Chapter 32—Worry Not
“Please pick up,” Mark muttered. He needed some semblance of home. Something reassuring. The phone rang softly. He glanced at Heather, who was checking on their hostages.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice said.
“Good morning, Mom,” Mark said.
“Oh, good morning, sweetheart,” she said. “How are things?”
“Good,” Mark said. “Good. I was assigned a big project.” That involves breaking more laws than I can count, he thought, dying to confess that to her.
“That’s good,” Connie said. She groaned. “Oh, no. I was supposed to be awake an hour ago. My boss wants me in a meeting. I’m sorry, but can we talk later?”
“Sure,” he said. “Have a good day.”
“You, too. Good luck with the project.” Then she hung up.
“You want anything?” Heather asked. She strapped her gun holster around her waist and wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. Finster twirled the van keys on his finger, whistling a catchy tune.
“No thanks,” Mark said, rocking on his stool. “I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not good to skip breakfast,” Finster said. “Most important meal of the day.”
Mark gave them a small smile. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
They left him alone, defenseless, save for whatever broken objects he could scrounge for from the corners of the warehouse. After a long night’s work, Mark wanted only to crawl back into one of the cots prepared in the office. He would have, too, if not for the hostages, who writhed in their bonds, making muffled grunts.
He couldn’t bear to watch them, so he examined the warehouse’s interior. There was a story to the place, as evidenced by the messy departure that resulted in a couple of old boxes and record files here and there. Not that Mark cared in the least. To him, all he saw were corroded windows that were as muddy colored as the walls. And of course dust. Dust, dust everywhere. He felt like dust was settling on him as he sat there, recruiting him as part of the forgotten, sparse museum. He rocked harder on his stool, almost tipping over. He shook his hair. I need a shower.
He hated listening to the desperate cries of Lydia’s parents. He wished Heather had gassed them just before she’d left, instead of earlier that morning. As disturbing as her ability might be, he would then be able to pretend they were not there, crying, calling out for help. He hummed to himself, drowning out their noise for a short while. He shut his eyes, daydreaming of the day after tomorrow. The day when the whole affair would be over and done with.
Yet that made listening to the cries even worse. He stopped rocking and stood up. He couldn’t take the guilt anymore. He wanted to climb up the wall or punch a window—which he did, shattering the old, cracked glass easily. No longer astounded by the shards not slicing his skin, Mark became infuriated when the muffled noises grew louder.
“Shut up!” Mark finally said.
They stopped their grunting. Lydia’s father was facing the other way. Finster had tied the parents’ chairs together with thick cords. The father jerked around in his chair, turning toward Mark as best as he could. Lydia’s mother was mumbling behind the tape over her mouth.
Mark walked closer. The cords were tight, digging into their skin. He considered loosening them, but decided against it. He didn’t need the pair escaping on his watch. He could feel Whyte’s disapproving gaze leering into his very soul. Mark shivered.
Then he studied the tape. Could they be choking? Maybe their noses were stuffy and they couldn’t breathe adequately. There would be no harm in removing their tape. Mark could do that kindness for them, given all the horrible things he had been a party to so far.
“Hang on,” he said to Lydia’s mother. He reached for the corner of the tape and immediately withdrew his hand. Her cheek was damp. The shame intensified. Mark wiped his finger off and then ripped the tape away. She gulped down fresh air. Or as fresh as dusty air can be. “I’ll leave these off for now,” he said, removing the tape from the man’s mouth. He unplugged their ears as well. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“Debra! Deb!” the man said. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. For now,” Debra said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m ready to find whoever’s responsible for this. You hear me?” he shouted at empty space. “Whoever you are, you had better not touch one hair on my wife’s or daughter’s heads. I won’t hesitate to fight you!”
“They’re not here,” Mark said. “It’s just me.”
“Who are you?” Debra asked. The man had found renewed strength and began struggling once again.
“Mark.” He froze up and chastised himself for telling them. They could identify him now! They knew his voice. And my name! Stupid! He hoped they wouldn’t recognize him from any school events.
Then Mark took a deep breath. Calm down. You’ll be gone tomorrow. Rooke has hidden me from the government so far. He was safe. For now. The thought of being on the lam after the robbery was over continued to rattle him.
“Mark,” the woman said.
Another realization occurred to Mark. “Don’t tell the others I told you my name,” he said.
“We won’t if you free us,” the man said, wiggling.
“I can’t,” Mark said. “If you guys escaped on my watch, I’d be dead.” The traces of sunlight that survived the caked windows vanished. Mark trembled. Whyte’s tremendous presence was in the room. He was certain of it.
