Hostage Zero

Jonathan believed him, though he still had no idea why. He’d come to trust his sense about people over the years-a valuable confidence when working backcountry with local tribal leaders and inner-city miscreants to accomplish tasks that would get them all killed if word leaked out.

“It’s important to me that you stay close for a while, Harvey. And I think it’s important to you to be useful.”

“Ah, so you’re a psychiatrist, too.”

“A legend in my own mind,” Jonathan said with a smile. “Think about it, okay?”

A knock at the door let him off the hook.

It was Mama Alexander, Venice’s mother, and the hand holder in chief for every child in Resurrection House. In her late sixties, with the stamina of a forty-year-old, Mama bore a striking resemblance to the actress Esther Rolle from the seventies sitcom Good Times. After Jonathan’s mother had died when he was still a little boy, Mama had stepped in as surrogate. In Fisherman’s Cove and the surrounding communities, the name Mama meant Mama Alexander.

“You wanted to see me, Jonny?” she asked. Of the 6.8 billion people who walked the earth, she was the only one who got away with calling him that.

Both men stood. “Mama Alexander, I’d like to introduce you to Harvey Rodriguez. He was instrumental in saving Jeremy’s life yesterday, and I want you to consider him to be a very special guest.”

Mama’s face lit up like a full moon. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, reaching out to embrace his offered hand with both of hers. “The Lord smiles on any man who offers what little he has to the betterment of others.”

Harvey smiled uncomfortably and shot a look to Jonathan.

“Mama is one of the Lord’s messengers,” Jonathan explained with a wink.

She gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. “You make fun, Jonny, but you know I’m right.”

“How is Jeremy doing?” Jonathan asked. He sensed Harvey’s heightened interest.

“He’s frightened,” Mama said. “And he wants to return to his friends.”

“Well, we’ve talked about that,” Jonathan said. “We need to keep his rescue a secret. At least for the time being. It’s for his own safety.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Mama said. “I’m just answering your question.”

“And I appreciate it. Now I need you to take Mr. Rodriguez upstairs, and give him one of the guest rooms on the third floor.”

He could see the concern in her eyes, but knew that she would cut off a finger before insulting a guest.

“Hopefully, he’ll be with us for quite a while,” he continued. “Of course, that decision is his.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

This time, consciousness returned with a harsh shake.

“Wake up, kid,” a voice said. Kid sounded like keed. “Nap time is over. Time to open eyes.”

Evan Guinn had been vaguely aware for some time, he thought. He knew it was impossibly hot and that he wanted to roll over into a cooler spot, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His limbs still weighed a hundred pounds apiece. So he’d just drift off again.

A harder shake this time, accompanied by a smack to the back of his head. “No more sleep. You wake now. Work to do.”

Work? Did he just say work? What kind-

Hands landed heavily on his shoulders. They grasped his arms and dragged him. For an instant, Evan was suspended in the air, and then he hit the hard ground.

“Hey!” he yelled, arms and legs scrabbling for traction. “Leave me-”

The surroundings didn’t make sense to him yet, but the reality of being lifted by his hair brought a certain focus. His attacker was a squat, beefy man not a lot taller than Evan’s five feet, four inches, but outweighing him by at least a hundred pounds. Without thinking, Evan threw a punch at the man. It was a girlie, roundhouse swing with no power behind it that wiffed.

The counterpunch, however-more an open-handed slap, really, or it would have broken something-landed full-force in Evan’s belly, a resounding whack that startled more than hurt. He tried to double over, but the grip on his hair tightened.

“Don’t be stupid,” the man growled. Stoopeed. “You make me hurt you, I hurt you. You do as I say, I be nice. Entiende? ”

Evan coughed twice and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “Okay.” He thought he recognized the language as Spanish.

“Good,” the man said. “I let go then.”

It felt like having his scalp reattached. Evan used his fingers as a comb to straighten his hair. It was wet and greasy. “Who are you?” he asked. He heard the accusatory tone in his voice and braced for another smack. It didn’t come.

Instead, the man handed him a thick stack of clothes and said something he didn’t understand. Something about “ropas.”

Evan scowled. “What?”

The man repeated himself, shoving the clothes into his chest. “Put on,” he said.

“Why?”

This time when he shoved the clothes, a finger poked him in the same spot where the slap had landed. Evan couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or not, but either way, it served as a reminder. He took them the way a linebacker takes a pass from a quarterback, a hand above and below the stack. They felt heavy.