Page 9

My planon locating and making use of a public library hinged on being close enough to civilization where libraries existed. Deep in the country, the nearest library could be an hour or farther away—by car. The presence of woods surrounding the home I’d been held captive in could pose a problem, if the woods weren’t the specially planted tracks of nature owned by the wealthy trying to preserve their privacy.

It could go either way.

Once confident I hadn’t drawn attention leaving, I shuffled from tree to tree, keeping out of sight of the property as much as possible.

My luck held. I walked far enough my right foot complained over the unaccustomed exercise when the faint blare of a car’s horn promised something was ahead. I followed the sound, and the gradual noise of busy streets welcomed me to somewhere far from home.

Home lacked cacti, palm trees, and redwoods, and whomever owned the woods near the house had cultivated a lie, one reminiscent of the east coast. After a brief walk along a trail, I discovered the cars came from a road skirting the ocean, and judging from the surfers, the long stretches of sand, and mixed lot of license plates, most of them from California, I’d been dumped in paradise, not far from where I’d spent months recovering from the accident.

My heart skipped several beats before settling into a galloping pace in my chest, and I forced myself to focus on my breathing and stare at my right foot, which had survived its second visit to California. Wiggling my toes and showing off my foot, in a proper shoe rather than a boot or a cast, helped to convince my struggling brain and rogue emotions I hadn’t been grabbed by a vengeful doctor pissed off I’d surpassed expectations.

According to Dr. Geran Avers, I had been a complete waste of time and money, and he had zero reason to hold me hostage in some nice house near the coast and fix my foot free of charge. While I’d lost more than a few of my memories, the one of Bradley advocating for my on-going survival and recovery remained.

Vengeful doctors would not help my foot.

When I could take deep breaths without feeling like my heart would burst out of my chest, I decided to join the beach goers enjoying the sun, the sand, and the waves. To remove one of my more distinctive features, I took off my glasses and pretended I could see without them, stuffing them into my shirt with only one of the arms sticking out.

I suspected I would need new glasses anyway, a reality that freaked me out almost as badly as the idea I’d once again lost months of my life to something outside of my control.

To keep my anxiety from making a reappearance, I focused my thoughts on those around me, listening to the murmur of conversation, the squeals of children playing in the surf, and laughter of family and friends enjoying their time together.

Most wore jeans to combat the slight chill in the air, only the brave few went into the water to attempt to surf, and most lounged on the sand on towels and blankets to soak up the sun.

The waves suitable for surfing came few and far between, although the patient were rewarded for their wait.

Rather than soak up the sun, I prowled the area in search of direction, hoping I’d stumbled across one of the many state beaches littering California. The state beaches might have a map of the local area. A map would offer me a better clue than California license plates. Upon closer investigation, I learned I had found a public beach, which offered bathrooms, showers, and general facilities to beachgoers. I had no idea who paid for it, as parking was free in the main lot.

Then, because I could have good fortune, a sign directed residents to the local library, which was a hop, skip, and a jump from the ocean. According to the sign, I would have to go around a single block to reach it, using the local post office as a landmark.

As I had no idea what time a small library near a beach might close at, I headed there first to get a better feel for how much trouble I’d landed in. Luck once again favored me, as the library was closed three days of the week, but it was open. I stepped inside, where the librarian, who wasn’t at her desk but prowling around the small place, greeted me with a smile and asked if I needed anything. I shook my head, mumbled a thanks, and wandered around to get a feel for the place, spotting several public computers scattered around the main room, most of them available for use. I picked one with a window view of the street, delighting in the presence of people going about their business.

Fortunately for me, I could use a computer without my glasses on, although I needed to bump the font size up to account for the damage to my vision. I began with checking the date, to discover I had been held captive for almost nine months. The shock of the passage of time froze me in place, my gaze locked on the innocent enough month.

Late January in California reminded me more of spring in New York, before the heat and humidity sank in its brutal claws. I hadn’t put much thought into what people in California did during the winter. Had I not checked the calendar two extra times to make certain I wasn’t hallucinating, I would have believed it to be March, maybe early April.

Losing time in the hospital had been one thing, easy enough to accept and adapt to when I could focus on proving my doctors wrong and refusing to quit on my foot or myself. I’d quit on Bradley, something creeping its way to becoming a major regret in my life.

Losing almost nine months, trapped in a room with nothing but books for company, would haunt me. What could I have done in nine months? How much had I missed?

What the hell had happened?

I began my search on the internet, and as my life had been put on hold at the point some devilishly cute goats had gotten loose, I started investigating New York goats. To my dismay, the goats and my subsequent kidnapping had made the headlines due to a murder attempt I couldn’t remember. Somehow, Senator Westonhaus had emerged unscathed, and I had been the reason why.

While the library was a small branch, they’d gotten digital news subscriptions for most major newspapers, and the first article gave me a rundown of what had happened.

It had begun with a bunch of goats, and it had ended with a street bombing, a failed shooting, some gas-based sedative, and a small radius hand grenade, the kind meant to deter crowds rather than kill. The grenade had mildly injured five people and three goats with no loss of life. In the resulting chaos, I’d disappeared along with Senator Westonhaus.

I couldn’t figure out why the would-be killer hadn’t taken a second shot to kill Senator Westonhaus, but someone had captured my act of heroism on video. Despite having a crippled foot, I’d seen something, something that had sent me barreling into the senator. According to the video, I’d been shot again, although in the arm. When I checked the spot, somewhere I didn’t usually look at, sure enough, I found a thin, pale line marking where I’d taken a round.

The senator, unlike me, had been rescued by the FBI some eight hours later.