Lydia’s parents were causing such a racket. The man was shaking the chair, trying to hop it around. Mark laid a hand on his shoulders, but the man shook him off. “Get away. We’ll get out of here on our own. Hop with me, Deb.”
“Look,” Mark said. “We’re—they’re—not going to hurt you guys or Lydia, alright?” That stopped their struggling. “All they want is a little of her blood.” For now.
“What for?” the man asked.
Mark shook his head. “I can’t say. I’m only doing what I’m told. So stop moving around. I don’t know when the others will be back, and I don’t want them to find out you guys have escaped.” He knew he would be to blame for this and Heather might gas him. A troubling thought that he preferred to avoid.
Debra looked at him as best as she could through her blindfold. “How old are you?”
This time, Mark thought before he spoke. “Twenty,” he lied.
“You sound a lot younger than that,” she said slowly. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I have to,” he said.
“Are you being threatened, too?”
“Yes.” He slapped his head. “I mean no. I mean, not really. It’s complicated.” Then again, “Do what Whyte says or else” wasn’t very hard to explain to anyone who had had the unfortunate luck of meeting the man for even a minute. On the other hand, he had been given a better life. Haven’t I? He studied the warehouse.
“Did they threaten your family, too?” she asked. Mark stayed silent. She smiled in his direction. “Mark, we just want to see our daughter. They can do whatever they like to us, but we want her to be safe, is all.”
“You two,” Mark licked his lips, “really care about her, huh?”
“Yes,” the man said.
“Arnold and I would give anything for Lydia,” Debra said. “Like any parent would.”
He snorted. “Yeah, right. Anything?”
“Anything,” Arnold said.
Mark chuckled. He would’ve outright laughed, but their serious looks stopped him. He couldn’t think of any kind of rebuttal. All he said was, “You’re good parents.”
“And I’m sure you’re a good son,” Debra said.
“When you’re not engaging in kidnapping,” Arnold added.
“You seem like a decent person. I’m sure your parents appreciate that,” she said.
Mark scowled. A great anger welled up inside of him. He was ready to throw several reasons to the contrary at her. “Is that why my dad never cares where I’m at? Like at a robbery? Is that w
hy he never bothers to talk to me except to put me down?” Or “Is that why my mom is around as often as the seasons change?” But he didn’t. The last thing he needed to give Lydia’s parents was more incriminating information.
As his anger died down, another urge replaced it. A compulsion to release the two, to help them flee. They were worried most of all about their daughter, which watered that seed of desire in him until it had grown into a healthy want that fought his logic.
Logic asked if Mark was out of his mind. Finster and Heather were overdue and could be back at any minute. But the desire suggested taking advantage of their tardiness. The desire built its case of Mark helping Lydia’s parents, then turning himself in to the police. Enroll in a witness protection program. Tell everything. Save some lives, be hailed a hero. In other words, the perfect plan to rid himself of all criminal charges, and proceeding with any illicit activities while coming out on top.
Yet logic insisted that desire was full of folly. If Rooke could aid Mark in evading the government, he could just as easily find Mark anywhere. Rooke likely had friends in very high places. Which brought logic to the closing argument: Whyte. Whyte was powerful. Whyte was rich. Since he was above Rooke, Whyte had to be amazingly efficient at finding and silencing dissenters.
Neither side won the debate. Mark stood there lamely, waging an internal war. Eventually, he lost track of time. The warehouse door opened up. The van rolled in and Mark fumbled with the tape. He stuck both pieces back on, lopsided on his first attempt. He shushed Lydia’s parents, sweat pouring down his face as he readjusted the tape.
“You’ll be fine. Lydia will be fine. We won’t hurt her. I promise. D-Don’t say anything, alright? Alright.” He jammed the earplugs into their ears. Alright.
Finster swung out of the van. “I’m only saying that a chicken sandwich isn’t breakfast,” he said to Heather. He entered the office, tossing a bag of Wendy’s food on the table, and then headed to the restroom.
“And I’m saying I wasn’t going to wait in a long line at McDonald’s so you could get some pancakes,” Heather said, following him.
“Were they any trouble?” she asked Mark.
“Nope,” he said.
“There’s an extra sandwich if you want it,” she said. “Finster’s acting too much like a baby to eat his!” she yelled.
“I heard that,” he said from the hallway.
“I should hope so!”
Mark looked at Debra and Arnold. I promise, his eyes said.