Emily slowly came to in a dimly lit room and immediately began a checklist of her surroundings and an assessment of her body. The tranquilizer was fogging her brain and nauseating her, but Emily knew this moment of unobserved assessment was crucial. Once anyone noticed she was conscious, she would be closely watched. She was lying on a hospital bed, no, more like a labor and delivery bed with side guardrails and stirrups retracted to the sides. The bed was made with scratchy sheets, and she was naked beneath what felt like a paper gown. Her arms were tethered by wide leather restraints like she imagined doctors used to contain violent criminals. Her legs were free, thank God. There was a large window open a crack; her captors had confidence in her bindings. The leather strap was on its tightest fitting but still, her small wrist could rotate. Clearly, these cuffs could be used to confine a man twice her size.
Physically, other than the lingering effects of the tranquilizer, she was unharmed. She was connected to an IV, either keeping her sedated or providing fluids. Emily assumed the latter as her head seemed to be clearing. Her upper arm was bandaged, as was the back of her shoulder, where they, no doubt, had removed the tracking chip she and her father had implanted for just such an occasion.
The darkening sky outside looked to be out of a fairy tale; the rolling hills and leafy trees painted an idyllic scene. Where the fuck was she? The smell of the ocean was faint but clear. That narrowed it down but not by much. Then she saw it. Well, she heard it first. Tap tap tap. A woodpecker was knocking away on a hollow branch of a dead tree. And not just any woodpecker, a red-headed woodpecker. Their gardener in Connecticut, Rodrigo, knew everything there was to know about birds. That’s what it felt like to a seven-year-old at any rate. Emily would sit in the yard while he trimmed hedges and pointed out species of interest. She was sure in his native Colombia he saw all kinds of colorful birds, but he seemed to enjoy the avian life of Greenwich. Look, niña, on the fence. That little fellow only lives around this area. He wears a red cap and a black coat, but he doesn’t travel. Emily had discovered later that year, on a second-grade field trip to a nearby bird sanctuary, that red-headed woodpeckers were endangered in Connecticut due to deforestation and farming decline, but the sanctuary had been committed to restoring the population and as a result, the little birds were thriving in the local area. Her assessment fell more into the “best guess” than the “pinpoint accuracy” category, but she had to work with what she had.
She assembled the puzzle pieces. If she was in Connecticut, near the ocean, in a secluded building on a large parcel of land, there were limited possibilities. Waterfront property from Florida to Maine was in high demand. She was either in an extremely isolated private home or some sort of country inn or resort or.... Something was itching the back of her brain. Then she recalled. Her first assignment for Farrell was researching fraud at rehab centers. A Pennsylvania family had come forward claiming their son had been held for months against his will. After voluntarily committing himself for prescription drug addiction, the young man was confined to the facility, Pinehurst, for nearly a year until his health insurance, and the family’s nest egg, ran out. Farrell’s conspiracy brain went haywire as he imagined sending her in undercover as a patient, like Joe Pulitzer sending Nelly Bly to uncover abuse in nineteenth-century asylums. In the months since the story broke, the facility had closed and had been put up for sale. Emily chuckled in her drug daze, wondering if they listed it as an evil lair.
The small surveillance camera picked up her return to consciousness, and after several minutes the heavy door pushed open. A serious man in a white lab coat walked slowly in the door looking at a tablet. He seemed kind, with ruddy cheeks and a bald head. His wedding ring was burnished and bore the telltale scratches of years of wear. She noticed that the door didn’t shut all the way; the latch stuck on the door jam and the guard had to give it a final shove to secure it. The man, she assumed a doctor, rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Without comment, he examined the two bandaged wounds and probed the mild swelling around her knee. He then removed a large syringe and a vial from a tray in the corner.
“Gentlemen, wait outside.”
One of the three guards hesitated, but the men shuffled out. This time when the door stalled before clicking shut, nobody corrected it. The doctor seated himself on the rolling stool at her side. He spoke slowly, softly as he prepared the vaccine.
“Yellow fever.” He flicked the barrel of the syringe. “I gather you’re taking a trip very soon.”
Not good.
“There is video and audio in here. Don’t nod or acknowledge me in any way. The guards have fifteen minutes for lunch at noon.” He tipped his wrist, showing Emily the face of his watch: 11:43. “They threatened my family, but this... it’s too much.” He squeezed his eyes shut and stood to move to her side. He checked the IV in her arm and deftly loosened the restraint one notch using one hand while adjusting the drip with the other. “There are five guards here now. You can try to run if your head clears. It’s your only chance.” He straightened and spoke clearly as he administered the injection.
“You will have some injection site pain and perhaps some drowsiness. Other than that, you’re in excellent health.”
“Where am I?”
“I can only answer medical questions. Besides, it’s my understanding you will be leaving soon. No time to visit the marina.” He never looked up as he changed the bag of IV fluids.
He used a different syringe to inject something into the IV line. “I’m administering a sedative.” He gave an imperceptible shake of his head. “You just relax.”
He moved to the door and spoke to the men as he held it open. “Lunch should be here.” He spoke for her to hear. “One floor down in the main floor dining room.”
I’m on the second floor.
“She’ll be out for a couple of hours.” He ushered the men to proceed down the hall in front of him, then followed them without a look back.
