Hidden Threat (29 page)

Riley had seen borderline personality disorder and even a few multiple personality disorders in her practice. However, she had never before witnessed a client go into such a trancelike stream of consciousness. Clearly Amanda did not intend to reveal these secrets so openly, but a combination of her depleted mental state, fatigue, and her most recent experience at her father’s house perhaps had opened a seam in her psyche. Like water through a burst dam, the thoughts continued flowing.

“
Anyway, I only lied about sexual abuse once or twice. I’ve got friends who have done that far more times than me. So that’s not so bad, you know? But the times we got him best were when he was going overseas, you know, to fight, or something like that. I think it was two times he called to ask Mama if he could see me before he left. Initially she was, like, no way, but she never said that to him. Then, this was the first time, she and Nina had talked, and suddenly she was all bright and cheery with him on the phone, saying stuff like, ‘Of course you can see her if you’re going to be away for a while.’ So, get this, she still makes him come all the way to the house and pick me up, but you know we live in a gated community, of course, and so she has a cop waiting for him at the front gate to serve him with a summons for an increase in child support. He doesn’t have an attorney or any of that, so he has to spend all his time getting an attorney instead of being with me. Then, you know . . .” Amanda paused briefly, something catching in her voice.

“
Go ahead, dear.”

She spoke much slower now. “Then you know there was the second time when he got there late at night and Mama refused to let me go with him, but she said he could come in and read me a bedtime story. I was maybe ten. So he starts telling me one of his stories. I’m lying in bed, and he’s sort of lying on the covers at the foot of the bed looking up at me. He told the best stories, you know. All of a sudden there’s a cop in the house, and they pull him out of the bedroom. I go running out into the kitchen and see they’ve got him handcuffed and are taking him into the front yard. I remember . . .”

“
You remember what, Amanda?”

“
I remember seeing the front door had been damaged, like someone used a crowbar to open it. Then I heard Nina and Mama talking afterward, saying stuff like, “I can’t believe he’d just break in like that.”

“
But he didn’t break in, right? You said that they had invited him in.”

“
That’s what I thought, but obviously that’s not what happened. He must’ve broken in, because the charges stuck.”

“
What do you mean, the charges stuck?”

“
Well, he went to court and lost.”

“
Were you excited that he was coming to see you?”

“
I don’t know. I was confused back then. It’s just like I can’t explain it to you how I remember my mama letting him in the house, and how it was later explained to me that he had broken into the house.”

“
What did you see? Where were you?”

“
I was in my room. It was springtime, I remember that. My window was open, and it looks onto the front yard. I saw his pickup truck out there, and I heard him ring the doorbell. I was pretty sure I heard Mama invite him in, but I guess I was wrong. I was only ten.”

“
What else did you hear? Think about the time your father was telling you the story.”

Amanda sighed. “He was the best storyteller, so I guess I was just listening to him, you know? The story was all about how me and a bunch of my friends were saving some famous piece of artwork in a cave in New Mexico to help the Native Americans there.”

“
Pretty good memory of your dad there, sport.”

Amanda ignored the comment and continued talking.

“
So I don’t remember much, though I think I heard a door slam out front. Maybe the front door or the car door. Or both.”

Amanda seemed to pause, considering the possibilities.

“
Is it possible that your dad was set up?”

“
Anything’s possible, but by who, and why?”

“
I’m sure you can think that one through, Amanda. Tell me more about the story.”

Amanda felt a smile come on, which she slightly repressed. “I don’t know, I guess I’ve told you now like a hundred times that he told the best stories. He had so many. And I didn’t know this until the other day, but he would go back and write them down after we fell asleep.”

“
Why do you think he did that?”

“
Because that was his time? Because he loved me?”

Amanda felt tears begin to build in the back of her eyes. One escaped and carved a path along her left cheek.

“
Because he loved me.”

CHAPTER 37

Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan

Monday Morning

Zachary barely slept, passing in and out of a light dream state, then woke, sitting upright. He had heard screaming most of the night from one room over. He hoped it was not an American prisoner of war, and had actually heard the name Mansur screamed a few times. Zach figured that perhaps an interpreter had been captured and was being held in the same prison as him.

He shifted himself back and forth until his back was up against the mud wall. His right arm was numb from sleeping on it. He tried rotating his shoulder, to little effect, and then opened and closed his hand, trying to get some feeling back.

As he moved his hand, something registered in his mind. It took him a second, but it seemed that the binding was less secure. He figured it was his imagination, so he tried it again. True enough, the base of his right hand slipped into the loop of the zip-tie handcuff. He could not dare to force it, not yet. His mind wanted to savor just the thought of the possibility of escape before having the notion crushed at his next movement. Assuredly it would confirm his fate, his doom, that this blossoming hope was merely a mirage, an illusion.

He gently slid his hand forward, away from the zip-tie loop, feeling the plastic ribbing rest on his wrist. Just a few days without proper nutrition and the body would begin to shrink, to deflate. His cheeks felt sunken, and his stomach was concave. Had his hand and wrist diminished enough to allow for his escape? Unlikely.

He looked for any sign of life, but there was none. His space was completely blacked out save a glimmer of dull light that provided no clue other than the location of the door.

Back to his hands, he thought to himself. The moment was an enjoyable one, the idea of escaping, of loosened binds. Let’s end the party and go about thinking how to really get out of this predicament.

He took the thumb on his right hand and pushed it toward his small finger, forming a cup of sorts, trying to minimize the breadth of his hand. Slowly, he pulled his hand toward the zip-tie loop. He could feel the plastic scraping along the top of his wrist. Eventually he felt the binding begin to graze the outer portions of his right hand. He nearly gasped when he met no firm resistance until he reached the knuckles. How could this be?

