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  “Ha. Ed always works late. But yes, this afternoon will be fine. I’m sure the Governor’s staff is very busy. I’m happy to accommodate them.”

  “I really appreciate it, ma’am. We’ll send a car to your home for you. Say, 3 P. M.?”

  “That would be perfect. Thank you.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am. And remember, it’s supposed to be a surprise, so please don’t say anything to anyone.”

  As the call ended, Erica looked at her calendar again. It was filled back to back all afternoon and tomorrow morning, too, but she’d make a few calls and free up the time. After all, one doesn’t get to dine with the Governor every day.

  * * * * *

  The ransom call came right around 3:30.

  Ed was sitting with his employees in the conference room, finishing the last of several pieces of carrot cake, when his cell phone rang. He excused himself and went into his office to take the call. Melanie followed.

  He froze, holding the phone to his head. “Oh, no.”

  A panicked, nearly hysterical recorded message from his wife played in his ear.

  “I've been taken by members of the Witch Coven cult. They say I will be ritualistically sacrificed if you don't pay a ransom of fifty thousand dollars . . .”

  The kidnappers had her read a list of demands. It was only when the recording stopped playing that Ed snapped out of it long enough to ask Melanie for a pen to write down what his distraught wife had said.

  fifty thousand dollars

  small bills

  place in a plain briefcase

  by noon tomorrow

  He stared at his writing in disbelief. They would call back on his cell phone with further details, but he wasn’t to call the police or FBI. Erica’s recording said if he did, the kidnappers would know—and they’d kill her.

  “Oh, my...” Ed hung up the phone, his heart pounding. “Out. Mel, get everyone out. My wife has been kidnapped. I have to think.”

  Melanie’s jaw dropped. “Kidnapped!”

  Ed paced frantically back and forth in his office, not certain of what to do next. “Some group, the Witch Coven cult. They’re going to call back on my phone, and they don’t want any police or FBI, so don’t say a word to the employees, but get everyone out.”

  “Witch Coven! They were in the news for torturing a hostage to death. They cut out her heart! Oh, no, Ed.” Melanie stood. “I’ll—I’ll tell the staff they can all go home early to celebrate your award. They’ll buy that.”

  “The kidnappers—these cult people—they must have heard the award broadcast on the radio!” Ed ran his hands through his hair. “What? Yes, good plan, Mel. Thanks.”

  “Okay, everybody,” Melanie said, walking out of Ed’s office. “The newest Executive of the Year says you all get the rest of the day off. Go home and celebrate with your families.”

  A cheer went up from the group, and within minutes they had almost all departed. Tina brushed the last remnants of carrot cake and paper plates off the conference room table and into the trash.

  Melanie stood at the exit, her coat and purse in her hand. “Ed . . .” She lowered her voice. “If you need anything, you call. Doesn’t matter what time.” She frowned. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much tonight.”

  “I will, Mel. Thanks.”

  She exited the office and shut the door behind her.

  Tina came out of the conference room, wiping some frosting from her hand with a paper napkin. “Everything okay, Ed? You look kind of strange.”

  “I . . . I just don’t know what to say. You won’t believe what happened. Somebody’s taken my wife hostage—the Witch Coven cult—and if I don’t give them fifty-thousand dollars in small bills by noon tomorrow, they’re going to kill her.”

  “What!” Tina shrieked. “You are absolutely the luckiest guy in the world!”

  She ran to him and embraced him in a deep, passionate kiss. “After all our sneaking around,” she said, “spending late nights here at work just to have a few hours alone with each other, we can finally be together!”

  Ed threw his head back and laughed. “I know, right? This is absolutely the best Monday ever!”

  Dark Questions

  I don’t know how long I’d been strapped to the chair. Hours, probably; maybe a day. With no windows to the outside and no lights, it was impossible to know for sure.