Emily slipped out of the restraints and a moment later was standing on wobbly legs at the unlatched door, naked but for the paper gown. Right. Time to go. She moved down the hall in the opposite direction of the main stairs. If the guards were watching the video feed intently, she had maybe sixty seconds. If they were distracted or half watching, maybe another thirty. She whisked by an abandoned nurses’ station and clipped an old, forgotten hoodie from a coat rack by the door. Ten seconds later she was standing in the ground floor back stairwell, plotting her next move. Boots hit the ground in the hallway, and she knew she had been found out. She peeked out the door and scooted into an empty industrial kitchen. Outside, there were two cars parked in the large rear-drive: a Prius with a “Zippy Maids” logo on the passenger door and a landscaping pickup towing a mower—the doctor must have already made a quick exit. This was the psychology of pursuit; where was the last place anyone would look? She pushed out the kitchen exit and moved. Just beyond the landscaping truck was a black Escalade with tinted windows. Bad guy lair? Check. Bad guy car? Check.
The four maids were at the back of the Prius, and the landscapers tossed their cigarettes to help the ladies load their supplies. Emily skirted past them. If they saw her, they pretended not to—much better for their longevity not to notice such things—and, hidden by the front of the pickup, she lifted the tailgate of the Escalade a scant ten inches and slipped inside. She pulled a black duffle over her body, assuming these guys wouldn’t need to break out the tactical gear for one tiny woman. She heard the landscaping truck pull past and she assumed the Prius followed quietly behind. She just needed one of them to make it off the property so the guards would use the Escalade to follow. If the guards stopped and searched the Prius and the pickup on the property, the Escalade would stay put while they covered the rest of the grounds on foot. She closed her eyes and calmed her breathing. The Prius rolled by, the tires crunching gravel the only sound. Then came the landscaping truck, roaring its need for a new muffler. Then came the boots. All four doors of the Escalade flew open and the car lurched forward before three of them had shut. They caught the truck at the gate. These guys think they’re smart. They think a woman terrified and fleeing wouldn’t race to a bunch of tatted-up yard men; she’d run to the maids. So, after a cursory glance at the truck, the Escalade sped forward, spewing gravel. The guy riding shotgun instructed the driver, “To the right. Turning onto Front.” Front Street. She knew the street. They were near where Emily grew up and her Pinehurst Hospital guess was spot on. The driver honked the horn, probably assuming the maids either didn’t know they had a passenger or that the passenger they did have was a problem they would gladly surrender. They slowed and pulled over.
Emily rolled to the rear of the SUV. This was the tricky part. She waited for the noise of the passenger doors opening to mask the sound and pressed the button to release the tailgate latch. She rolled to the ground landing on her hands and knees. Fortunately, the hoodie was a men’s XL and covered her bare butt. She gave the tailgate a gentle push and it retracted and shut almost silently. She risked a glance. One of the guards was using a translation app on his phone to instruct the women from the maid service to pop the trunk. The three other guards stood at the SUV with their backs to Emily.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Emily froze and peered slowly toward the sidewalk. A man walking a French bulldog was marching in their direction. Emily braced herself as the man walked past, his attention focused on the paramilitary men looming over the frightened women.
“You guys cops?”
One of the men, sensing this nosy neighbor wasn’t going to go away, came up with a plausible response. A plausible, stupid response. “Immigration.” Immediately there was a commotion. One of the maids started yelling at the guard in Spanish. Another simply hurried off. The two women in the backseat were also shouting. French bulldog man simply backed away and continued on his walk. Thank you, concerned citizen. Nothing like a good distraction when you need it.
They were at a T intersection marked by stop signs. Two twenty-something girls in a BMW convertible pulled up alongside. They didn’t notice Emily and weren’t a good bet for a rescue. Girls her age rarely picked up strangers. The car behind them was a catering van. Perfect. She didn’t need a ride. She needed a shield. As the van slowed, she skirted around the rear and headed toward the beach with the broad side of the van obscuring her from the view of the men still trying to get the trunk of the Prius open. This wasn’t New York, where a woman walking around nude but for a papery hospital gown and a threadbare hoodie would barely raise an eyebrow. This was Connecticut, where the sight evoked images of a horror movie psycho on a suburban murder spree. The marina had two things Emily needed: abandoned clothing and an escape route.
It took less than a minute for her to grab some cutoffs and a pair of flip flops from a beach towel. With the old hoodie from the hospital, she didn’t look too out of place. Time for phase two. At the edge of the parking lot, three guys were loading coolers and gear into the back of a 4Runner with New York plates. The tallest of the three was wearing an NYU T-shirt. Bingo. She looked a little psycho and a little drugged-up, so she went with it.
“Oh my God, are you guys heading into the city?” The tall one dismissed her but once the other two got a good look, they paused to hear her out.
“I was dating my TA and he brought me to the beach for the day. I got out of the car right when he saw his wife pull up with their kids. He peeled out and left me in the fucking parking lot.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I need to get back to the city so I can, you know, put orange dye in his showerhead or key his car or whatever psycho revenge plot I can come up with.” The tall guy got on board.
“Allow us to be of service. I’m Marcus. That’s Dwight and Brent.”
“I’m Holly. Thanks so much. Shit. He drove off with my purse, so I can’t even chip in for gas.”
“Don’t worry about it. That guy’s an asshole.”
“Thanks.”
They piled in the 4Runner, Emily in the back with the ginger, Dwight. Just as they reached the mouth of the parking lot, she spotted the Escalade slowly inching down the road. She bent all the way forward and pretended to extract a pebble from between her toes. When she sat up, a solid minute later, Dwight was staring curiously at the hospital gown peeking out from between the hoodie and the cutoffs. So, she distracted him the easiest way she knew how. She started brushing off her thighs. “That asshole sprayed gravel and dirt all over me when he peeled out.” When he finally looked up, Dwight blushed red as a beet and asked, “So, Holly, what do you do for fun in the city?”