She sighed, not wishing to succumb to paranoia. What did these people want? If they asked, should she admit to not being Kristin Stewart?
Jen began to circle the room, turning the ten-by-ten square into her private exercise yard. On the third lap she heard voices outside. This was a first, aside from a few murmurings before and after her meals were delivered.
The door lock rattled and a man came in. He was medium height with thick black hair, a wispy beard and mustache. A twenty-something Che Guevara. The door closed behind him. She heard the bolt engage.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jen was relieved to finally see another person. Less so when she imagined why he might be here.
“Good morning, Jennifer.”
“My name isn’t Jen—”
“Please, please,” said the man, waving his hand as if shooing away one of the room’s tenant flies. “We have known since you arrived who you are. However, it does cause me to wonder — why did you claim to be Miss Stewart?”
Having anticipated this question for days, Jen gave the only answer she’d come up with that would not implicate Kristin. “I don’t know.”
The man looked at her with marked disappointment.
Jen countered with outrage. “Why the hell are you holding me prisoner?”
“Strong language is unattractive in young girls. Didn’t your father teach you that?”
Che, or whoever he was, spoke with a light accent. Jen took him for a Colombian who’d spent considerable time in an English-speaking country. He seemed educated and chose his words with precision. “Is Kristin all right?” she asked, battling yet another wave of nausea.
“Miss Stewart is fine. You, on the other hand, appear to be suffering.” He nearly said something more, but hesitated.
“What?”
He cocked his head to one side, as if making a decision. “I suppose it won’t hurt to say it. As uncomfortable as your circumstances are, you’re far better off than those who remained on the airplane.”
“What do you mean?”
“Soon after you and Kristin were removed, the airplane took off again. That second journey ended tragically.”
“Tragically? You mean… it crashed?”
“Yes. So you see how fortunate you are.”
Her nausea redoubled, and Jen crawled to the bucket just in time. She coughed up bile and the meager contents of her stomach. When the waves passed she kneeled upright, and with spittle on her chin she looked him in the eye, trying to show strength. Jen opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“No — I am not here to answer your questions, Jennifer. I am here to ask one. Very soon I will send a message, one that could lead to your freedom.”
Jen felt suddenly dizzy, but tried to maintain focus. She wanted desperately to understand what was happening.
“What I need from you is a small bit of information, something that is known only to you and your father. It will serve to prove—”
“Prove that you’re holding me hostage?”
Che grinned a disconcerting grin. “You’re a smart girl. That is good for both of us. We must convince your father that you are here and safe.”
Jen shut her eyes and tried to think. Part of her wanted to push back, to deny anything this man asked for. Had the airplane really crashed? Or was he only trying to manipulate her? If it was true — God, what her father must be going through. Then she extended that thought. Air crashes were his specialty. If the jet had gone down, would he find a way to get involved? Could he be in Colombia searching for her at this moment?
Absolutely.
The man shifted his stance impatiently.
Jen was buoyed by the idea that her father might be near. She tried to think of something clever, a coded message to tell him where she was. It was hopeless, of course, because she herself had no idea. There seemed but one option — do as her captor was asking, and prove to her father that she was alive.
“Two weeks ago he took me out to dinner at a nice restaurant, Reynaud’s. He slipped me a glass of wine and told me how proud he was of me for taking this trip. Proud that I was coming here to help people. He said it was the kind of thing my mother would have done.”
A pleased Che said, “Yes, that is good. Very good.”
“So what are you going to do — ask for a ransom? My Dad doesn’t have a lot of money.”
The Colombian nearly said something, but then he checked his response and moved toward the door. With one last glance, he disappeared. The door closed and Jen heard the bolt slide home. She was alone once more.
She got to her feet and used a toe to push the stinking bucket to the far side of the room. Returning to the mattress, she laid down feeling tired and defeated. Her mood turned bleak, and she curled up on her side as a new worry arose — a thought more ominous than all of her other imaginings combined.
For the first time since arriving, she had seen someone’s face. It brought back words from her hostage lecture of last winter. “Only two kinds of kidnappers will show their face — amateurs, and those who know their victims will never live to talk.”
Sorensen drove through the night, and one large café Americano after sunrise she arrived on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. She was driving her brother-in-law’s car, a midsize Acura with a GPS system, and by half past eight she was nearing her destination. If last night’s search for Kristin Stewart had drawn blanks, locating her mother had been far easier.
Jean Stewart lived in a neighborhood called Eagle Preserve Estates on the north side of town. Sorensen didn’t see any eagles, and nothing that looked like a preserve, but at the entrance there was an impressive wrought-iron gate attached to an unmanned guardhouse. She arrived right behind a school bus, and as soon as ten elementary-aged children filed on board, she piggybacked with a train of SUVs and crossovers to enter a well-managed community. With the sun barely above the horizon, landscaping crews were already hard at work on common areas, keeping lawns and shrubs in tight command. The houses were new and large, although not over the top. It was a comfortable place: safe, tidy, and indistinguishable from a dozen other developments she’d passed on the way here. She followed the car’s GPS to the back of the neighborhood, and approached 1726 Saddleback Court with a measure of caution.
Kristin Stewart, for reasons Sorensen did not understand, had been issued Secret Service protection. There was no way of knowing if that protection extended to her mother, Jean, or anyone else who lived at this address. Sorensen saw no cars in the driveway, nor any drab sedans slotted carefully along the street or loitering in the nearby cul-de-sac. Just to be sure, she drove past the house, around a curve, and performed a three-point turn in the first driveway. Approaching from the opposite direction, she still saw nothing to raise concern.
Sorensen parked the Acura along the street in front of her targeted address, pointed toward the subdivision’s only entrance. And only exit. She saw a light in a bay window, bright under the slow-waking skies, and another in what had to be a bedroom on the second floor. The home was loosely Colonial, four or five bedrooms, probably one and a half fewer baths. Sorensen hadn’t had time to research whether Jean Stewart lived alone. She’d seen no mention of a Mr. Stewart, or any other children. All the same, it seemed a big place for a single mom who’d recently sent her only child off to college, so Sorensen reasoned there might be someone else.