Hope gathered momentum now. Slowly, he pulled and felt the plastic begin to squeeze against the skin on either side of his hand near the knuckles, knowing that if he could just get past that point, he would be out of the binding. The sharp-edged plastic was digging into his skin now. The inside portion of the loop was hung up on the knuckle of his index finger. He tried moving the finger toward the inside, again trying to decrease the width of his hand. It helped fractionally, primarily by decreasing the pain, removing the knife edge out of his knuckle.

He was bleeding now. He could feel the stiff plastic that remained between him and his freedom—at least the freedom of his hands—slipping on the blood.

A noise came from outside the door. Footfalls, followed by a voice, echoed ever so slightly in the structure. One voice, then another. Two people. Deep voices.

Now or never, was the thought that ricocheted through his mind.
Now or never!
He pulled down with his left hand and up with his right hand, feeling skin tearing off his knuckles for sure.

He held his hands up in front of his face in disbelief. Black hands against the blackness. He touched his face, felt his cold, sunken cheeks and rough, unshaven jaw. They were there. His hands were free. He had done it. He felt the warm blood seeping down his wrist. His own plasma had provided the lubricant.

This was step one. Now to deal with the voices, which were growing louder. More distinct. They were speaking Pashtu. During his time in Afghanistan he had come to learn the difference between the two major languages, Pashtu and Dari. Dari was a derivative of Farsi, spoken primarily in Iran. These men were definitely speaking Pashtu, which meant two things to him.

They were locals of some sort—either Pakistani or Afghan—which meant that he had a window of opportunity. It was small, almost negligible, but it was there. Al Qaeda were ruthless and very careful. Local tribesmen, even the hostile ones, however, were often careless. If his captors had left him in the temporary watch of two local Pashtuns, then perhaps he had a chance.

He fumbled with the zip-tie handcuff, removing it from his left hand as well by turning the jagged edges sideways and pushing them through the opening, like a trash bag tie. He swiftly lay back down, his hands behind his back, as he heard the men approaching the door.

“
Garrett,” the voice called. It sounded more like “Garreeett.” “Garreeett,” again came the voice. He heard the door opening, feet falling toward him. He saw two men, the lead man carrying a candle in one hand, and amazingly, protecting it against the wind with the other. He had no weapon. Before he could get too excited, though, he noticed the man’s partner was carrying an AK-47 at the ready. Both men wore the traditional headdresses common to any number of indigenous tribes. They moved like silent ghosts in their flowing robes.

He lay still until the man with the candle knelt down next to him, the flame licking at the dark night, burning up the oxygen in his small room. The man’s face was half lit, half dark, like a theater mask. He saw his beard flowing a few inches from his chin and dark eyes that looked as friendly as burning coals.

“
What now?” Zach asked, sounding sleepy and groaning just a bit. “Let me sleep.”

“
Time to die.”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly he was not excited to hear this man utter those words in almost perfect English.

He surprised himself, though, with the quickness with which he moved. He accelerated off the floor, drove the candle up, ramming it into the hot coal that was the man’s left eye. Pushing him upward and toward the man’s backup, Zach used him as a shield, feeling him both scream at the burning candle in his eye and at the AK-47 rounds now punching into his back.

He released candle man, who was now simply dead weight, and lunged over his body to slip the zip-tie cuffs around the neck of the rifle-bearing man. Pulling back on the wrist holes, he surged and crisscrossed his arms, feeling the man’s neck snap.

He picked up the AK-47, checking the magazine. He felt around each man for more ammunition, finding none, but securing a six-inch knife.

He moved through the door into another dark room and slid silently toward the corner. He waited a few seconds. When he heard nothing, he moved toward the outside door. Opening it, he looked through a small crack, enough to tell him morning was no more than an hour away. To the East, the slightest hint of light was beginning to crest the massive mountain peaks, leaving in its wake a cloak of darkness, for the time being, to the West.

He had to risk it. He had to move now. It was his only option.

He went back into the room in which he had been held and removed the robe from the man whose neck he’d snapped. He took the turban as well.

Dressed the part, he moved back into the front room. Minutes had passed. Gunfire would have been heard from miles away along the narrow valleys of . . . wherever the hell he was. The thought stopped him momentarily. Which way should he flee? Regardless, he needed to move.

He stepped from the mud hut, looked to his right, and saw nothing but mountains climbing into the black sky. To his left he saw a stream about one hundred meters away, knifing its way through a valley that was more akin to a fjord. Jagged spires of rock shot upward, denying any movement anywhere but along the valley floor.

To his rear he heard voices. Excited voices. Speaking Arabic.

He fled west, toward the decreasing light. Walking at first, he picked up the pace as he moved toward a small footbridge that spanned a creek about forty yards wide. Clear water spilled and tumbled across the rocky bottom, rushing toward his left. If he was in Pakistan, he would be moving toward Afghanistan. If he was in Afghanistan, he would be moving toward some coalition military base eventually.

Crossing the bridge, he could sense others watching. Nothing happened in these remote tribal villages without someone, if not everyone, noticing. Not unlike Small Town America, there was little chance of Zachary escaping his predicament without interruption.

The footbridge swayed and the water rushed beneath him. Taller than most of the local inhabitants, he was sure he would not go unnoticed. Bounding onto the rocky far bank of the creek, he spied a trail that led toward the westward peak. The trail followed a gorge with water sliding down the middle of the crevice, melting snow from the top of the mountain that fed into the rushing creek.