Blood Money

Nothing.

“Theo?”

A car passed, then more silence. Uncomfortable silence. Then another car passed, and in the glow of the headlights Jack spotted the orange reflective tape on the heels of a jogger across the street. She obviously had no problem being alone on Main Highway. It gave him a sense of relief, which quickly turned into anger at himself. Main Highway. Which fed into Main Street. This wasn’t a side street or a back alley. He could almost hear Theo laughing at him as that text message replayed in his mind’s eye:

Watch out for the boogeyman.

It was essentially the same thing Neil Goderich had told him right out of law school, when Jack had joined the Freedom Institute: Threats came with the turf. Over the years, Jack had gotten plenty of them from cops, clients, witnesses, and even the creepy anonymous source. Any criminal defense lawyer who couldn’t handle a dose of intimidation needed to find a new career.

Still, as Jack reached the darkest part of the trail, he found himself walking faster. Streetlamps were of little help, their glow smothered by sprawling banyan trees on either side of the highway, the highest and longest limbs reaching across both lanes, as if to join hands. It was the lush, tropical version of a tunnel-one without lights. Jack had just passed the gated entrance to Ransom Everglades Upper School when, out of nowhere, it felt as if he’d been broadsided by an all-pro linebacker. The force sent him tumbling over the waist-high wall of coral rock that extended the full length of the trail. He landed facedown in the grass on the other side of the wall. The attacker was on him immediately.

“What the-”

Before Jack could finish his sentence, much less react, his hands were behind his back, a nylon loop closed around his wrists, and another loop joined his ankles. He was hog-tied, unable to move. The man rolled him over and grabbed Jack by the throat.

“Don’t move, just listen,” the man said.

The man’s grip was atomic, the fingers of a mountain climber, and the pressure around Jack’s neck made it difficult to focus on what he was saying. The thick, slurred speech didn’t make things any clearer.

“Where is Sydney Bennett?”

Where ish Shyndy. It wasn’t that he was drunk. He had something in his mouth-a wad of cotton or some spy toy to make his voice unrecognizable.

Jack could barely breathe, let alone talk. “I don’t know where she-”

“Don’t lie. If you lie, you die.”

Jack was having trouble following even that simple line of logic. The pressure around his neck had his head pounding and lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. Jack couldn’t see the man’s face, couldn’t see much of anything. His attacker, like everything else, was a blur.

“If you don’t know where she is, then it’s your job to find her for me.”

“I don’t-”

“Shut up!”

The grip tightened. The burning sensation in Jack’s lungs was unbearable. A hint of blood flavored his mouth, the pressure somehow having triggered it. Jack fought for air, but his attacker was in complete control.

“You are going to lead me to Sydney,” the man said, his hand like a vise around Jack’s neck, the words slurring through the wads of cotton in his mouth. “If you don’t, I promise you this: Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves.”

The hand around Jack’s throat rose higher on his neck and closed even tighter. Jack had one final burst of resistance left in his body, and then nothing more. The pounding in his head seemed to explode into his ears, and then the night went from black to blacker-to nothing.

Chapter Eleven

It was Jack’s second visit to a hospital in as many days. This time, he was the patient-in the emergency room.

“How do you feel?” asked Andie.

It was just the two of them in the small patient bay. A privacy curtain separated them from the buzz of activity that was the nerve center of Mercy Hospital’s ER. The adjustable bed was in the upright position, forcing Jack to sit up.

“I’m totally fine,” he said. “Can we get out of here, please?”

With all the tests they were running, Jack knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. His visit to the ER was going on four hours, and Andie had been at his side almost that long. A security guard at the high school had found Jack in the bushes and called an ambulance. By the time paramedics arrived, Jack had regained consciousness, somewhat disoriented but lucid enough to realize that his attacker had removed the bindings before fleeing. His wrists and ankles were raw, however, red bracelets that confirmed his recollection. He’d already recounted the entire attack twice, once to the ER physician and again to Andie. He was tired of talking about it, tired of saying the name Sydney Bennett. He was especially tired of the neck brace.

“This thing has got to go,” he said as he tugged at the Velcro.

“Leave it,” said Andie.

Frustrated and exhausted, Jack let his head settle back into the pillow. The privacy curtain parted, and in walked a man who could have been straight out of an episode of Law amp; Order.

“Jorge Rivera,” he said in a voice that was just right for a police station, a little loud for a patient with a throbbing head. “City of Miami Police.”

The neck brace prevented Jack from turning his head, but he cut his eyes in Rivera’s direction, then toward Andie, who explained what the detective was doing there.

“I called him,” she said.

For a moment, Jack was speechless. “Andie, what if I didn’t want to involve the police?”

Andie paused, her turn to be speechless. It was one of those patented disconnects in their relationship, as if Jack had asked, What if I wanted to paint myself blue and run naked through the ER?

She rose and shook Rivera’s hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” He said “no” like a cow, a long moo with an “n.” From Jack’s vantage point, the bovine analogy seemed to fit in more ways than one. He was a large man, undoubtedly muscle-bound in his younger years, simply thick in middle age. He wore a necktie with the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, not to be casual but because the jowls made it impossible to button it. Folds of skin on the back of his neck led like steps to his crew-cut head. He had a set of matching stairs on his forehead.

“I know you’re hurtin’,” said Rivera, “but I’ll be quick. I got most of what I need from Agent Henning’s report.”

Jack shot another look in Andie’s direction-more than just eye movement this time, despite the neck brace. “You did a report?” he said, incredulous.

“Yes, I had to.”

“No, you didn’t have to. This isn’t an FBI matter.”

“You’re wrong there, Jack. Your attacker threatened an FBI agent.”

Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves. Andie had probably filled in the blank correctly, but other alarming possibilities came to mind.

“What about Abuela?” Jack said. “And my father?”

“Theo is spending the night at your grandmother’s. I spoke to your father. It was three A.M. his time, and he didn’t seem particularly concerned.”

Jack blinked, confused.

Andie said, “Your father and stepmother are vacationing in London. They’re five hours ahead of us. Six hours ago, your head was clear enough to remember that.”

Jack had completely forgotten, which told him that he wasn’t recovering from the attack as quickly as he had