Fathom Page 6

  Banging continued downstairs—doors opening and furniture shoved aside.

  “What do we do?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know! Why are they doing this?”

  I covered my face. It couldn’t be because of the men at Point Loma. There was no way they’d know who I was or where I lived. It wasn’t my fault. Was it? Whether or not it was, we couldn’t just sit here.

  “Let’s get out,” I said. “Through the window.” We got up just as footsteps sounded on the staircase. The doorknob rattled. Ice engulfed my stomach as we lunged for the window.

  “In here!” The voice on the other side shouted. More footsteps came up the stairs. I fumbled for the lock on the window while Sam whimpered in fright. Just as I slid the window open, the door’s lock broke. I turned to see the shining barrel of a gun aimed at my face.

  “You,” the man said, pointing at me. A jolt of horrible recognition shot through me; he was the same man who had been chasing us that morning. His shoulder-length hair hung like a stringy curtain around his face. Frozen, I stared at the gun. The hand that held it was missing a pinky. A shiny, healing patch of red skin covered its stub. “Come away from the window. Now.”

  We couldn’t argue with a weapon. Shaking all over, I edged away from the window. The gunman escorted us downstairs where two other men waited amid the ruins of the doorjamb.

  “Olivia, is it?” asked the guy in the polo. His police badge gleamed at his hip. He chuckled. “The little marine biologist. Clever.”

  I finally realized where I’d heard his voice before. I’d have recognized it sooner if he’d been wearing a Padres sweatshirt instead of a polo. The tide pools. Cold remorse joined my fear. He was a cop! If only I hadn’t been so stupid. Why did I have to go to the tide pools at midnight? He pulled out a pair of clanking hand cuffs. “We’re going to have to take you in.”

  “What? Why?” I shrieked as he grabbed my hands.

  “She didn’t do anything!” Samantha shouted. “You can’t just break into our house like this!”

  Blood pounded in my head. The polo shirt man pulled my hands behind me and slapped the cuffs on. I winced at the sting.

  “I’m afraid I can, young lady,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant.” After briefly brandishing the document, he put it back into his pocket.

  “For what?” I asked. The guy stopped for a second, looked at Sam, then back at me.

  “Well, trespassing, for one.”

  “But—”

  “And murder.”

  “What?!” Trespassing, yeah, I get that one. But murder?

  “Murder?” shouted Sam. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What’s he talking about, Olivia?”

  I took a deep breath as the man pulled me toward the door. I wanted to explain, but he pulled me away from Samantha and out the front door.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” I cried.

  “Let her go, she didn’t do anything!” Samantha bawled as she followed us outside, where a shining black Crown Victoria waited.

  “Do you know that for sure?” said the polo shirt guy. “Do you know who she is? Who she really is?”

  “I’ve known her my entire life, you creepy son-of-a—”

  “That’s enough,” said Polo Shirt. “Either shut up, or I’ll call in the unit down the street to bring you in too.”

  I wanted to tell her it would be okay. That there had just been a mistake. But all that came out was a ragged sob. Polo Shirt opened the back door and shoved my head down. I fell onto the seat. My shoulders twinged as I tried to maneuver myself to a sitting position with my arms cuffed.

  I felt small and vulnerable as the other men climbed in, the one without a pinky shouldering me aside, squashing me into the middle. I looked out the dark tinted window as Samantha continued shouting after me.

  What was I going to do?

  We pulled away from the neighborhood and headed south on the highway toward downtown San Diego. The three men remained silent, making the car too quiet. Shouldn’t there be some kind of radio going off, even in an undercover vehicle? And didn’t all cop cars have some kind of plastic cage between the front and back seat? And shouldn’t they be reading me my rights? I wasn’t a genius on law enforcement, but I did know suspects had the right to remain silent. I shivered again. I was a suspect. In a murder! How was this happening? I had a million alibis; there was no way I was going to prison. I gulped. Was there?

