Unauthorized Access (23 page)

“See?” she said. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”

“I thought mothers were supposed to help.”

“Like telling me to abandon Rob?”

“I never said you should—”

“That is what you think, right? I should just walk away, forget about him.”

Rose hesitated. She looked like she was trying to choose her words carefully. “You’ve been hurt badly,” she said after a moment. “You need to start healing.”

“Then you should be happy. Rob and I broke up this morning.”

Rose looked immediately at Lesley’s hand. “You’re not wearing the ring.”

“I gave it back to him.”

Rose’s face flooded with astonishment.

“Oh, Lesley.”

“Satisfied?”

“Why are you so angry at me?” Rose said. “I only want what’s best for you.”

“Meaning I shouldn’t make the same mistakes you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I need shampoo,” Lesley said. She headed for the hallway and the bathroom. Her mother followed.

“Don’t walk away from me like that,” Rose said. She cornered Lesley in the tiny bathroom. “What mistakes are you talking about?”

Lesley stopped rooting through the drawer next to the sink and let her head drop.

“I was there, remember?” she said. “I heard you and Dad fighting all the time.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It wasn’t just him. You had a role in it, too.”

“In what?”

Lesley began gathering up her toiletries but had to stop when her hands started to shake and her eyes brimmed with tears. She leaned on the bathroom counter for support and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’ve always wondered,” she said with a small, quavery voice, “if he would have killed himself if we had … figured out what he needed or helped him or … something.”

Rose’s eyes grew wide and she stood with her mouth in a surprised “oh” shape for a few seconds. Finally she said, “You think it was my fault?”

Lesley couldn’t bring herself to look at her mother. “I don’t know.”

“Lesley, your father was—”

“Just like Rob. I know.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“That’s what you think, though.”

“I think you’ve got some mixed-up ideas about what happened to your father.”

Lesley used some toilet paper to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

“Most of what your father and I went through happened behind closed doors,” Rose said, “after you and Michael were in bed. You don’t know the demons he fought with and you have no idea how hard I tried to help him.”

“All I ever saw was you yelling at him.”

“I shielded you and your brother from most of it. And after he … well after he was gone, I did my best to help the two of you get through it.”

“What if all he needed was someone to understand what he was going through?”

“I tried that,” Rose said. “When that didn’t work I drew lines in the sand. I pleaded with him, insisted on counseling. None of it did any good.”

“But I didn’t do anything. I mean, on the day he died I went off to school like it was just a normal day.”

Rose was shaking her head. “You were just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Lesley said.

“No, but—”

“And I didn’t help Rob.”

Lesley looked plaintively at her mother. “How could I not know he was headed for trouble?” she said, her voice wavering again. “I didn’t notice anything. I … what if he needed me to … oh, God.”

Lesley’s face crumpled again. Rose bit her lip and tears started to leak silently from her eyes. She stepped forward and put her arms around her daughter. Lesley leaned in and they melted together.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
WO

ROB’S INTERROGATION WAS well into the second hour before he figured it out. By then his brain was a fog of aches and pains. Blood ran down his chin. Both shoulders screamed from the repeated pounding and from his inability to shift position.

At times Landry’s voice bit into Rob’s consciousness as if he were shouting through a bullhorn, demanding information over and over again. There were also long periods when Rob’s body was so consumed with the agony that his overworked senses threatened to shut down and Landry faded into a distant drone. Rob might have passed out a time or two, he wasn’t sure.

At one point his thoughts cleared long enough for Rob to recognize the truth; he was going to die in that chair. Strangely enough, the thought gave him an edge, a growing resolve. If he only had a short time left, then he was going to wake up and pay attention. Even an existence filled with pain and misery can be precious when it’s all that’s left.

Landry sat in front of Rob, tapping the silenced pistol contemplatively in the palm of one hand. He seemed to be regarding Rob with all the sympathy of a boy in middle school dissecting a frog in biology class.

“We can stop any time you want,” Landry said. “You need to let go of your pride, son. There’s no other way out. You have to recognize that.”

Rob tried to clear his throat, which resulted in a spasm of coughing when he swallowed more blood from his nose.

“Have I mentioned you have an incredibly ugly mustache?” Rob said. Even this minor defiance made Rob feel better.

Landry didn’t seem perturbed by Rob’s words.

“Oh, he’s feeling tough. Well let me tell you how this is going to go if it drags on much longer.” Landry smirked at him. “Have you ever really been thirsty Rob? I’m talking so thirsty your throat starts to close in and your body goes hunting around for fluid reserves. I’ve been there. Believe me, it’s no fun. When you get like that, you’d sell your own mother for a drink of water. And I’ll be right here, sipping on a beer. You see, I figured we might be here a while so I came prepared.”

He gestured over Rob’s shoulder toward the parking area outside the building.

“I’ve got food and drinks in the car. Enough to last a couple of days if that’s what it takes. The beer’s probably warm by now, but I’m sure it’ll taste fine. What do you say? Tell me the keyword and it’ll be Miller time. I’ll go get us a couple of cans and we can each have one before we go on our merry ways.”

Rob’s throat had gone incredibly dry while Landry was talking. He hadn’t felt thirsty before, but now his body cried out for a drink. Rob realized this was just one more tactic to make him miserable. He willed himself to stop thinking about water—and his throat grew drier still.

“It doesn’t matter what I say,” Rob said. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“You can’t talk to me if you’re dead.”

“So I stay alive as long as I keep my mouth shut.”

“Wrong. Your only way out of this is to tell me the keyword. I’ll let you go as soon as I confirm it’s the real deal.”