  I twisted and strained against the restraints. The leather cuffs cut into my wrists. My heart racing, I cursed at the door and anyone who could hear—and then dropped my head to my chest, panting and exhausted. I’d already gone from confused to worried to panicked and back down to confused again, so the sweat that wet the collar of the beige jumpsuit had now dried.

  My jaw ached from the gag. It held my mouth slightly open, like a bit on a horse’s bridle, and made it hard to swallow, but it wasn’t tight. It had been in long enough to make my teeth and jaw sore, though.

  I glanced around for the umpteenth time, my cheeks growing hot as I strained against the straps, yelling again. “Help me! Get me out of here!”

  It was a garbled cry using semi intelligible words, but Help me was pretty discernible. If someone spoke English and was within earshot, they knew what was being shouted. My cries bounced off the cold concrete and came right back to me—and me alone.

  No one came, and from what I could tell, no one heard.

  I let my head drop back against the headrest, huffing like a runner at the end of a race. Tears welled in my eyes once more.

  “Please, let me out.”

  I scanned the concrete walls for the millionth time.

  What is this place?

  My rear ached from the hard metal seat. It had gone from uncomfortable to actually stinging. I had been in the chair at least a few hours.

  Hours of staring at the big gray steel door.

  I swallowed hard, my pulse racing again.

  What have you gotten yourself into, Harper?

  A beer or two at my place, then a stop by Tito’s? Did I try to skip out without paying?

  Was I that wasted?

  I breathed hard. My thoughts wouldn’t sort themselves out.

  I know I left work . . .

  The room was a cold, empty concrete bunker, like a garage in a vacant house, about twenty feet long and ten or twelve feet wide. The ceiling was about twenty feet high, and light seeped in up there somewhere, I couldn’t tell if there were windows up there, or vents, or what. I could twist my head around enough to see almost all of it—not that there was much to see. The leather straps on my arms and legs kept me bound to the metal chair, and straps around my neck and waist kept me from moving around too much, but I could see what there was to see—which wasn’t anything, really. Me, the chair, the walls, and the door.

  It’s some kind of prison.

  But what was I locked up for? Last thing I remember, I was on my way to hit some clubs with Josh and Remy, and . . . did I stop by Tito’s and buy some X for the night? I remembered leaving work. Tomorrow I was supposed to pick up Haylie at the airport. In between, I was supposed to hit some clubs with Josh and Remy and sow a few wild oats like any other normal twenty-five-year-old.

  I glanced at the arm restraints. I’d heard some wild stories about Tito’s bill collection methods. How much product did I sample to earn this?

  I leaned back in the chair and sighed, trying not to drool on myself. I pressed on the foot panel to lift my butt and ease the soreness for a few seconds.

  Maybe it’s morning. The people in this place had been asleep, and they would soon start their day. Then I’d figure out what was going on.

  Some mistake has been made, though. I know that. Whatever I did, I didn’t do anything to earn this. Tito has gone mad.

  Faint noises came from somewhere, but it was impossible to tell where; probably from the vents. I caught patches of mechanical stuff, like heater pipes turning on, and metal-on-metal sounds like a folding chair being set up, but who knows what that really was.

 
I bet it’s morning. It seemed colder before, and now it isn’t as cold. That, or I’m getting used to the temperature.

  That would explain the furnace pipe noises, too. Maybe it meant a guard or custodian or whoever would be coming in and admitting their mistake, letting me loose and asking me not to sue.

  Fat chance of that happening if I stole from Tito, though.

  I gritted my teeth and stomped the foot panel.

  Did I?

  A shadow passed by the gap at the base of the door. My heart jumped. There were whispers, possibly in English, but I couldn’t tell. Men, probably, but that wasn’t certain to me, either. There was just a kind of . . . cadence to their whispers, which made me think they were men.

  Another shadow passed by the door.

  More whispers, then shoe leather on concrete, clip clop, walking away.

  I moaned as best I could, crying out in my unintelligible garble for help, but it sounded like a wounded animal. At normal tones, my mouth could form most of the words with some degree of normalcy. When I yelled, it couldn’t. Louder might carry further, and express my desperation, but it wasn’t as understandable.

