Abducting the fool had been too easy but it’s taken days to bring him to a breaking point. Locked in a closet in his own warehouse, he was certain someone was coming for him. Jacks watched over his ward as he screamed for help, threatened and finally promised anything, everything Jacks had ever wanted, if only he’d let him out, give him food, or more than a liter of water.
“Come on now, you can be a better duck than that,” Jacks taunts, the smell of food drifting through the air into the intolerably small cell.
The full grown man waddles, his knees by his ears, and flaps his elbows, quacking like an idiot.
“Ta Gueule,” [Shut up] Jacks mutters, finally satisfied. He tosses the meager slice of pizza on the floor, watching the desperate man scamper over the floor to scoop it into his hands and eat it, despite the dirt. As the man eats, he lifts a phone that’s rested on the floor for the entirety of his imprisonment, twisting it into a hypnotic dance. “You ready yet?”
The man cowering on the ground slows his chewing as he stares at the phone. The swallow is slow, dry and pained. Yes, Jacks thinks. He’s almost there.
“It only calls one number. They’ll get you out but there are going to be an awful lot of questions. I suggest you answer them honestly.”
“The FBI,” the man fills in, well aware of their arrangement.
Jacks gives a slow dip of his head in agreement, “The FBI.”
The fear of prison once kept him from calling; then it was the fear of retribution. Now the man squatting like a starved golem is beginning to understand that they are his only way out of this hell. “Why are you doing this?”
“You messed with the wrong kid,” Jacks growls.
The prisoner swallows his saliva. He’s done. Jacks drops the phone and leaves the cell, locking it behind him. Pulling the mask from his face, he leaves the building.
The second day with no sign of Jacks brought more angst than rage. By the third day, Sophie gathered her work from the office and carried it home with her to post some kind of watch. The television black, the radio silenced and every window in her small apartment thrown open to the cool autumn day, she worked amidst an eerie silence. Her papers scattered on the floor before her and her laptop perched on her knee, she trudges through the numbers, jumping to sit rigidly straight whenever the sounds of an engine meets her ears.
A rumbling propels her to her feet. It seems to pause close by and draws Sophie down her steps but it’s not Jacks. A large diesel truck backs into the driveway, its bed laden with mulch.
“You alright, Sophie?” Jeremy asks, wandering out of the house in nothing but his long board shorts.
Noting how very much he looks like his brother, Sophie swallows and straightens out the disappointed expression. “Fine. What are you doing home?”
Jeremy shrugs, “Waiting for something to blow over.”
Sophie’s eyebrows rise with surprise. “Skipping?”
“I’ll make up the work,” Jeremy promises in a gruff voice. “How about you? Why aren’t you at work?”
Sophie lifts her chin and straightens her back at the implication. “I brought it home with me.”
“You’re waiting for Jacks,” Jeremy accuses.
Her knee-jerk reaction is to deny it, to wave off her growing obsession and ignore the rock in her chest, but the possibility that Jeremy might know something- even if it’s the heart shattering news that he left without even as much as a good-bye- propels her to ask, “Where is he, Jeremy?”
“He’ll be back,” Jeremy promises in a dark voice, his eyes moving to the road, as if he would see him rumble onto the scene at that very moment.
Nodding, Sophie turns back to her apartment. She’ll work- or pretend to work- and keep her vigil. Just as she reaches the gate, however, her phone rings. The screen announces Thomas’ name and Sophie’s chest twists with guilt.
“Hi, Thomas,” she greets, faking cheer.
“Hello, Elia,” his soft baritone croons through the phone, just as if he were one of the jazz singers that flavor the air everywhere he goes. “Tell me you’re caught up in work. Tell me you’re so screamingly busy that you can’t spare a minute to speak with me.”
Sophie leans against the gate, perplexed. “Well, okay . . . but I’m not.”
Thomas groans, sounding defeated. “I want blow this place and find you- take you to the gardens for a long walk and a picnic . . . but I’ve got this boss . . .”
Sophie laughs, the light sound tickling her chest into a lighter mood.
“It’d be a hell of a lot easier to resist the temptation if you’d tell me you were swamped, too.”
“Nope,” Sophie admits with a smile.
Thomas curses. “You’re cruel.” When Sophie doesn’t answer with anything more than her laughter, he demands something more. “Tell me where you are. Right now. Tell me and I’ll imagine myself right there, beside you.”
Sophie looks around the side yard of the Mancuso home and, playing Thomas’ game, describes exactly where she is.
“Go out with me tonight,” Thomas demands.
