water across the coffee table at the two of them. He heaves the plastic bottle into the fire. The logs hiss and spark.

He glares at Chris and Sean until they retreat behind their computer screens. Randall stands his ground next to the fire
place, still as a sculpture.

“Yes . . .” Trenton sighs, flopping back onto the couch. He winces slightly.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, she has an ex-boyfriend. At least one that I know of.”

Chris and Sean peek from behind their screens.

“Do you have a name?” Sean asks.

“She never gave it to me. Let’s start by running down the names of all the male students at her high school who graduated the same year she did. She almost said his name once. It started with a ‘P’.”

“No!” The word jumps from my mouth and ricochets against the stone fireplace, echoing in the vast heights of the vaulted ceiling. My hand flies to my mouth, but it’s too late. The four of them stare up at me.

“Sara?” Trenton shoots upright, but doubles over quickly. Randall hurries to his side and tries to ease him back down to the couch, but he pulls away.

My raw, swollen feet carry me over the wood steps
; the pain doesn’t register. I float like a banshee down toward Trenton.

“Who do you think you are? Snooping into my life again? How dare you!”

Randall steps forward. “Miss Peters, we’re just trying to figure out—”

“My ex-boyfriend? Shooting at us? That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard!” My voice sputters over the dry patches in my throat, but the volume of my scream makes up for it. “What is this really, Trenton? An excuse to hunt down and kill everyone who’s ever looked at me twice? Held hands with me? Kissed me? Fucked me?”

The last part blows Trenton back against the couch with as much force as the bullet, but the grief on his face looks like it connected with twice as much impact.