9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Shaun
Present
We ride in complete silence for almost half an hour before I can't take it anymore. I don't like how this feels. I'm not a nice guy. I don't do nice things. I don't lose any sleep over it, either. But something about how this job feels is digging under my skin like a fiberglass splinter.
“She's skinny.”
Wyatt's eyes flick over to me then quickly back to the road. “Lots of women are skinny.”
I stay quiet for a few minutes and watch the houses get farther apart as we get closer to the outskirts of the city. Yeah, lots of women are skinny. But there's healthy skinny, like fitness skinny, and then there's what this wife is. She's borderline skeletal. And we're supposed to make her more miserable? I've never known anybody who was that kind of skinny and wasn't already miserable about something. “Why?”
Wyatt glances at me again. “Why what?”
“Why hire us to take her?”
“I told you. It's just a job.”
I turn in my seat to face him. “No. You told me what the job was. You didn't say shit about why the husband hired us to do it. People that skinny are already miserable. She's emaciated. I'd almost rather take her to a hospital than where we're taking her.”
“It doesn't matter.” He sighs and nods at the windshield. “It's just a job. We were hired and we're going to get paid.”
Yeah. Whatever. His eyes are too set and I didn't miss the way his lips flattened when he said it. “You don't like it, either. It's weird.”
“Rich people who pay for this kind of thing are weird.” He doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough for the houses to turn into trees, and it gives me time to think about all the reasons why this job might bother him. I'm about to voice one of them when he continues, startling me. “We're not getting paid to give a shit. We're getting paid to not give a shit. It doesn't matter if she's already miserable and it doesn't matter if she's too thin.”
The fact that he's so adamant tells me everything I need to know. It matters. And now I'll have to keep picking and picking at it until I figure out why it matters. One thing's for sure though, if the wife is already in a bad state, I doubt either me or Wyatt are going to be overly willing to make it worse.
The trees get replaced by houses again as we enter the next town and I wonder how far we're taking her. Wyatt wasn't exactly secretive about where we're taking her for the next couple weeks, but he didn't give me a map either. He also didn't really tell me how long we were supposed to keep her, he just kept saying either a couple weeks or a few weeks. At the time it really didn't matter, but now that I've seen the wife and had my hands on her it feels like it might end up mattering after all.
I don't mind taking jobs involving women. It's always the same thing. Grab her. Keep her for a few days. Keep her scared, keep her quiet. Drop her off. Get paid. I don't take jobs with kids, though. Not ever. I don't like taking care of them. And they cry. A lot. I can't listen to kids crying for hours on end, much less for days. Never been hired to make a woman miserable for a while and then give her back, though. That's new. There's got to be some wild ass reason for it and that mystery is going to eat at my mind until I solve it.
This town is much smaller than the city we just left and it quickly dissolves into trees and scrubby bushes with the occasional house breaking through the scenery. I know where we are. I have a cousin who lives in the town we just passed through. He owns a pretty decent sandwich shop. But knowing where we are isn't the same as knowing where we're going and now I'm getting antsy. “How much farther are we going?”
Wyatt sighs again, heavily. “I have a place set up in the next town. I wanted to put a little distance between us.”
“Why?”
He glances over, annoyance clear on his face. “Why what?”
“What's the point?” I ask. “This isn't a true kidnapping. It's all for show. The husband isn't actually going to look for her. For all it matters, we could have kept her in the fucking garage.”
He's quiet again and I swear I can hear him thinking.
“Oh, you didn't consider that, did you?”
His eyes flick to me again, his mouth drawn in a harsh, flat line. “I like distance.”
“Does the husband know where you're taking her?”
“No,” he scoffs.
“Why?”
“You're going to have to stop asking why about shit, Shaun. It doesn't matter.”
I watch his profile for a long minute.
“It might.”
The building Wyatt parks behind is ridiculous. You'd think he'd choose something a little less blue. I don't get out of the car when he does. He can't be serious.
He stretches his arms above his head and then swings them around a few times. He notices that I still haven't gotten out and comes around to my side where he opens my door.
I look up at him, incredulous. “It's awfully blue, isn't it?”
He looks back over his shoulder as if he hadn't noticed. “And?”
“You don't think that's a little conspicuous?”
“If you were looking for someone, would you think to look in the bright blue house on the corner?”
“It doesn't matter, though, does it? Because nobody is going to look for her, right?”
“Not the point,” he smiles. “Let's get her inside.”
Sighing, I get out and follow Wyatt around to the back of the car. He knocks twice on the lid of the trunk before speaking loud enough for the wife to hear him. “I'm going to open this lid and lift you out. Do not jump. Do not kick. Do not run. You will fall. We will not be taking you to the hospital if you get hurt. Be smart.”
