Chapter 13
GRANT
I find an old Leatherman in the Yukon’s glove box and snip the zip ties off Liz’s wrists.
Then we drive out of the quarry the same way I came in, up the hill and past the wall of boulders where I last saw Holston taking cover.
The rocks are bare, like they’ve grown a mouth and swallowed him. Gunn is gone, too, nowhere to be seen.
Because they played you.
The thought is a firebrand pressed deep into the meat of my brain.
But if they played me, why would they have left me with a car full of their fingerprints and DNA?
Surely they know I’ll take this thing to the cops.
It doesn’t add up. But nothing’s added up since Avery was abducted this morning, so why should this?
A dull pounding comes from the base of my skull as I descend the road and ease back toward the quarry gate. I can’t think, my thoughts congealing into a slippery bowl of spaghetti.
Did they really play me? Really? Why would Gunn do that? Why would Holston?
For the same reason as the men in the van—they wanted the money.
Which I gave them.
So where is my wife? Where is Avery?
It’s the only question that matters because Avery is the only thing that matters.
Losing every penny I have to these men, whoever they are, stings.
But I can recover. I can start over. What I can’t replace is Avery.
If I lose her—if I lose my child—I lose everything.
Her face burns to life behind my eyes, her words whispering into my ear. I love you …
“Who’s that?” Liz asks, pointing up the road.
“I’m not sure,” I say, squinting at the silver sedan idling beyond the gate.
Alarm bells clang in my head and I bring the Yukon to a stop.
The sedan is an older car much like the van, scuffed and dented in spots.
But unlike the van, it doesn’t contain any masked men.
Instead, there’s a guy wearing a polo standing next to it, holding a yellow manila envelope.
He gives us a lazy wave, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on.
Like hanging out at the quarry to greet us after what just happened is the most normal thing in the world.
There’s no hint of threat in his posture, no menace, only boredom.
That’s what strikes me the most. The guy looks bored.
“I don’t think we should go any closer,” Liz says, her eyes wide. “What if he’s dangerous?”
“He doesn’t look dangerous,” I say. “And we don’t have a choice. You need to see a doctor and we both need to talk to the cops.”
The real cops, I think angrily as I put the Yukon in gear and pull forward.
“Please don’t get out,” Liz says worriedly as I park near the gate.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “Just wait here.” And then I’m out of the car and striding toward the man, devouring the distance between us in ten quick steps.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“Are you Grant Wilson?”
The way my name rolls off his lips—his tone light and conversational—like he has no idea who I am or what I’ve been through today gives me pause. My anger ebbs. “Yeah. Why?”
“I have an envelope for you. Sign here, please.”
He raises his hand and presents his phone. I study the screen. There’s a company name printed next to a logo of a cartoon man running at a dead sprint wearing a red winged hat: QuickCourier. Beneath the words is a blank signature line.
“I don’t understand,” I say, confused.
“Look, man, I have a lot of deliveries to get to, so if you could just sign, I’ll be on my way.”
Instead of grabbing the phone, I take the envelope.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” he says. “You have to sign first.”
But I’m already tearing the package open and reaching inside.
When my hand comes out again, it’s with a stack of photos.
I stare at the first one and the world washes away.
It’s a picture of Avery bound to a chair.
A length of rope is lashed around her chest, and there are two more tied around her wrists.
She’s naked except for her underwear. Streaks of grime trail across her collarbone and cover her breasts.
And her face—dear god—is completely battered.
Her eyes have been blackened. A dark band of purple runs over the bridge of her nose.
The right side of her mouth is so swollen it’s pulling her lips into a Joker-like sneer.
They beat her, I think, numbly. They beat my wife.
I flip to the next picture. This one is an overhead shot of a pair of grease-lined knuckles yanking Avery’s face up toward the camera by the hair. Her eyelids hang at half-mast, revealing only the whites of her eyes. A gag winds around her jaw, looking tight enough to cut off her airway.
My stomach knots. I’m going to be sick. I can barely bring myself to shuffle to the next picture.
It’s another shot of Avery sitting in the chair, but with her head slumped forward this time, her chin planted on her chest. The crown of her head glows through her matted red hair, and for a sliver of a second, I wonder if the photo is fake, a picture of another stand-in actor like Liz.
That’s when I spot the birthmark. It’s stamped on her abdomen, hovering right above her waist. The same pale-pink shape I’ve orbited with the tip of my finger a hundred times. A thousand. Not only that, but I recognize the spattering of freckles around it. This is Avery. I have no doubt.