  A metal squeak reached my ears. Wheels, turning on a cart? I held my breath. It grew louder and louder, coming closer, eking along at a slow, rhythmic pace. A cart of some sort, being pushed by someone in no hurry.

  The wheels stopped, then came the grating metallic sound of a steel latch being slid back.

  It wasn’t loud enough to be my door, but I stared at the gray rectangle anyway, waiting for any sound, any clue, of what this place was.

  I leaned closer—as close as the collar would let me—and strained to hear.

  Nothing.

  My heart thumped in my ears. Surely they wheeled a cart out there for some reason, and—

  The squeak started again, getting quieter, then a loud slam of a steel door.

  It’s a hospital, maybe. An asylum.

  I tugged on the leather straps.

  That would explain the restraints. Maybe the beige jumpsuit, too. I’d gone clubbing and drank a spiked cocktail and had gone berserk, trashed the club and gotten locked up. When I recovered, I’d pay a fine and go home.

  Better than thinking I was in an eastern European gulag with neo-Nazi fascists working on their new torture cha—

  A man’s scream pierced the air.

  My heart jumped to my throat, pounding like a jackhammer.

  Scream after scream filled the cell, growing louder and louder, and more and more strained. I breathed hard, my mind racing. The agonizing screams made me wince, but they kept getting louder. Torture? It had to be torture, right?

  A shudder went through me. The man screamed again.

  It’s not torture. It’s—he’s crazy. This is a mental institution and he’s losing it. They’ll drug him and everything will be—

  The man’s screams stopped, and his whimpering began.

  Sweat formed on my palms. I pressed them into the armrests.

  Yeah, that’s it. He’s crazy and they gave him a shot of relaxer. That’s all it is. That’s all it is.

  “No, please!” The man screamed. “Please, stop!”

  I clenched my hands into fists, rocking back and forth in the chair.

  It’s a psycho ward and he’s losing it, that’s all. That’s all it is. That’s all it is.

  He screamed again, in the pained howling of a wounded animal.

  I cringed, an involuntary moan escaping my lips. I squeezed my eyes shut. “It’s just a crazy guy losing it. That’s all it is. That’s all it is.”

  The man’s whimpers turned to sobs. The cold gray vents above made sure every sickly sound was delivered right into my head as I sat strapped in my chair. I gasped wildly, shaking my head to force my ears not to hear his begging.

  “Please stop. Please . . .”

  The room fell quiet. I took a shallow breath, my gut in knots, waiting to hear them give the man some sort of relief. The drugs had worked, right? They sedated him. He would be okay, wouldn’t—

  “No! No! Please, won’t somebody help me! Please!”

  I choked on the bit, tears welling in my eyes. They were killing him, I was certain of it. Whatever he did, he was paying dearly for it.

  “Please stop! No more! No more!”

  Then, more screams.

  “He’s—it’s an asylum. They have to do it.” Tears rolled down my cheeks, drool falling onto my chest. I didn’t want to hear any more. I wanted it to be over.

  The man screamed again, the loudest this time, a noise from hell and beyond, blasting through the ceiling vents and grabbing my brain. His awful, pained howling grew to a high-pitched squeal, his vocal cords straining and rasping, his tortured pleas blurring into a cymbal crash of agonized howling like nothing I’d ever heard before.

  Then it was silent.

  I sat there, wet and gasping, my chest heaving. Sweat ran down my cheeks and dripped from the tip of my nose.

  What was this place?

  No sounds came from the vents. No screams, no begging. It was as if the TV had been turned up too loud and then the movie was turned off—but no actor had ever delivered a sound like that.

  I sat there, my insides in knots, all empty and scared and alone.

  Muffled footsteps came from outside, and the squeaky wheel started its rotation again.

  They’re done with him.

  I couldn’t stop myself from thinking the worst.

  They killed him.