  “How long have you been here, Olivia?” Polo Shirt asked from the driver’s seat. His eyes watched me from the rearview mirror.

  “I th-think I have the right to r-remain silent,” I said. He laughed, but it sounded wrong.

  “Just tell me how long you’ve been here.”

  I licked my lips. My tongue felt like sandpaper. “A few days.”

  “A few days? Did you plan on returning after the week or staying and playing a while?”

  I looked at him in puzzlement. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He laughed again, and this time the others joined in.

  “Told you she’d say that,” said the guy with the missing pinky.

  “Who are you guys?” I asked as a horrible idea hit me. “Shouldn’t you be wearing police badges?”

  The others laughed again, confirming my idea. They weren’t cops.

  I shrunk deeper into the seat. My wrists ached and my worries shifted from being an arrested suspect to being a kidnapped innocent. I should have known; real cops wouldn’t have barged into the house like that.

  I wanted to ask what was going to happen to me. Where were we going? Was I going to die? What did they want? But I could only cry. My tears ran hot down my face, and I couldn’t reach up to wipe them away. Was I ever going to see Samantha or my parents again? Was I ever going to be able to look across the ocean and dream about my future?

  Probably not. Another jolt of terror twisted my stomach.

  We continued driving downtown. The skyscrapers rose around us, the busy streets as distant as a movie on a television screen. I leaned my head against the back of the seat, my tears still falling like streams. Would my kidnappers dump my body in a ditch or bury me at sea?

  Among all of these thoughts, I also couldn’t help thinking: why me? What did I do? Visiting the tide pools after hours wasn’t exactly a reason to kidnap someone. I hadn’t witnessed any crimes and hadn’t told anyone what I saw that night. I certainly didn’t harm anyone, much less kill anyone. These horrible men knew that. What did they want with me? I shuddered.

  The car pulled into the underground parking lot of a huge, historic hotel. A terrified squeak escaped my throat. The man sitting to my left looked at me and smiled—a grim effect that only made his face scarier. The streetlights inside the parking garage glistened on his bald head.

  “Oh, fear not, little one.” His accent was British. “We have no interest in harming you.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was lying.

  “So you’re going to let me go home?” The faintest, flimsiest shred of hope budded inside me. The man missing a pinky smirked.

  Polo Shirt looked over his shoulder. “If you do exactly what you’re told, then perhaps.”

  “Think we ought to take off the cuffs?” asked the British guy.

  “Oh. Yeah, we better.” Polo Shirt tossed a set of keys to the back seat. The Brit unlocked the handcuffs just as we circled around to the hotel entrance. A valet approached.

  Polo Shirt looked back at me. “If you scream, run, or struggle, you really won’t be going home.”

  I nodded. Trying hard not to look scared—which I realized was futile since tears streaked my swollen face—I followed the men out of the car, up a set of stairs, and into the hotel. Luxurious upholstery, wide rugs, and marble floors furnished the lobby. High archways led to hallways beyond, framed with dark, carved molding. The windows looked like they had come from a bygone, fancier era. The glittering chandeliers and historic lamps cast cozy, golden light on decorative pal
ms sitting in huge marble pots. The set of elevators we approached were old fashioned, lovely, and cold.

  We stepped inside and Polo Shirt pushed the button with the number eleven. I closed my eyes, certain I was now a victim of human trafficking. The elevator lurched upward. The dizziness from fear and dread and a moving elevator turned my stomach. I couldn’t hold it back. My dinner came out. The three men cried out in disgust, leaping away from the pile of vomit I’d left in the shining, ornate elevator.

  As soon as the doors opened to the eleventh floor, one of the men grasped me by the arm, stepped over the grossness, and led me down the long stretch of carpeted hallway. They stopped me at a door, and Polo Shirt knocked.

  The door cracked open.

  “You have her?” asked a voice from behind the door.

  “Here,” said Polo Shirt.

  Silence. “Enter.”