The pictures slip from my hand, and I stride toward the man. He says something, but I don’t hear the words as I bunch my fingers into his polo and slam him hard against the car.
“Where is she?” I snarl. “Where?”
He sputters and chokes. Sputters again.
“Tell me! Where’s my wife?”
A palm brushes my back. “Hey,” Liz says. “Hey! Stop! Let him go!”
I loosen my grip, but only a little, just enough so he can speak.
“Shit, man, I don’t—” The guy grabs my wrists and tries to push me back, but I only lean into him harder in response. “I don’t know!” he finishes.
Liz grabs my arm. “Stop it! You’re going to kill him!”
“Goddammit!” I say, releasing him.
Liz stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, her eyes bulging.
“Fucking psycho!” the guy says. I turn back to him. He’s slithered away, is now standing on the other side of the car, trying to catch his breath. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Who sent you?” I ask. I don’t care that I’ve frightened this guy. I need answers, need to make sense of what’s happening and find out why this guy has all these awful pictures of my wife.
He smooths his shirt, which doesn’t do much to improve his frazzled appearance, not with his collar now ripped to mid chest. “No one. I was just trying to deliver a package.”
“Yeah, I get that. But why?” I ask. “Why way out here?”
His face transforms into a shotgun splatter of confusion.
“Hey, I go where I’m told. And my boss said to be at the quarry at three o’clock.
That some guy named Grant Wilson would meet me here.
So that’s what I did.” He runs a hand through his hair, trying and failing to work it back into place.
“Fucking sure wish I hadn’t now, though. Christ.”
I gawk at him. My brain feels like an egg yolk cracked into a frying pan. For a brief second, I’d thought this nightmare was over. But now I can’t shake the feeling it’s just getting started.
“Who’s your boss? Give me his address right now.”
His brow wrinkles. “You want to talk to Frank? He won’t know shit, either. He said this package came in via—”
“Oh my god,” Liz breathes behind me. When I look her way, she has a fist pressed to her mouth, holding the pictures I dropped. “Is this your wife?”
“Yes,” I say. It feels like someone else is saying it, like I’m no longer the one speaking.
Liz’s forehead bunches and a crease forms between her eyes. “What’s this?”
I edge closer to see what she’s looking at. It’s a note printed on a piece of white paper in generic Times New Roman font. I snatch it from her and devour the words at light speed.
HELLO, GRANT.
YOUR WIFE IS STILL ALIVE.
TO SAVE HER YOU MUST PLAY A GAME.
THE RULES ARE THE SAME:
IF YOU CONTACT THE POLICE, SHE DIES.
IF YOU TELL ANYONE, SHE DIES.
IF YOU DISOBEY US, SHE DIES.
RETURN HOME. YOU HAVE NINETY MINUTES, STARTING NOW.
WE’RE WATCHING YOU.
I look up with my jaw hanging. Both Liz and the courier are watching me closely, waiting for me to say something.
To do something. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m too busy calculating the distance between Ouray and Durango.
It’s seventy miles of twisting roads and hairpin turns.
Seventy miles of white-knuckle driving that doesn’t lend itself to speed.
It takes two hours on the best of days to make the trip, and that’s without starting at a rock quarry several miles off the highway.
“What time is it?” I ask the guy.
He scans his watch. “Almost three.”
Fuck. I need to be home by four-thirty. I’ll be lucky to make it by five.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Where?” Liz asks. Her voice sounds distant, like she’s shouting at me from the bottom of a well.
“Home.”
“Wait,” she says. “What about me?”
I nod at the courier. “Go with him. He can get you help.”
The man opens his mouth to tell me no, hell no, but I cut him off before he can say a word. “Look, I’m sorry for what I did earlier, but there are extenuating circumstances here. This woman was just assaulted.”
He raises a single eyebrow. “You mean like you assaulted me?”
“Please.” Liz turns toward him with more than a hint of desperation in her voice. I can already hear the tears forming.
He releases an exaggerated breath and rubs his forehead. “I mean, sure, yeah, why not. I’ll probably get fired for this, but if it helps you two …”
I step closer. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to make a call. It’s an emergency.”
He massages his brow and shakes his head. “Dude, you’re killing me.” But he reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone anyway.
I grab it and start for the Yukon.
“Hey, wait!” he says. “You said borrow, not take.”
Which is true—but I’m already gone.