But Jeremy stands at the edge of the driveway, his hands jammed into his pockets, staring down the street as if Jacks would materialize at any moment. Sophie’s heart wretches uncomfortably. Thomas is a nice guy- truly sweet and doting and so considerate. He’s exactly the sort of man she should want and yet . . .
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Thomas interjects into her thoughts.
“Not tonight, please,” Sophie pleads. “Just . . . not tonight.”
The FBI office is a paradox of the bored and the busy. Amidst the bustle of people with places to go and those that line the wall in a kind of limbo, Agent Callan sits at his desk and writes an update on his investigation.
“The victim, 47-yr-old Maria Mancuso’s activities immediately prior to the incident indicated that she may have been aware of her danger. She opened a bank account in and purchased plane tickets to Argentina. She was murdered on the day she was due to leave the country, her bags packed in the truck of the abandoned car found in the airport parking lot. Security tapes confirm that the victim was abducted in the airport parking lot. The assailant was of medium build with no visibly distinguishing features to characterize said assailant as either male or female.”
The woman that sits at the edge of the room pops her gum again, prompting Callan to lift his eyes from his work- only just briefly. With focused self-discipline he returns to the report.
“Coroner’s report states that the victim was shot twice through the head at the location where the body was discovered but there was a secondary site that is currently under investigation- an apartment in the name of Elia Sophie Amando Mancuso that was unoccupied at the time of the murder. Blood was found on the living room floor and sprayed on the walls; a trail that led from said living room to the hallway and the parking garage, to a parking spot leased to same, E. Sophie Amando Mancuso. The blood on the walls and in the garage has been typed as Maria Mancuso’s blood, but the majority of the blood in the carpet was discovered to be pig’s blood. Witnesses reported seeing Marie Mancuso at the secondary site. Approximate time places her in the apartment building between the hours of 2 a.m. and 3:30 a.m. but there is no witness or evidence of E. Sophie A. Mancuso. Witnesses at Jekyll Island report that E. Sophie Amando Mercano was at the beach-side condo of a friend at the time of the murder.
“It is unclear how the two sites are related at this time,” he is typing when the phone on his desk rings.
“Agent Callan,” he mutters absently into the phone, still finishing the sentence.
The greeting he hears straightens him in his chair and- soon after that- propels him into action.
Astride the large black Harley, Jacks rumbles back into his parent’s generous front lawn. Even stilled, the large engine growls underneath him. Sucking in a long breath, Jacks rubs the stubble that’s grown over his chin and cheeks over the course of the past few days. He needs a shower. Food sounds awfully good, too.
“Is it done?” Jeremy asks, sounding cautious. He wasn’t allowed anywhere close to the activities.
Jacks simply nods, watching as Rachel silently rounds Jeremy’s body. She leans against Jeremy’s bulk, obviously comforted by the arm that covers her.
“Thank you,” Jeremy says, keeping it simple.
“You got it,” Jacks mutters as he dismounts the silenced bike, too tired by the ordeal to care much for anything cordial. He turns, as if to leave, but Rachel’s hand reaches from the sanctuary of Jeremy’s embrace and catches Jacks’ hand. She silently pulls Jacks away from the front door, towards the side of the house.
Planting his feet, Jacks looks at the quiet woman-child, perplexed.
"You should see this,” Rachel quietly insists.
Jeremy nods, “Yeah, you probably should.”
Jacks follows, albeit reluctantly, but Rachel won’t let him keep the meandering pace through the gate. She pulls, eager for Jacks to cross the threshold onto the pool deck just as Sophie leans out her door to look towards the gate. Jacks instinctively steps back, out of sight, his eyes flickering to Jeremy in question.
“Every time a diesel or truck or anything loud enough comes by,” Rachel begins then nods towards the direction of the apartment balcony, letting the action complete the sentence for her.
“She’s asked about you,” Jeremy adds. “Some guy- Thomas Keaton- he’s been calling . . .”
“A lot,” Rachel stresses, though her voice stays quiet.
Jeremy doesn’t even miss a beat. “And she’s trying to play it cool but, yeah . . .”
“She’s missed you,” Rachel finishes for him.
Jacks looks between the young couple. Rubbing his tongue along his teeth, he straightens and announces. “You do know that’s a bit freaky, don’t you?”
The couple share a look then turn back to Jacks, shrugging in unison.
Cheryl sets the table with precision, proud of the everyday elegance she infuses into her family’s life. Cloth napkins and crystal elevate even a weeknight dinner into something special- as it should be.
“Home, Cheryl!” James calls from the foyer.
Cheryl turns in the direction of his voice, her smile in her greeting. “Welcome home! I’m loving these new hours!”
James materializes in the dining room with a wicked grin and sidles up behind his petite wife, wrapping her in his arms. “You’re my favorite person.”
