Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (17 page)

“Desperate times, you know.”

“Desperate measures,” I say and tilt back my glass.

“Was your cop friend the guy with the roses?”
Brody holds the bottle out, offering me another drink. I hold it up while he
pours.

“You and Clint are probably friends.” I roll my
eyes at myself. Is this a joke? “The first time I met him was the night we went
to that art benefit.”

“I remember that guy. The stalker.”

I can already feel warmth spreading from the first
cognac. I’m sorry, but it feels better than thinking about everything that’s
happened since last night. Betrayal from Cori, fear at my apartment, seeing
Cori limp on the carpet, Brita… I toss back the second. I still remember all
the events of the past twelve hours—but I just don’t care as much.

“He invited me to his church.”

“What?”

“Your cop friend.”

Oh, Hayden. “Yeah, he does that.” I look around
again. What if Clint and Brody are together on this? “But no, I’m talking about
a different cop. I met him here.”

“How many cops you know?” Brody laughs, but he
would be a terrible actor. He’s ticked.

“The night after we went to the benefit, Clint was
here. He’s bald. He’s a cop…” Duh, they have to know each other. Have I walked
into another trap? I try to think of all the times that I’ve seen Clint here—it’s
hard when I feel a little floaty. “I thought he was there, in the dressing room,
when you told me I was going to be the next billboard model.”

“A guy was in the dressing room with you?”

Man, am I sleepy. “He came in with you.” I wish
the room wasn’t so spinning.

“I don’t know a single cop.” Brody says. “And I
certainly wouldn’t bring one with me into the changing room. You know the bouncers
aren’t even allowed in there, unless there’s a problem.” Brody keeps talking
forever and ever and drifting away from me. He sounds like he’s in a tunnel.
“Are you seeing Cori’s friends?” He laughs again, but this time his humor is
real.

“You ridiculous me?” My words are not cooperating.
I try again. “Ridicule me?” I could fall asleep. “I know you were up to
something with Cori. The note said.”

Brody holds up the bottle, but I don’t want
anymore. I’m horribly drunk. My arms are not moving where I want them to go.
“You were doing something; Cori’s note said she helped you.”

“Where’s the note?”

I reach for my backpack, but it’s not where I
thought. I reach again, and this time I grab it. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go upstairs and lay down? Sleep it
off?” Brody walks around the bar and stands before me.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. You steal
girls.”

“Oh, that kind of a note.” He smiles and takes my
hand. I stand up on shaky legs, but I don’t want to. I hear a noise behind the
bar and glance around. Clint stands with his arms crossed and the lights shine
off of his bald head.

“He’s right there.”

Clint waves at me with eyebrows cocked.

“Oh?” Brody doesn’t laugh. “Cori saw people too.”

“He’s right there.” I point to Clint, who leans
against the inside of the bar, right next to…Brody’s full shot glass.

“You didn’t drink.”

“Never do, Baby, you know that.”

“Not even to Cori’s health?” Brody lifts my
backpack and then bows in front of me. The room spins as his shoulder drives
into my stomach and I’m folded over his collarbone. Hoisted like a sack o’ ‘taters.

“Course not.” Brody says, as he carries me toward
the back room. Clint laughs at us. “Baby, you never know what someone could put
in your drink.”

The worst sensation I’ve ever had is lying on my
back, asleep, while vomit erupts into my mouth. As a reaction, I turn and spew
the stinging acid across silver satin. I lay fully clothed in Brody’s bed.
Propped up on an elbow, the pounding in my head increases. There are two
cameras on tripods set up at the foot of the bed.

I vomit again.

Pounding in my head tries to keep time with the
thumping of my heart, and it’s all I can do to slide out from the covers.
Squatting next to the bed frame, I use the mattress for balance and try to take
stock of my situation. I’m in deep. I keep looking at the cameras, afraid
they’ll blink or somehow confirm that they are on, watching. If ever I needed
help—it’s now.

“Jesus. If you know where I am…” The words don’t
finish. But my mind cries out. The couple with the rose; they said God knows.

Stupid, stupid me. My limbs are jelly on popsicle-sticks.
When I try to stand—I end up landing back on the bed, on my seat. One thing is
clear. I’m never dancing for Brody again. I’ll call Rodrigo as soon as I get
home. I had control over the situation with him. I won’t work for someone:
he’ll work for me. I’ll make the decisions. Pornography is where the control
is. I won’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. In fact, why didn’t I think
of this when Brody had me do that first lap dance?

