Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Dan stares at his wife, seated across from him once again at their table, squeezed between the hostess stand and the kitchen door. She’s holding her watered-down gin up to her mouth with both hands and taking large gulps.
It reminds him of the very first time he laid eyes on her—standing at a bar in a poorly lit hotel conference room, downing a neon-green appletini. He was a senior in college, a guest at his boyhood friend’s wedding, and he was stunned not so much by Jane’s beauty as by her prepossession. The full-body confidence of her stance. It didn’t surprise him later to learn she was three years older, a woman of the world already. It did surprise him to learn she had been invited not to this wedding, but a different wedding across the hall. “This one has an open bar.” She shrugged and grinned, and Dan, ever the rule follower, was immediately drawn to her bold insubordination.
Now when Jane sets the glass down next to her plate with a thud, it’s empty and there’s a kind of a crazed look in her eye. The high-pitched ringing of a telephone somewhere in the restaurant is muted by the busyness of everyone getting settled back at their tables under the watchful eyes of their captors (including his daughter!), and it feels surreal, as though they are on a movie set, pretending to be diners at a high-end restaurant, which Dan supposes in a way they are. It’s just for show.
He wishes he could rewind time to ninety minutes ago, when he and Jane were enjoying a nice anniversary dinner, exchanging witty barbs about the exorbitant price of the meal and eating surprisingly delicious barnacles. OK, it wasn’t all picture-perfect. She did ask him for a divorce as well, and Dan suddenly flashes on another moment from the night they met, when she rolled her eyes at the overly sentimental wedding toasts and informed Dan in a side whisper she never had any interest in getting married. At the time he thought it was just something girls said to appear breezy and casual to prospective partners, but now he wonders—perhaps twenty years too late—if she actually meant it. Regardless, Jane’s desire for a divorce, while troubling, seems insignificant in the grand scheme of the evening, and besides, Dan has always been the type to focus on the good. The silver linings.
For instance, the sharp relief he feels in his lower back now that he’s finally sitting in a chair instead of against a wall. His wrists are no longer tied together. He is starving—and still has one and a half barnacles on his plate! He pinches a piece of spongy meat with his fingers and pops it into his mouth, regretting it immediately. It’s cold, rendering the texture and flavor not nearly as pleasant as when the dish was fresh. He pulls a face and looks back at Jane.
“We need to come up with a plan,” she whispers, rubbing her wrists.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do you have a plan?”
“In the two seconds since you told me we needed one?” Dan says.
“I would have hoped you’d been thinking about it for more than the past two seconds,” Jane hisses, and even though her request is patently ridiculous (Of course Dan’s been thinking about it! Does Jane have a plan?), irritation rips through him. Isn’t this the crux of their difference? To any problem that crops up, Dan prefers a calm, logical, gather-the-facts-and-analyze-the-data approach in order to come up with a solution, while Jane’s constantly ready to act, rationality and sensibility be damned! Still, Dan hates the idea that he’s letting Jane down somehow, though it’s a feeling he’s far too familiar with.
“How are we going to get her out of here, Dan?”
And because Dan would give anything to make her smile, he grins and says: “Very carefully.”
Instead of smiling, Jane pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefingers, closes her eyes, and mutters something that sounds a lot like: Oh, forthelove .
Dan frowns.
The sharp trilling sound emanates again from the hallway for the eighth or ninth time in the past five minutes. Dan starts to think he’s the only one who can hear it—or that maybe he’s hallucinating it—when Brick finally barks: “Can someone answer the goddamned phone?” and Caden goes running out of the room.
“We have to get her over here somehow,” Jane says, talking so quietly it’s unclear to Dan if he’s part of the conversation. “Though you should probably be the one to talk to her.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. She never listens to me.”
Dan can’t remember the last time Sissy listened to anyone.
“How can we get her over here?”
Dan blinks. While he wants answers as much as Jane does, he doesn’t see how drawing attention to themselves and Sissy is going to do anything but cause trouble. “Jane, I really don’t think—”
“Maybe if we need something?”
“For now, let’s try to keep a low profile. Wait until an opportunity presents itself.”
Jane squints, as if considering Dan’s words, and then bobs her head slowly. Dan folds his hands together on the tabletop, pleased he’s made his point so clearly and gotten Jane on the same page.
Then Jane abruptly breaks eye contact and says “Excuse me!” to the room at large.
Every muscle in Dan’s body tenses. “Jane!” he whispers. “What are you—”
“Excuse me!” Jane repeats, waving her hand like a rude patron.