  The men pushed the door open and pulled me inside. It wasn’t so much a hotel room as it was a penthouse apartment, complete with a sitting room and attached kitchen and dining area. The ceiling stretched at least two floors tall. I’d never been in a house this lavish, let alone a hotel room.

  “Sit,” Polo Shirt ordered, pointing to a chintz couch. I sat. The Brit stood nearby, weapon drawn. I looked at the shining gun with a lump in my throat while twisting my perspiring hands together. Polo Shirt moved an armless chair to face me and stood aside. The guy with the missing pinky approached with two bottles of water. He drank from one of them with deep, steady gulps. Then he took the other, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to me.

  “Drink,” he said. I shrank away. “Drink!” he shouted. I took the water bottle and choked it down, my throat sore from puking. Water spilled down my chin. I waited for some kind of drug to overcome me, but nothing happened. Pinky Guy watched me, then looked over at a fourth man standing in the corner who had let us in. The man appeared to be around forty or fifty years old, with a wide brow, fair hair, and clear eyes. He wore a dark blue tailored suit that looked like a custom Beverly Hills job. A suit…

  His eyes surveyed me as he sat down in the armless chair beside me.

  “Please, drink,” he said. “You must be thirsty.” I took another drink, getting more weirded out by the second. He stared at me for a moment. I didn’t feel any different. Why did they insist on me drinking water, if not to drug me?

  He sniffed. “Why does it smell like vomit?” he asked, his nose wrinkled. He looked at Polo Shirt, who shifted his footing uncomfortably.

  “She’s frightened,” he replied. Rich guy looked at me, his eyes softening with kindness.

  “Well,” he said. “There’s no need for that. We’re old acquaintances, after all.”

  The accent. The suit. He was the other guy at the tide pools. He went on.

  “I’ve seen others like you, you know. But it’s been a very long time.” I still couldn’t place his slight accent. He had a nice voice, calm and even, but it did nothing to dispel my distrust. What was he going to do with me? I was too afraid of the answer to allow my vocal cords to function right.

  “What…want?” I whispered. My throat still hurt.

  “What I want is simple,” the man before me replied. “If you cooperate, you live. If not, your friends will find your body floating out at sea.”

  I stiffened. He smiled.

  “Give me the vessel.”

  I stared into the man’s eyes, waiting for some kind of explanation, but none came. The others watched me, expectant.

  “I don’t…” I began in a croaky whisper, my mind blank. “What’s a vessel?”

  The rich man’s cool exterior turned fierce as he frowned in ugly fury. The man with the missing pinky laughed.

  “They are trained to say that,” he said.

  But Rich Man looked ready to hit or even shoot me. “I know you have it,” he continued. "Hand it over now, and I'll let you live.”

  “I don’t have anything.” I glanced back and forth from the weapons on the table to the men able to wield them. Rich Man’s hand shot to my face and gripped my chin. I cried out.

  “Dishonesty is not going to help you,” he snarled. The sound of a gun cocked somewhere nearby.

  Quivering sobs choked out of my throat as I struggled to find breath enough to speak. “I don’t know what you’re t-talking about!” I shouted in desperation, every inch of my body numb with terror. “I swear! Please!”

  His fingers dug harder into my jaw like crab pincers.

  “Last night, your friend paid you a visit and gave it to you, didn’t she?” He shook my face as he spoke. “Don’t try to deny it, you little siren; your life hangs by a thread.” Flecks of spittle landed on my face.

  “I don’t kn—” I paused. Realization dawned on me as my frenzied mind caught hold of the memory from the night before. “Y-you mean the red-headed lady?”

  Pinky laughed again, and Rich Man loosened his grip a little.

  “She’s dead,” he said, teeth bared. “The same will happen to you if you don’t tell us where the vessel is.”

  “I d-don’t know who she is,” I cried. “She j-just came t-to my house and g-gave me a seashell! I don’t know why!”

  He let go of my face. I cowered in my chair, sobbing and massaging my jaw.