I think that my new plan will give me the stamina needed,
but I end up on my knees crawling away from the hideous bed. After a few inches
I lay on my side suppressing the urge to puke again. If my body wants the
poison out of me, maybe I should allow it. I try to relax—nothing. I try to
induce—only dry heaves. The carpet stinks like feet. It’s scratchy on my cheek,
but I like the rough sensation breaking through. My skin feels puffy and
deadened everywhere else.

The iridescent face of Hayden’s watch studies me.
I can’t remember how many times the second hand has traveled around when I
focus in on the time. A few minutes after five. I’ve been asleep all day. Such
a beautiful watch. Would Hayden come for me? If I can even get myself outside—I
don’t think I’ll be driving anytime soon.

I pull my legs under me and sit cross-legged. I’m
drugged, but I know where I am. I’m trapped, but still clothed. I think Brody
has something pretty bad planned, but…there is a keypad to his office.

With a little internal coaching and some clearing breaths,
I pull myself up and make it to the keypad. 5-9-7-3. The tiny bulb turns green.
Brody’s number works. I pull the door and a flash of heat blanches me. I didn’t
wait to see if the room was empty. I could be walking right into Brody’s arms.

I stand with the door open an inch for several
seconds, trying to decide what to do. Here comes the panic, if it continues I
won’t be able to do anything for myself. I don’t have Hayden’s brown paper bag
to breathe into. My breaths echo through the quietness. It doesn’t matter now,
either Brody is inside his office, or he isn’t. I force my steps to match the
cadence of my panting so I can control it.

It isn’t working.

My backpack. The contents of it litter Brody’s
desk and Cori’s note caps the top. Exhaustion, nausea, difficulty breathing—my
mutinous body wars with my determination. A stack of photos supports Cori’s
suicide note. I thumb through them, they are of me. All. Of. Me.

Entering and leaving my apartment.

Dressing alone, before Rodrigo took pictures.

Washing in the bathroom room sink.

My hands go slack and the pile tumbles to the
floor. I scoop them up and start cramming them into my backpack, taking back
the things that are mine.

I open drawers, slamming them shut several times
until a voice in my head tells me to hush. The phone on Brody’s desk catches my
attention and I remember why I’m here. Even though I have never called Hayden, I
have his number memorized from the note. I dial quickly into the handset of the
cordless phone. He answers before the first ring is complete.

“Sparrow?”

“How did you…”

“Caller ID. Who else would call from the…slow down
your breathing. Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes.”

“I’m already getting in my truck.”

“No, Hayden…drugged.”

There is a pause. “Are you at the bar?”

“Yes, the back door number is 5973.”

“What happened?” In the background, his truck
engine rumbles to life.

“Cori tried to kill herself.” The words trickle.
“Suicide note. My drink. Locked upstairs. Cameras. Pictures of me. I’m so
scared.” Dizzy now, I stop pacing and I stand below Brody’s security camera
monitors. After several blinks, I have to wipe the tears from my eyes to see
clearly. Brody sits alone at the bar with several piles of papers in front of
him. He looks like he is paying bills, writing or checking things off. Dark
movement flashes at the back door. Two men, both faces I have seen before. One
is the detective who interviewed me at the hospital. The other…curly hair, tied
back like a pirate. He is the killer with empty eyes, and he looks right into
the camera. I duck.

“Sparrow. Why’d you scream?”

“Hayden, I’m looking at Brita’s murderer.” I cup
my hands around the mouthpiece of the phone while squatting. The killer makes
eye contact with me in the monitor.

“Father God…” Hayden prays. I don’t understand the
words he says, but I can breathe again.

Brody walks around the bar, looks into a monitor,
speaks, and pushes a button. The killer wasn’t looking at me—he was buzzing
Brody to open the door. They know each other. They all know each other.

“Sparrow. Listen to me. This is what I want you to
do.”

All I can do is watch Brody shake hands with the
man who killed Brita. He points to the door that leads to the upstairs. The
enormous detective points to the bar. I guess he wants a drink first.

“They’re here for me, Hayden.”

“You have to look around you. Can you escape? Can
you hide? Is there anything that can be used as a weapon nearby?”

“I only see papers and pens, a CD. Desk stuff.”

“You can use the pens to stab.” Road noise and the
blaring of a horn drown out his voice. He comes for me.