Right, Rob thought. As if the word of this goon meant anything. There was no sense getting his hopes up.

* * *

Stan Dysart hustled along the corridor toward his office, coming back from yet another after-hours crisis intervention meeting, this time with the branch managers. They were all bleeding customers and panicked that the worst was yet to come.

The phone in his pocket buzzed to life. Dysart felt a flash of resentment at the interruption as he answered it.

“Hi Stan, it’s Owen Donovan. I hope you don’t mind me bothering you at work like this. Sheila gave me your cell number.”

Dysart tried to hide his irritation. “What can I do for you?”

“This is probably a long shot,” Rob’s father said, “but I’m wondering if you know where Rob might be.”

Dysart stopped walking. “No, why?”

“Before we left Boston this morning, his mother made him promise to call at dinnertime, let us know how he’s doing. That was hours ago and we haven’t been able to track him down. That’s not like him.”

Dysart’s irritation vanished. Maybe Landry had him. Had to be. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

“We weren’t really all that worried,” Owen continued, “until an FBI agent called looking for him. They haven’t been able to track him down either. Fay’s beside herself. I called Lesley but there was no answer. So I phoned your place and Sheila said to try you at the office and … well, if you don’t know where he is …”

“I wish I could help,” Dysart said. “The last time I saw him was at the courthouse this morning.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

Dysart shut his phone and smiled. Perhaps the end was in sight.

* * *

Rob tried to lunge at Landry. All he managed to do was rock the chair on its castors. A spear of agony shot through the back of his head.

Landry laughed at him. “What are you going to do,” he said, “bite me?”

Rob slumped back in the chair and glared at Landry.

“Tough guy’s not feeling talkative, eh?” Landry said. “Maybe we’ll see about that.” He lashed out and caught Rob just below the left kneecap with the barrel of the pistol.

Rob screamed as his leg exploded in spasms of hot agony. Clenching his teeth, he leaned his head forward and tried to ride out the throbbing waves emanating from his knee.

A hand grabbed Rob’s hair and forced his head back. Landry was on his feet again, his face thrust into Rob’s.

“I could use that keyword now,” Landry said.

Rob licked his lips, tasting the blood and mucous there. Before he could think what he was doing, he spat a big gob of the stuff into Landry’s face.

Landry recoiled and let out a startled grunt. He shook with fury as he wiped his sleeve across his eyes. With an angry roar he spun and landed a vicious kick in the middle of Rob’s chest.

Rob and his chair flew backwards and slammed into one of the desks with a load
crack.
He tipped over and ended up lying half underneath the desk with the chair’s casters wobbling madly. Rob lay awkwardly on his side, still tied to the chair. He struggled to draw in a breath.

Landry advanced on him, still holding the gun and looking like he wanted to use it. With his free hand he grabbed Rob under one arm, braced a foot against the base of the chair and started to pull Rob upright. Before he could finish, he groaned and dropped Rob back to the floor, where he landed with a painful grunt. Landry grabbed his middle and doubled over.

“Not again,” he said.

Still holding his stomach, Landry ran through the door that led into the garage.

Rob moaned as he lay there with the weight of his body on his left arm. Every part of his body was complaining at the same time except for his feet and hands, which were still numb. His right hand started to tingle—a sharp, stinging sensation. He shifted his shoulder to try to relieve the pressure on his bound wrist. And it worked. The arm of the chair creaked and shifted slightly. Blood trickled beneath the rope into his right hand, increasing the unpleasant tingles at first, then offering glorious relief.

The tiny respite was so wonderful that Rob didn’t recognize the importance of this development at first, but then it dawned on him—the arm of the chair had moved.

He tugged the ropes on that side and the arm of the chair creaked again. The collision with the desk must have cracked it.

Rob wiggled his wrist back and forth to move the ropes up on the arm of the chair. Using the increased leverage, he yanked and was rewarded with the most promising creak yet. The crack opened slightly where the arm curved upwards to join the back of the chair. He started jerking inwards and outwards frantically, using strength he didn’t know he had left. On the fourth pull the crack in the arm let go with a
snap.
The remaining portion swiveled toward him easily, popping out of the hole in the wooden seat so Rob’s wrist was left tied to a boomerang-shaped hunk of wood.

He slid the rope off the splintered end, shook the coils off his hand and flexed his fingers until he had enough feeling back to have a go at the knots on his left hand.

These were difficult to reach, however, since they were tied on the outside of the left chair arm and were currently trapped under Rob’s entire weight. He tried rocking back and forth to flip the chair onto the other side but realized quickly this was futile. Reaching down to his left ankle, Rob yanked furiously on the bonds there but made no discernible progress.

Rob slumped back onto his left shoulder, shaking from tension and exhaustion. How could he be so close and not be able to finish the job? He wondered how long it would be before Landry returned. The thought galvanized him into action once more.

He took a deep breath. Come on, think.

Leaning over to look at his ankles, he saw why he hadn’t made any headway on his previous, panicky attempt. He was tied with one continuous length of rope, which meant that the loops around his ankles were connected to his wrists. He couldn’t free his left ankle because of his left wrist. But his
right
wrist was already freed.

He grabbed the length of rope previously connected to his right wrist. By wriggling this and his right leg in unison, he freed his right ankle and then his left in quick succession. His feet assaulted him with an explosion of screaming pins and needles.

With his legs free, he was able to shift his weight off the chair and untie his left hand, which joined the chorus of painful tingles. He rose shakily onto his hands and knees, wondering if he could trust himself enough to try standing up. The knee Landry had bashed with the pistol chimed in with a resounding
no,
but was overruled when Rob heard the sound of a toilet flushing out in the garage.