It's pointless, though. We both know she's going to try to run. They always try to run. Doesn't matter if their hands are tied, if they're blindfolded, or if they're bare-assed naked and barefoot, they try to run and she's no different. The second he pushes the button to open the trunk and the lid pops up, her foot comes shooting out to try to kick at us and I grab her ankle before she can make contact. Naturally, she yanks against my hold but I don't lose my grip on her. Wyatt reaches in to grab her arm to get her out and she starts to fight against him the moment she feels him touch her. I can't be mad about it, I'd fight too.
We struggle with her for a few minutes. Regardless of how miserable she's supposed to be after we're finished with her, neither Wyatt or I are very inclined to hurt her. In fact, it looks and feels more like we're doing the opposite and it reminds me of all the times I tried to get spiders and other bugs out of my house without damaging their delicate legs or wings. The longer it goes on, the funnier it becomes to me and by the time Wyatt starts muttering curses, I'm laughing.
“Hold on,” I tell him. “She wants to stay in the trunk. Close the lid. We'll come back out in a little bit and see how she feels.” Just as I expected, all movement ceases and I can feel the decisions being made from behind that expensive pillow case. Slowly, her arms and legs pull closer to her body and she stays put in a still little ball. “What? You don't want to stay in the trunk for a few hours?”
A small shake of her head.
“You sure?”
Another shake.
“You going to keep fighting us? I don't mind closing you back up in there. We'll come get you before it gets too hot and you pass out.” I pause for effect. “Maybe. Actually, that's a good idea. Close the lid. She won't feel much like fighting or running in a couple hours.”
That gets me a much bigger shake. “No.”
“No?”
She shakes her head again.
“You sure?”
A nod.
“Alright. I'm going to scoop you out. You walking, or am I carrying?”
A brief moment of indecision, then she quietly says, “I'll walk.”
“Good girl,” I tell her before I can stop it from leaving my mouth and I laugh again. This is going to be an adventure.
I bend down into the trunk and put my arms under her knees and back to lift her out, then I put her feet on the grass beside the gravel driveway. She sways almost violently and Wyatt grabs her around the waist before she can fall. I catch his gaze over her shoulder as she steadies herself. He shrugs and I bite my tongue. Is she sick? Some kind of blood disorder? Have we kidnapped a woman who needs hourly medication? I agreed to take her, not kill her. Is she diabetic? My aunt is diabetic and she's off balance sometimes, even passes out.
“I can walk.”
Both Wyatt and I glance down at her quiet, trembling words and then back at each other. If I look any more concerned than he does, this job is going to end up being a problem.
I've never been here, so I obviously don't know what to expect once we get inside. I've imagined everything from a shitty living room with one of those big dog crates in the corner to keep the wife in, to an upscale middle class situation with a nice, safe, noise canceling room down the hall for the wife. What greets me when we get her inside is a combination of a lot of things, but based on my current experience with Wyatt, I'm not surprised by any of it.
We enter through the back door, which opens into the kitchen. It's just a basic kitchen and I'm relieved to see how clean it is. The wife is walking between us with Wyatt pulling her behind him by her wrist and she stumbles over the rug in front of the fridge.
“Careful,” I warn, gripping her elbow to steady her, then smile at the back of her forty-eight trillion thread count covered head when she jerks away from me as soon as she regains her balance.
Wyatt leads us into the living room and pushes her into the armchair against one of the walls. “Hands.”
She holds her hands out in front of her.
“A few years ago,” Wyatt pauses to reach between the cushions of the chair, his brows furrowing until he pulls out a short length of thick cord, “I altered a couch like this. It worked out really well, but I thought a chair would be better for this situation.” He secures the cord to her bound wrists and continues. “This will work for a while, but there are other ways to keep her where we want her. Some are more creative than others.”
I understand it's mostly for show, but it takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes at his display of stereotypical criminal monologue. “I usually just lock them up in a closet or tie them up inchworm-style in a trunk or something.”
Neither of us miss the way she stiffens at my subtle suggestions.
“I'm taking the pillowcase off your head,” Wyatt tells her. “You've been quiet so far. That's good. But if you start screaming, understand that I have a wooden chest in the bedroom and I'll throw you in it faster than you can blink.” Wyatt pauses to give her a moment to process. “Understand?”
She nods.
“Good.” Wyatt pulls the pillowcase off.
I have to look away from her and at him. “A word, please.”
Wyatt's eye twitches in irritation but I don't give a shit. He tilts her gaunt face up to look at him and she blinks at him with deeply shadowed eyes. “Don't move. Don't make a sound. We are going to be just outside the door. Understand?”
Her lips are tight but she nods again. Wyatt jerks his head toward what must be the front door and I start whisper-yelling as soon as it clicks shut. “Something isn't adding up. Tell me what the husband said again.”