Heads turn this time, including Brick’s, who, upon registering that it’s Jane talking, gets such a look of exasperation, Dan feels almost a kinship with him. “What,” Brick says flatly.
“Could we possibly get some food? None of us really got to eat before you…came in.”
Brick’s gaze is steely and intense—a look that would cause any normal human to wilt and shrink, but of course his wife keeps talking. “Plus, if we’re eating when Otto arrives, it will look…more authentic.”
Dan holds his breath as Brick’s brow changes in a way that looks like he can’t argue with that. Dan also knows that feeling.
“Fine,” Brick says through a clenched jaw. “Goldie, why don’t you see if you can scrounge up something in the kitchen for our guests to eat?”
“Do I look like a chef?” she fires back, and Dan flicks his eyes to the ceiling—why do his wife and daughter have to be among the most stubborn women in the world? Would it kill Sissy and Jane to just put their heads down when dealing with the unstable head of a terrorist group? It’s like poking a grizzly bear—which, come to think of it, they both probably would actually do, if the bear said something that could even remotely be construed as sexist.
“No,” Brick says, “but our head chef is currently…indisposed and the others are tied up. Maybe you could find something simple—”
“Roquefort almond sourdough rolls are in the warmer.” The sous chef, Zay, speaks up from where he is still tied up against the wall, along with Javier, Monica, and the supine Lars—all just out of view of the picture window.
Brick acknowledges him with a brief nod. “Goldie? Could you procure the rolls?”
“I can help!” Jane screeches.
“No,” Brick says, barely looking at her before his attention is drawn by Caden appearing, frantic, in the doorframe between the dining room and hall. “It’s the police!”
While he’s distracted, Dan nudges Jane’s feet with his own under the table, trying to get her attention, to remind her that taking time to come up with a good plan is preferable to acting without thinking—and will likely yield better results.
“What?” Brick says.
“The police,” Caden says. “On the phone?”
He nods, as if he assumed as much. “What’d they say?”
“They got a call…about a man being shot.” Brick’s gaze darts to Jane, and Dan’s does, too. Did she call the police? Dan can’t imagine when she would have had time, but Jane is nothing if not resourceful (not to mention tenacious and stubborn and foolhardy)—and while he’s not great at reading her expressions, he’s fairly certain the one currently written all over her face is guilt mixed with a touch of fear. “They want to know if we need an ambulance or medevac,” Caden continues. “What do you want me to say?”
Yes! Dan thinks, trying to telepathically give Brick the correct answer, but it doesn’t work.
“Nothing,” Brick growls. “And rip that phone out of the wall.”
No! Dan thinks, but it’s Jane who screeches it: “NO!”
Caden freezes, and in the silence that follows her outburst, every head turns toward her, for maybe the seventy-fifth time that evening? Dan can’t keep track. And he wonders—not for the first time—if the inability to keep one’s mouth shut is actually a bona fide medical condition. If so, he’s certain Jane suffers from it.
Brick raises his brow at her. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes.”
“And what, pray tell, is it this time?”
“You have to talk to them.”
“Who?”
“The police.”
“Why is that,” he says in a monotone Dan understands to mean Brick doesn’t actually want the answer. Jane does not interpret his words the same way.
“Because it will keep them from bursting in the door at any second.”
“They’ll have to wait for the bomb squad to come up from L.A. or down from Santa Barbara,” Brick says, repeating what he said to Sissy earlier. “Either way, it’s bought us at least two hours. By the time they come and clear the hill, it will be too late.”
Dan wonders if he’s the only one for whom the words too late caused goose bumps to crawl over his skin.
“What if they don’t follow protocol?” Jane says, her words tumbling out in a rush.
Brick cocks his head, as if this is something he hadn’t considered. Then he narrows his eyes. “Is it my imagination or are you trying to help ? I thought you wanted the police to come—and now you…don’t?”
“I just…” Jane pauses and Dan closes his eyes, intensely hoping it will occur to her at some point to close her mouth. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. And if the police come charging in here, I imagine it’s not going to end well. For anyone.”
Brick studies her, but Jane—of course—keeps talking. “You can negotiate with them.”
“For what?”
“For whatever it is you want.”
“I don’t want anything from them.”
“Well, you could ask for something.”
“How about pizza?” Caden says, clearly warming to the idea.
Dan’s stomach growls again.
Brick looks at Caden with disdain. “What is this—a child’s birthday party?”
Caden shrugs. “That’s what they always do in the movies.”