  “Where’s the magazine?” he asked over his shoulder. The Brit grabbed it from a side table and handed it to him.

  “Explain.” He held the magazine before me. It was the same tabloid Samantha and I had found in the grocery store.

  I swallowed. “That? It was a costume.” I almost explained about the photoshoot, but I wanted to keep Samantha out of it.

  Rich Guy straightened and stared down at me. “And the tide pools?”

  “The tide pools? I j-just wanted to go explore them at negative tide. It was at midnight that night. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear!”

  His face mellowed to a contemplative stare. “Do you still have the seashell?”

  I nodded. “At my house.”

  “May I have it?”

  Oh, now he was all politeness.

  I nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, you can have it, just let me go.”

  He smirked. “Delfina made a mistake. She’s not one of them.”

  The man with the missing pinky lunged forward, caught hold of my head, and turned my face sideways. I screamed, thinking he was trying to break my neck, but all he did was push my hair aside and pull on my ear.

  “Nothing,” he said to the others. “He’s right.” He threw my head the other direction as he let me go. I watched them with a mixture of fright and, again, confusion.

  “Take her back and get the vessel. Make it quiet.”

  Polo Shirt grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up. When he let go, my legs gave out and I met the floor. One of the men picked me up and carried me, half-aware, through the hallway in the hotel. We approached the elevators, where Polo Shirt gave me a disgusted scowl. He pushed the button and a different elevator from the one I’d puked in opened. Down eleven puke-free floors, through the lobby, into the parking lot, and I soon found myself sitting in the car again, uncuffed and shell-shocked.

  I was alive.

  “We apologize for this inconvenience, Miss,” said Polo Shirt once we were back on the road. “It was all a very big misunderstanding.”

  “What did the picture in the magazine have to do with it?” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  “We, uh, received word that a prankster was linked to a murder. This was—a test. Part of a new interrogation program.”

  I stared at Polo Shirt in disbelief. Interrogation program? What kind of sick, twisted…I didn’t believe it for a second. Saying anything wouldn’t do me any good though. My eyes dry, I stayed quiet and watched the road ahead, trance-like, hoping this nightmare would end soon.

  The drive back to my aunt’s house took a long time. I was so eager to be back, every passing mile stretched on just to mock me. Did Sam call my aunt or my parents? A weird combo of peace and foreboding bloomed behind m
y sternum. I would see them all again.

  At last, we neared the street. The car slowed and parked along the curb one block away from the house.

  “Go back to your house, get the seashell, and bring it back here,” Polo Shirt said. “Don’t try to run.”

  Like a robot obeying programmed orders, I moved to get out of the car. The Brit scooted out to let me by, then followed as I walked, my resolve firm, but my steps unsteady. I wanted to run, but I could sense the barrel of a firearm pointed at my back.

  I rounded the corner. My hands fisted tight, I looked behind me to see the Brit standing on the corner, watching me. I turned back. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Soon, I crossed my aunt’s yard, then walked up the porch steps. The front door hung at a lopsided angle in the broken frame. I walked inside.

  “Samantha, it’s me!” I called. Samantha appeared from down the hall and hugged me. I couldn’t understand what she said over her loud weeping.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay. Everything’s fine.” I started crying, too. Again.

  “What happened?” She looked at me through bloodshot eyes.

  “Did you call anyone?” I asked. “My aunt? My mom?”

  “No! I was too scared. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “What’s happening? Are you going to jail? What was that guy talking about, asking if I knew who you really were?”

  “Nothing. It was all a big mistake. I’ll explain everything. There’s just something I need to do first.” I pulled away from her and went to my room. Inside the nightstand drawer, I found the white clam and picked it up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” Sam cried.

  “This is all they want and then they’ll leave us alone.”

  “A stupid old seashell? What for?”

  “I don’t know. I need to go give it to them. Just stay here.” I made for the door.

  “No, I’m coming with you.”

  I hesitated.

  “Please, Olivia.”

  “Okay. But if I tell you to run, run.”