  Harper Donnelly, what have you gotten yourself into?

  The squeaky wheel grew louder, and the shadows appeared under the gap at my door—then the squeak stopped.

  I swallowed hard and held my breath, hoping the wheel would start again and go somewhere else.

  A shadow moved to one side, and the low, grating sound of the metal latch was too loud to be anywhere else but on the other side of my door.

  My heart racing, I stared at the door, silently praying for it to not open. The room grew warmer. A drop of sweat trickled over the back of my neck and down my spine. I shuddered uncontrollably, staring at the big gray door, willing it with all my might to stay shut. Straining against the leather straps, I pleaded.

  Don’t open. Don’t open. Don’t open.

  The shadows moved again. The men whispered.

  Then, with a clunk, the latch slid back and the door cracked open.

  I pressed myself into the back of the chair, terrified to see what might come through that door.

  It inched outward, swaying for a moment, then swung out wide. The hallway beyond was dark, like the lights had been turned out, but there stood a metal cart with a stainless-steel handle. The light from my cell illuminated it, all alone in the doorway, as if it had simply appeared there. The men who had been whispering were nowhere to be seen.

  A cool gust swept through the room, carrying with it the faint odor of mildew.

  A folded, white cloth covered the top of the cart I craned my neck to see more, but that’s all there was. The cart, the cloth, and the darkness beyond.

  A hooded figure stepped behind the cart, his long robe black as night and covering his face from me. He pushed the cart into the room and the door shut behind him. The grinding scrape of the heavy latch followed, echoing off the concrete walls of the cell.

  “Hey,” I said. “Whoever you are—you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  My words were barely discernible through the bit gagging me. The man wheeled the cart toward me, stopping by my side and reaching behind my head. With a quick tug, the bit was unbuckled and fell away, leaving a wet path of drool on the front of my jumpsuit.

  My cheek muscles ached. I stretched my jaw a few times and looked at the hooded man. “Why am I here? Where am I?”

  No answer.

  “You have the wrong guy! I promise!”

  With one hand, he carefully unfolded the cloth—the top layer laid to the right, then the second layer laid to the left—slowly and methodically, taking his time to reveal w
hat lay beneath. A long row of tools came into view on the surface of the white fabric. A rusty pair of pliers, some scissors, and what looked like an antique version of the dental picks a hygienist might use. The next row held several shiny fillet knives, a small, curved bush pruner, tweezers, matches, and a bottle of alcohol.

  He picked up the rusty pliers.

  My heart raced. I strained against the straps. “You’ve got the wrong guy! There—there’s been some kind of mistake!”

  Holding the pliers in front of the hood, he leaned close and rotated them in front of my eyes. “Harper Donnelly?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “Nope. No mistake.”

  He walked behind me and grabbed my right hand from behind. A jolt of fear exploded in my gut, but the restraints kept me from doing anything.

  The hooded figure lowered the pliers to my hand, whispering. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”

  His voice was calm and even, not a hint of anger or remorse.

  I shuddered, my eyes glued to the pliers. “What? What do you want to know?”

  The pliers opened, bits of rust falling from the teeth. He slapped his wrinkled gray hand over mine, forcing my little finger outward as he eased the teeth of the pliers onto my fingernail.

  “Wait!” I gasped. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you—”

  He jerked the pliers away, taking my fingernail with it. Searing pain shot through my finger and up my arm as I screamed. Blood gathered and dripped from the tip of my finger, tears welling in my eyes. I clutched the armrests and gritted my teeth, but I could not stop the high-pitched groaning.

  He set the pliers on the tray, my bloody nail still clenched in the rusty metal teeth, and turned to me. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”

  “Yes! Yes!” I spat the words out through the pain. “What do you want to know?”

  The hooded man shook his head, picking up the fillet knife. His hand reached out lightning fast and grabbed my ear, the knife flashing past my face. My head pulled hard to the side, and a flash of hot pain seared the side of my head.

  He tossed the severed earlobe into my lap.