have? That, and forgetting the note, two glitches. What if no one came down again and saw the note, or came when it was too late? Too late? A funny thought: how could it be too late?
Wasn’t like him to fret this way. He felt in his pocket: one andro left, two hits of meth. Sampled the meth, felt a little better. And not to fret, because the next moment, or not long after, Freedy heard people moving again on the far side of the wall. That meant they’d be seeing the ransom note. It also meant she could maybe hear them too, maybe cause a little trouble. He lit a candle-all he had, one little candle, her flashlight all busted during the dust-up-looked over at her, lying nearby on the dirt floor. Oh yeah, slipped his mind: her face, the mouth part anyway, was taped up with electrician’s tape from the utilities room in the sub-basement under building 31.
Mouth taped up, probably the reason she’d hadn’t been answering him, because she wasn’t sleeping anymore. Her eyes were open; eye, actually, the one that would open. Open and on him, but she was listening, he could feel it. He put his finger to his lips, letting her know it wasn’t a good time for talk, and rose-slowly, even painfully-to look through the spyhole.
Freedy saw a flashlight beam pointing at the back of the painting with his note. On track. He heard a voice, the other sister: “I suppose you’re going to say that’s her own writing.”
“No,” said someone else; the college kid. The college kid started shining his light here and there, right into Freedy’s eyes for a second. Freedy shrank back, blew out the candle. And the moment he did, the girl, the sister that was his, made a thumping sound. How? He’d thought of everything, had her arms and legs taped tight to the utility pipe. So she had to be doing it with her head. She was banging the floor with her head to get their attention. Freedy was on her with all his weight just as she did it again, a muffled thump on the dirt floor. Could they have heard? He listened; no sound came from the other side of the wall.
Freedy lay on her with all his weight. She was amazing: imagine doing that, with the way her head must be feeling after that sleep, or whatever. He lay on her, subduing her, kind of. Could have forced himself on her right there, felt like it in a way. But was that how he wanted it? No. A man like him didn’t need to force himself on a woman; all he had to do was give her a taste of what he was about, and she’d be forcing herself on him. Was it unreasonable to think that given time to forget all the unpleasantness, this drop-dead fuck-you American dream girl would see what a good match they were? He’d been joking when he’d had that thought about not trading her for a million dollars, but why did he have to make a choice at all? Wasn’t-yes! — wasn’t the hero supposed to get the money and the girl at the end?
Freedy rolled off her, got up, felt along the wall till he found his spyhole, peered through. The room was silent and dark. They were gone. That meant he had work to do.
“Need a little help here,” he said. A detail person: what he’d always been missing. “We have to plan this out.”
He relit the candle, gazed down at her. She was awake, the one eye that could open, open. It was pure gold in the candlelight, which was kind of cool, pure gold, fixed on him like that.
“We got some thinking to do,” he said. “You know how it works, right? Start with an idea, make a plan, stick to it.” He liked talking to her, liked the way his voice sounded talking to her, quiet, casual, close, like they were soul mates. Potential soul mates: he didn’t want to be unrealistic at this stage. “The idea we already know,” he said. “A million dollars. Now we just have to figure out the plan and stick to it.”
They watched each other, watched each other by candlelight. Women had a thing for candlelight. Candlelight, flowers, candy: what the hell was that all about? A man likes that kind of shit and he’s gay. So did women want their men to be gay? Made no sense.
“You like candlelight?” he said. “Flowers? Candy?”
No answer, what with the tape job. The gold eye just watched him, blinking now and then.
The idea: a million bucks, a cool million. The plan: the money would appear in that room on the other side of the wall, less than ten feet away, by dark. He’d take it, leave the girl, be in Florida the next day. Sounded good, better than good. The life he had ahead of him-he went cold, actually went cold thinking about it.
Were there any holes in the plan, any weak spots? He lay back on the dirt floor, tried to think of some. Couldn’t come up with any and was ready to stop, to just enjoy that feeling of success around the corner, when one cropped up. What if they did call the cops? Then came another: what if they didn’t call the cops, but brought fake money, too well made for him to tell? And a third: what if he wasn’t ready to give her up? And there were others. He could sort of see them, shapeless dark things slouching in his mind.
“A situation like this”-Freedy didn’t want to use the word kidnapping — “turns out to be complicated. Hell if I know why-there’s only two parts to it. You and the money. So how come everything’s so…” He couldn’t think of the word. The gold eye watched him. Whatever the word was, she knew it.
Freedy sat up. His shoulder gave him a twinge. Maybe that made his voice harsher than he’d intended when he spoke to her. “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, babe. But any glitches and it’s right back on, good and tight. Comprendo?”
Comprendo: could he have picked a better moment to slip in a foreign word?
No response. The gold eye watched him. She was something else. Made for him. He pinched a corner of the tape between thumb and index finger and ripped it off. She didn’t make a sound. Made for him in heaven.
Her lips parted. Some blood, not a lot. She took a deep breath. He could hear it, like a warm breeze. He seriously considered leaning over and giving her a kiss.
She spoke; real quiet. She didn’t have a strong voice like her sister, shouting through the walls. “I need a doctor,” she said.
“Me too,” said Freedy.
The gold eye watched him.
“Won’t be long,” Freedy said. “First I need that million.”
“Let me go,” she said, and paused for breath. “Let me go and I’ll make sure you get it.”
“Think I’m stupid or something?”
“No.”
“The fact is I own my own business.”
She was silent.
“Built from scratch. You wouldn’t understand. College girl. College girl up on College Hill, everything handed to you on a silver spoon, if you see where I’m coming from.”
No answer. Now maybe it wasn’t quite so cool, this silence of hers. He leaned over, went and did it: kissed her on the lips, real light, but sending a message. She didn’t move a muscle.
“No more bullshit, that’s all. Promise?”
Pause. A real long one.
“Say yes or the tape’s back on.”
Another pause, but not as long. Then: “Yes.” He could barely hear it.
Her lips were warm. That feeling lingered on his own lips. He knew for a fact: life, his own life, was going to be sweet.
“Familiar with the flats?” he said.
“No.”
“Why would you be, right?”
“I need a doctor.”
“Why would you be? That’s the whole point. Even though the flats is this whole town, except the goddamn college. Say hello to the kid from the flats.”
She didn’t. The gold eye closed. He closed his own eyes, went over the plan. What if they did call the cops? He’d hear them coming, of course, hear them in the tunnels, but what good would that do? He’d be trapped. Have to kill her then-that’s what it said in the note. Then what?
He opened his eyes. “Time for a little…,” he began. What was the word? The gold eye opened, watched him. A little what? He knew the word, had heard it a thousand times on the infomercials. Something about thunder, lightning: “Brainstorming!”
Maybe he’d said it a bit loud. He lowered his voice, back to that intimate level he liked to use with her. “Time for a little brainstorming,” he said. “You understand what I mean by that term? It’s an entrepreneurial kind of thing.”
“Yes.”
“This friend of mine, she and me used to do a lot of brainstorming. Back when I was just starting out.”
