Ransom

They walked to the kitchen then to find the others. The men were playing cards at the kitchen table, and a box of sandwiches had just arrived. Without thinking, she picked one up and ate it, and then drank two glasses of milk. She didn't say a word to Ted while she did. All she could think of was what Father Wallis had said about this being a compliment from God. Somehow it sounded weird, but right, even to her. And for the first time since they'd taken him, she had the overwhelming sense that Sam was still alive.

Peter Morgan got to Lake Tahoe in the Honda only two hours after Carl and his crew arrived with Sam. When he got there, Sam was still in the canvas bag.

That's not very smart,” Peter told Malcolm Stark, who had put the bag in a back bedroom, and dumped it on the bed. “The kid's got tape over his mouth, I assume. What if he can't breathe?” Stark looked blank, and Peter was glad he'd come. Addison was right. They couldn't be trusted with the boy. Peter knew they were monsters. But only monsters would do the job.

Carl had questioned him about why he'd come to Tahoe, and Peter said that after the killing of the cops, their boss wanted him to come up.

“Was he pissed?” Carl looked concerned.

Peter hesitated before he answered. “Surprised. Killing the cops complicates things. They're going to be looking for us a lot harder than if it was just the kid.” Carl agreed. It had been rotten luck.

“I don't know how you missed the cops,” he said to Peter, still looking annoyed.

“Neither do I.” Peter kept wondering if something Addison had said in his FBI interrogation had tipped them off. Nothing else could have. He had been impeccably careful in watching Fernanda. And up until then, Waters, Stark, and Free had made no mistakes that he knew of. Once they ran into the police in Fernanda's kitchen, they had had no choice but to kill them. Even Peter agreed. But it was still shit luck. For all of them. “How's the kid?” he asked again, not wanting to seem too concerned. But Stark still hadn't gone to the back room to get him out.

“I guess someone should check,” Carl said vaguely. Jim Free was bringing the food into the kitchen, and they were all hungry. It had been a long day, and a long drive.

“I'll do it,” Peter volunteered casually, sauntered into the back room, and untied the knot in the rope tying the bag. He opened it gingerly, terrified that Sam had suffocated, and two big brown eyes met his. Peter put a finger to his lips. He wasn't sure whose side he was on anymore, the boy's mother, or theirs. Or maybe just the boy's. He pulled away most of the bag, and gently peeled the duct tape off his mouth, but left his hands and feet tied. “Are you okay?” he whispered, and Sam nodded. His face was dirty and he looked scared. But at least he was alive.

“Who are you?” Sam whispered.

“It doesn't matter,” Peter whispered back.

“Are you a cop?” Peter shook his head. “Oh.” Sam said no more, he just watched, and a few minutes later, Peter left the room and walked into the kitchen where the others were eating, and someone had put a pot of pork and beans on the stove. There was chili too.

“We'd better feed the kid,” Peter said to Waters, and he nodded. They hadn't thought of that either. Nor even water. They had just forgotten. They had bigger things on their minds than food for Sam.

“For chrissake,” Malcolm Stark complained, as Jim Free laughed, “we're not running a daycare center here. Leave him in the bag.”

“If you kill him, they won't pay us,” Peter pointed out practically, and Carl Waters laughed.

“He's got a point. His mother is probably going to want to talk to him when we call. Hell, we can afford to feed him once in a while, he's getting us a hundred million bucks. Give him lunch.” He looked at Peter when he said it, and assigned him to the job. Peter shrugged, put a slice of ham between two pieces of bread and walked it into the back room, and once there, sat down on the bed next to Sam, and held it to his mouth. But Sam shook his head.

“Come on, Sam, you've got to eat,” Peter said matter-of-factly, almost as though he knew him. After watching him for over a month, he felt as though he did. Peter spoke to him as gently as he would have to his own children, trying to get them to do something.

“How do you know my name?” Sam looked puzzled. Peter had heard his mother say it a hundred times by then.