Cheryl giggles, slapping at his hands. “What do you want?”
“But I’m afraid this won’t last, dear,” he whispers regretfully against her hair. “I’m going to be gone a lot with the campaign.”
Cheryl deflates a little but reminds herself that she’d known that.
“Of course, they’re going to want to see you, too . . . for a lot of it,” James cajoles, pacifying her with tiny kisses. “If you’ll come.”
Cheryl looks up and over her shoulder into her husband’s glittering pale eyes with a grin of her own. “Of course I’ll come. Someone has to beat back the horny interns.”
Softly laughing together, the long-married couple greet one another- a soft touch of lips.
“Whoa! The parents have got to get a room!” Jeremy calls, blocking the sight from his eyes. Beside him, Rachel giggles.
James laughs and releases his wife to pull the tie loose from his neck. “Football practice over already?” He asks as Cheryl slips by him to grab a large platter of meat and gravy spread over wide egg noodles.
Jeremy shrugs. “I missed school today. No school, no practice. Coach’s rules.”
Cheryl is careful to position the platter before speaking her mind. “Jeremy, it’s been three days. Now your father and I trust your judgment, but I’m not comfortable with you missing . . .”
A soft sound carries through the pipes and James lifts his head with recognition. “Jacks’ back?”
Jeremy meets his father’s knowing gaze and gives a solemn nod.
“Well,” James announces, as if the word itself conveyed anything important. “Well! Good! Then . . .”
“I’m going back to school tomorrow, Mom,” Jeremy promises. “You don’t have to worry.”
Cheryl nods, satisfied, and retreats to the kitchen to gather the rolls from the oven. As soon as she’s out of earshot, James throws an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders and, leading him away from the dining room and Rachel, asks in a husky whisper, “Anyone else try to contact you?”
Jeremy frowns and shakes his head. “But they all know who you are. They expect me to take up the Family business.”
“I made some phone calls. Told them the Capo was taking too many risks- putting the operation in danger. That ought to let off some of the pressure.”
Jeremy sighs but stiffens when he catches sight of Rachel, busy helping her mother lay out their dinner. “I’m not letting anyone hurt Rachel, dad.”
“Course not,” his father grunts. “No real man would, but tread carefully, son. The family doesn’t take kindly to anyone backing out. It’s just bad business.”
“I can handle it,” Jeremy promises just as Cheryl calls, “Come over here! You boys are whispering like a couple of schoolgirls.”
James straightens, giving his son a reassuring thump or two as he returns to the dining room to tease his wife. “Schoolgirls, are we? Not athletes in a huddle. Not men with their schemes . . .” he advances on his wife, his eyes alight with play.
Cheryl abruptly shrieks just as James takes to chasing her around the dining room table. When Sophie inadvertently enters the game, Cheryl hides behind her- screeching when James’ quick hands snatch at her ticklish sides.
“Heya gang,” JJ calls from the doorway, grinning at his parents’ game.
“Van!” Sophie greets, opening her arms with an exuberant greeting.
Savannah laughs and returns the hug, her slight body feeling boney and fragile in Sophie’s gentle hands. “So, what are we making tonight, professor?”
Sophie laughs, taking Van’s hand to lead her into the kitchen. Looking over her shoulder with a devilish grin, she announces, “My famous garlic mashed potatoes.” Then, leaning a little closer to Savannah with mock conspiracy, she adds in a stage whisper, “with real cream.”
Savannah’s eyes widen. “Sophie! Really! My figure!” But Sophie dismisses Savannah’s chagrin, tossing her head back to laugh gaily. In the kitchen, Sophie begins the manual labor involved in smashing the tubers as Savannah leans against the counter. She watches Sophie for a long minute, her eyes periodically drifting the sounds of gaiety in the other room, before asking, “You do know that these weekly family dinners are a farce, don’t you? It’s just pretend- everyone acting like life is perfect.”
Sophie slows the pumping action and stares into the pulverized potatoes, “Life is never perfect, Van.” Her eyes slide to inspect Savannah’s emaciated figure from their corners. “You doing alright?”
Savannah doesn’t get an opportunity to reply. JJ and his father slip away from the dining room and, heads together, speak in low tones of ‘delicate’ business that requires the senior’s personal attention. Noticing the ladies, they steer their direction towards his office- the dining room isn’t the appropriate venue for discussions such as these- when the doorbell rings.
Each person pauses their activity and meets eyes with another, mentally taking a count; but everyone is here. No one else is expected. Briskly drying her hands on a towel, Cheryl makes for the front door. The fragile bubble of ritual and theater ruptured, everyone waits until a very nervous Cheryl reappears escorting none other than Bryce.