“You can roll a magazine or stack of papers real
tight. It makes you look nervous, and then they won’t expect. Strike at the
neck. Look in the desk for a gun.”

I start scrounging again. The bottom right drawer
is locked, so I fall to my knees looking for a key. There isn’t enough light so
I feel along the underside with my free hand. My fingertips brush the slightest
divergence in the cool wood. I crawl under the desk to inspect it closer.
Something is taped there, if I could get it pried loose…

The outer office door unlatches.

“How’d this door get opened?” Several sets of
footsteps careen through the “bedroom” door, which I brilliantly left wide.

“Oh man, that stinks.” They must be talking about
my vomit.

Somehow Hayden senses, or hears. “Hide if you can,
Sparrow.” He whispers in my ear. I’m afraid to speak or even push the off
button on the phone.

“She’s gone.” Brody throws blame.

“We never lose girls.” Not Brody speaks.

“The roofie couldn’t have worn off yet.” Brody
again. All sorts of cursing and accusations grapple in the air.

“Check the back door and outside, she won’t be far
in her state.” Footsteps pound the floor, moving away.

“Where’s her file? Birth certificate. Social.”

“In the safe,” Brody answers. There are a few
faint clicks and the sound of papers shuffling. “Here she is.”

“This is her brother’s place?”

Thom? I almost jump out, but the sound of a
scuffle pulls me from my temporary insanity. The next voice incapacitates my
frame—everything in me says it belongs to the killer. “You don’t get paid if we
can’t find her.”

“We’ll find her.” Brody’s voice turns sinister
just before the door shuts it out. It won’t be this easy. After a minute, I can
hear the echo of steps on the stairs and then other noises rumbling in the
costume jungle across the hall. Who stayed to look for me?

“I’m almost there.” Hayden’s voice strains with a
grunt. I crawl out from under the desk and stretch across the floor to peer
around the desk. The door is closed and I’m alone.

“Okay. Come in the back, first door on your left,”
I whisper. “Come upstairs. The code should work at every door.” From a crack in
the blinds, I see the killer get into a van and drive away.

“Hayden, I have to call Thom. They know where he
lives.”

“I’ll do it. Let me get you first.” How will we
get past whoever stayed? I finish shoving my scattered items into my backpack.
It sounds like Hayden is running in my ear.

I squat back under the desk and peel at the tape. It’s
a CD in a paper sleeve. The disk goes with everything else, into the backpack at
my feet. I tug the zipper closed.

The door opens again. “That’s different.” It’s Brody
who stayed. “It occurred to me,” he enunciates slowly, “that you would never go
anywhere without your backpack.” An arrogant laugh slinks in. “And since I saw
it a minute ago...”

I don’t move, even though I know every step he
takes is in my direction. Slow, methodical steps, like he is as hypnotized by
the squish of the carpet as I am.

“Get up.”

He stands in front of me. His puffy, bleeding upper
lip frames perfect teeth. “You’re going on a little trip.” I slide out from
under the desk, and his eyes dart to the spot I vacated. “What were you doing
under there?”

The disk is valuable then. Brody is not immortal.

“Who are you talking to?” He grabs the phone from
my ear. “No one?” He looks at the phone and then me. “Let’s find out if you got
a call through.” He pushes a redial and Hayden’s phone number displays, one
digit at a time. “You didn’t even get a call off to 911.” He’s smug. “Baby, I’m
gonna miss you. Cori will too.” He hangs up and starts to dial manually. “Eh, I
can call them back in a few minutes.” Brody reaches around me and slides the
phone into the receiver. With the reaching, he’s pinned me against the desk.

 His hands are everywhere at once. At first, his
actions are so irrational; I can’t believe it’s real. I’m frozen, thinking it’s
all a misunderstanding. His kneading becomes painful and I manage a sound.

“No.”

His response is a manacle laugh. “Consider this an
interview for your new job.”

“No. Stop. Don’t.” I squander my pleas. With his pressure,
I create a backward arch over the desk. He lifts my hips onto the desk, grabs
my backpack and flings it to the floor. He sets a knee on the desk, preparing
to climb. My hand grips several pens or pencils.

“Get off me.” With my right-handed fist-quiver, I
strike him in the ribs under his left arm. He lifts off enough for me to get my
feet between us. I stomp and pound and strike with my handful of pencils,
aiming for his throat. And then, he’s gone.