“THIS ISN’T A MOVIE.”
“If you ask for something, it will help stall them,” Jane says, nearly pleading. “Of course, they’ll want something in return. Probably a hostage.”
“The chef!” Dan says. “Please give them the chef.”
He didn’t know he was going to do it, but now that everyone’s attention is on him, he continues, determined. “Lars needs a hospital. Right?” He glances at Rahul, who is still sitting with Lars, monitoring the drainage of the tube. “Tell them.”
The neurosurgeon nods heavily. “He does.”
“Please,” Dan says, and searches the room until his eyes land on his daughter. His daughter who couldn’t stand to see a bunny rabbit suffer, much less a human. “He could die,” he says, looking directly into her deep brown eyes, a mirror of Jane’s.
Sissy blinks, slightly nods, and then stands. “Let’s give them the chef,” she says, and Dan’s chest blooms with pride—only slightly dampened by the reminder that his daughter is holding a restaurant full of innocent people hostage. But at least she isn’t completely hardened. “I don’t want him to die.”
“Yeah, same,” Lyle agrees. “Please, Brick. That’s not what we came here for.”
“Why are you all begging him?” Isaac pipes up from where he’s been sitting—observing everything and everyone—since he came in from the kitchen. He’s young, not just in appearance but in attitude. His eyes and voice convey a sneer of disdain that Dan has now gotten used to seeing on Sarah’s and Josh’s faces—that universal teenage expression that they know everything and are merely tolerating your own ignorance. “Aren’t we leaderless? You all kneel down to Brick like he’s some god. The great wizard everyone lives in fear of. You want to give over the chef? Let’s give over the chef. Brick doesn’t own us. Let’s take a vote. All who want to release the chef, raise your hands.”
Dan shoots his right hand straight up like a dart. Brick sighs as though he’s the impatient caregiver of a child. “You don’t get a vote.”
Sissy and Tink raise their hands. Then Caden, Lyle, and Jeremy, the wire-rimmed glasses guy from the kitchen.
“Isaac?” Brick turns to the insolent teenager, the only one who didn’t raise his hand. “You don’t want the man you shot to be saved?”
“I don’t care one way or another. I’m just tired of the spineless sniveling,” Isaac says.
Brick shoots the kid a look of annoyance, then pauses, hands on his hips. After a beat, he nods as though he’s decided something. “You,” he growls, pointing at Sissy. “Get the rolls. The rest of you—” He eyes Tink, Isaac, Jeremy, and Lyle. “Anyone moves, deal with them.” Then he storms out of the room, following Caden down the hallway.
Once Brick is gone, it feels like the entire dining room exhales—like it’s a living organism with a heartbeat and emotions, the foremost one being relief. Until Isaac jumps off his perch on the table and swings his gun around in the air, laughing whenever anyone flinches.
“Knock it off,” Tink says.
Dan kicks Jane under the table again, this time harder. She looks at him, annoyed. “What was that?” he hisses.
“What?”
“I thought we agreed to keep a low profile.”
“I couldn’t just let him not talk to the police, Dan,” she says evenly, as if any sane person would have done the same thing.
“Yes! That’s exactly what you could have— should have done.”
“They need to know it’s a hostage situation, so they’ll create a command center and keep their distance.”
“A command center . How do you have any idea what the police are or are not going to do? What, do you moonlight as a cop in your spare time?”
“Well,” she says, dropping her gaze.
“Well what ?”
“I did interview that hostage negotiator for my book.”
Now it’s Dan’s turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’ve watched a lot of terrorist movies, and I don’t know about a command center, but the second Brick tells them he’s keeping everyone hostage, that hill”—he points dramatically toward the door—“is going to be swarming with cops and the FBI—the FBI, Jane!—and that definitely never ends well for the terrorists. The terrorists, which include our daughter.”
As if on cue, the door to the kitchen swings open and Sissy comes back in carrying a metal tray. She passes Jane and Dan without a glance and starts at the table farthest from them. He notices Jane following their daughter with her eyes. Then she turns to Dan, as if he hasn’t even spoken, and whispers: “When she gets here, you do the talking.”
He stares at her, waiting for her to at least acknowledge his point, and when it becomes apparent she’s not going to, he nods curtly. “Fine.”
“Ask her what on earth she’s doing.”
“Right,” Dan says.
“And thinking,” she says. “And why! Why is she doing this? And is she being held against her—”
“Jane,” Dan whispers her name sharply. “I’ve got this.”
