Saving Rachel

huge—13,000 square feet—but the kitchen is only steps away. I turn into the opening and see the large granite island in the center of the room. The island is four feet high, fourteen feet long, and six feet wide. It’s called a granite island, but only the top is granite. The base is wood, with cabinets on this side and bar stools on the other. From the angle of the photograph, I know that Rachel is lying on the other side, just past the bar stools, hidden from my current view.

I suddenly think, What if someone is crouching down, waiting there for me? Before I go to her, I call out, “Rachel?” I don’t expect her to answer in anything but a muffled voice, but I’m more than a little alarmed to receive no response at all. I raise my voice and try again, but again, I’m met with an eerie silence.

I hesitate. The voice inside my head screams, It’s a trap! I think about it a moment. What should I do? I can’t save Rachel if I’m dead. The more I think about it, the more I believe this situation does have all the earmarks of a trap. But if it’s a trap, why not just jump up from behind the island and riddle my body with bullets?

Then I think, Rachel could be lying there, dying. They could have beaten her and left her to die. Or maybe they tied the gag too tight and she’s choked to death.

This is Rachel, the woman I married. Why would anyone want to punish her?

This is not about Rachel. It’s about Lockdown T3. Someone wants the codes.

Whatever’s happened to Rachel, I now realize it’s my fault. I’ve brought this on her. This has to do with me and the people I deal with, my “prized” client list of drug lords; terrorists; a crazed, homicidal quadriplegic; a professional assassin …

Ours is a three-million-dollar house, not counting the furniture. When we designed it, there were certain things we both wanted, like the upstairs girl’s and boy’s rooms. Both would have lofts and deep, walk-in closets with secret rooms. This was years ago when we still dreamed about having children, back when we were having sex on a more or less regular basis. One of the things we didn’t agree on was this enormous pile of granite in the kitchen. From the initial concept drawing, I thought it a monstrosity, but I’d given Rachel my word she could design the kitchen and family room, and I stuck to it.

We’d been counting on this dream house to bring us together, and I didn’t want something as silly as a granite kitchen island to keep us apart. Here we are, two years later, and it’s standing between us again, perhaps for the last time. I dread turning the corner, terrified of what I might see.

Then I think, A sedative! That’s it! They gave her a sedative, drew the “K” and “V” on her cups while she was knocked out. A sedative could easily last three and a half hours. It makes sense, such perfect sense that

I put aside my fear and start to circle the granite island. Though I know Rachel’s okay, I have a pretty good idea what I’ll find on the other side, how she’ll look, so I take a deep breath and set my jaw. But I’m wrong. Oh, am I wrong! Of all the things I expected to see on the floor on the other side of the island, this shocks me the most. What I see is …

Chapter 9

Nothing! No Rachel.

Could she have gotten up somehow, untied herself? I run through the house, shouting her name.

Think!

I run back to the garage and notice for the first time that her car isn’t there. I call her cell phone.

No answer.

Think!

Lockdown T3. Someone’s kidnapped, Rachel. They want the codes.

I go to my desk, power up my computer, navigate to the key-code page. I pause with my hand above the mouse.

This is dangerous. Very dangerous. But I have to see if anyone has been trying to access my clients. I click the cursor into the first space: Creed, Donovan. I type in the sixteen digits and press enter. The house phone rings. Do I dare answer it? I have to. “Hello?” “Sam, what do you want? I’m about to go to lunch.” My mind is sputtering. It’s Rachel. I’m so startled I can’t think of anything to say. “Lunch, Sam. I’ve only got an hour, remember?” “Uh, are you okay?” She sighs. “What are you doing home? Are you sick?” “Uh, no, I’m good. Had to pick up some work papers.” She pauses. “Is this about last night?”

Last night? What happened last night?

“What happened last night?” I ask.

“Nothing. That’s the point. No good night, no hug, no nothing. I just figured you were all wrapped up in your little dream world. As usual.”

This is, of course, total bullshit.

Rachel has a way of transferring her thoughts and actions onto me. In fact, she’s the one who had no interest in saying good night last night. Now that I think about it, I remember she’d been pacing the floor from the time I’d gotten home to the time she went to bed. When I walked into the kitchen last night, she’d been on her cell phone, agitated. I saw her try to make a call over and over, though she never left a message. At one point, she’d been in her closet with the door closed. When I entered, I saw her sitting on the floor, eyes filled with tears, cell phone in her lap. I’d asked what was going on. She’d told me to leave her alone.

So it was Rachel who was responsible for last night, not me. But none of this matters now. She’s okay. Rachel’s …

“I’m sorry,” I say. “About last night. Look, I’m—” I thought about the time stamp on the photograph: 8:46 am. “What time did you get to work today?”

She pauses. “Sam, what’s going on?”

I can’t think of any reason to give for asking the question. So I say nothing. Finally, she answers. “I got here the same time I always do, eight thirty.”

I recover slightly. “I’m … I’m just glad you’re okay.”