They sit, staring at their plates, waiting. Jane straightens her water glass and napkin, lining them up with the plate, as though she’ll be graded on it later by an etiquette judge. Finally, Sissy approaches their table. Balancing the metal tray on her left hand, she uses the tongs in her right to grab a roll and place it on Jane’s bread plate. Dan clears his throat and Sissy glances at him. He opens his mouth.
“Sissy, are you on drugs?” Jane hisses.
“What the—” Sissy’s face screws in disgust and she glances around. “Keep your voice down.”
“Jane!” Dan whispers. “Let me handle this.” He looks at Sissy. “Are you on drugs?”
She stares at her father, her face hardening even more. “No, Dad. I’m not on drugs.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Jane says. “What is this?”
“What are you guys doing here? I thought you were going out for your anniversary.”
Dan looks at Jane, waiting for her to respond, since she so clearly wants to handle it herself, but she’s staring at him. “Oh—now you want? OK.” He turns to Sissy. “We are out for our anniversary!”
“Here? You always go to the Macaroni Grill.”
“We do not!” Dan says, and he feels Jane’s severe gaze on him. “OK, maybe we do, but your mother loves the chicken scalo—”
“Dan!” Jane says.
He softly clears his throat and tries to get back on track. “Sissy, what are you doing with these…these… terrorists ?”
“We’re not terrorists!”
Dan opens his mouth, but Jane once again beats him to it. “The guns you’re toting like it’s the goddamn Wild West would suggest otherwise. Guns, Sissy! Who even are you?”
Tears spring to Sissy’s eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Oh, Sissy,” Dan breathes, his heart melting at once. He’s never been able to stand seeing her cry.
“Oh, good Lord, Dan. She’s faking it,” Jane says, and then, to Sissy: “You came barging into a restaurant armed to the teeth and it wasn’t supposed to be like this? What did you think was going to happen?”
Sissy wipes a tear but doesn’t respond.
Dan glances around, nervous that someone is listening in on their conversation, but thankfully the hostages are busy eating their bread, and the other terrorists are in their own clumps of conversations and paying no attention to Dan and Jane’s little corner of the restaurant.
“Honestly, Sissy. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in? Are they making you do this? Are you in trouble?” Jane whispers, and then, before giving her a chance to respond, says: “Is this because of him—because of Brick? Are you in…love with him?”
Dan blinks. Where did that come from? Sissy, in love ? Dan feels his hackles rise, heat forming in his belly. He knows Sissy gets to make these choices for herself, that he has no say-so—nor does he want any say-so—in her love life. (He can’t even think the word sex in the same context as his daughter.) But Brick is old enough to be her…well, not her dad, but her much older brother, at the very least. He’s a grown man. And Sissy’s a child!
Sissy’s expression morphs from sadness to shock to anger. “Oh my God, Mom. Gross. He’s like, thirty !”
Dan exhales.
“But he is very good-looking,” Jane continues, and Dan’s head snaps toward her. “I mean what with the accent and those eyes and the biceps—good Lord, you’d have to be blind not to…Anyway, it would be understandable—”
“Uh, hi,” Dan says, offering a little wave. “Remember me? I can hear you.”
Sissy’s nostrils flare. “Yes, because as a woman I can’t possibly have any opinions or motivations of my own, right? It all must be wrapped up in desire for a man’s attention. Sexist much, Mom?”
“OK,” Dan says, “I think we’ve gotten a little off—”
“Oy!” Brick shouts, and Dan, Jane, and Sissy freeze. He’s standing in the doorframe of the hallway, glaring at them. “What’s going on over there?”
For once, Jane keeps her mouth shut.
“Nothing,” Sissy calls over her shoulder. “This lady is saying she, uh…needs to go to the bathroom.”
“Again?”
“I have an overactive bladder,” Jane says. Dan can’t disagree with that.
The faint chop-chop-chop of a helicopter approaching from a distance fills the air and Brick grins. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand. “Take her. Just make sure you’re back for the main event. Tink,” he says, turning his attention away from their table. “Plug in the booster. I gave the police your burner number if they need to get in touch with us again.”
Tink leans over and inserts the plug into the outlet, causing the bucket of cell phones to come alive once again.
Then Brick points directly at Dan, and Dan’s heart nearly stops. “You,” he says. “And you.” He points at Rahul, the neurosurgeon. “We’re letting the chef go. How do we move him?”
Dan closes his eyes in relief and swallows. Then he opens them and takes a deep breath. “Very carefully.”