I regarded the scar with a frown, wondering how long I’d spent sedated following my intervention with the senator’s murder. Then again, the new intel did a lot to help me cope with my long-term captivity.

I hadn’t been able to save Senator Maybelle, but I had made a difference. One man lived because of something I’d noticed—of something I’d done because I’d noticed something amiss. I’d have to weigh the cost of consequence later, sometime after I found my way home and got a better idea of what had happened and why.

To add to my problems, at the same time of the bombing and in an entirely different city, the serial killers had struck again, murdering Representative Islanney in front of his Washington D.C. residence, witnessed by at least five people. Islanney’s murder confirmed what most had come to believe: I couldn’t have saved Senator Westonhaus in a different state and kill someone at the same time, thus permanently removing me from the list of suspects.

The pictures the media provided showed me with my glasses, a hell of a lot less gaunt, and using my medical boot and cane. Even if someone spotted me with the same gaudy glasses on, I doubted anyone would recognize me, even my own mother. Nine months without a haircut hadn’t done me any favors, either.

According to the article, I’d been marked missing but presumed dead. A short time after the declaration I was likely dead, Senator Westonhaus had opted to announce his last-minute candidacy for President of the United States. The date put his announcement during the first week of November, at the very last minute candidates could announce their run. He had even gone so far as to martyr his fellow bill signers, using their deaths—and my disappearance—as fuel for his campaign fire.

I scowled, as my actions at Senator Maybelle’s ill-fated rally were included, supporting Westonhaus’s platform, which involved a complete overhaul of the current rating system, further paving the way for the bill he’d helped bring to life.

My disappearance and presumed death bore some fruit; part of Westonhaus’s platform involved a donation drive to send exsanguinators to medical school, his campaign paying for the entirety of their education. Curiosity got the better of me, and I clicked the article’s link to the application for exsanguinators to see what sort of criteria he thought was needed for people like me to be useful in hospitals and medical care. Apparently, any confirmed exsanguinator with a demonstrable ability to manipulate blood could apply.

As nobody discovered they were an exsanguinator without blood being manipulated in some fashion or another, he used me to transform society’s opinion of us. Rather than toting us as weapons, he pitched us as healers. Then, as he couldn’t seem to stop making use of me as an example, he’d rounded up a collection of people I’d helped in my hospital volunteering ventures.

I spent five minutes of thought on the situation before I decided either the senator was a master opportunist or he’d been involved with our kidnapping, using the donation to the library as a way to lure me into a place we could go on a well-planned trip. An experienced farm hand wouldn’t have left so many goats without halters, and while it was possible the driver had gotten lost, it was equally probable he’d gotten lost on purpose.

Not a day went by when somebody didn’t get turned around in that area.

The article made a token mention of the Hampton family, and it mentioned nothing of my parents. The politics of my disappearance dictated the entire tone of the piece, and everything within served a purpose: bringing attention to Senator Westonhaus’s presidential campaign.

I returned to the search engine, skimming every article I could find on Westonhaus’s campaign to discover I’d become a foundation for his run, something that could only happen with me out of the way. In the months following the announcement of his run, the news had quieted.

My reappearance would stoke the fires again, and like it or not, boost his campaign run.

Assuming he’d engineered my disappearance, I’d likely served my purpose. If he hadn’t been involved, he’d wasted no time reaping the rewards of someone else’s scheme. I suspected countless possibilities existed, and I would obsess until I identified as many of them as possible. What I didn’t understand was why me?

Had I just been a convenient tool? Nothing seemed convenient about making me disappear for so many months. Caring for my foot defined what it meant to be inconvenient. Erasing a gunshot wound so I hadn’t even noticed it went beyond merely inconvenient. Why go through so much effort to keep me alive and healthy? Why go through so much work to heal my battered foot?

If killing Senator Westonhaus had been the goal, why not eliminate me permanently for interfering with their plans, whatever those plans might have been?

While time had warped for me, it hadn’t felt like six months, let alone almost nine.

How long had I spent under sedation? How long had it taken my kidnappers to restore functionality to my foot?

Had California been chosen as my prison because of the stable weather? I could believe that. I’d never looked much into California’s climate, but I’d been under the impression they had summer and spring, skipping right over winter and fall entirely. Curiosity got the better of me, and within five minutes, I’d learned my current location did have seasons, but winter was a little cool and rainy, while the rest of the year, the weather stayed a somewhat stable temperature until the peak of summer, where the state tended to catch on fire and burn before winter came and snuffed the fires out.

I gave the illusionist credit: I hadn’t been aware of when it rained at all, and if there had been any earthquakes since the start of my captivity, I’d missed them.

At a loss of how to cope with my status as a long-term missing person, one likely presumed dead by just about everybody, I turned my search to Bradley. The first few articles called him reclusive, a few dubbed him an available bachelor who would need a tender hand to get over the death of his fiancée, and a straggler article indicated he refused to accept my death without a corpse to prove I no longer lived. I liked that article, as it offered me a little hope I could somehow get out of my current situation somewhat intact.

Aware I no longer had a job, as life went on no matter how much I loathed the idea I’d been taken out of the picture, I went to the one place I’d have a way to contact Bradley: my email.

Fortunately for me, I had several, including a personal one I’d used to send Bradley information as needed. As such, I had his phone number, his email address, and other scraps of my life in a place I could access.

My password worked, and I winced at the ridiculous number of unread messages. Bracing for the worst, I skimmed through to discover Bradley, Beatrice, and everyone else in my life had taken to emailing me at least once a week with updates on what they were doing, why they were doing it, things I had missed, pictures of what I’d missed, and everything needed to put the pieces of my life back together as needed.

The latest emails, from yesterday, promised they hadn’t given up on me when everyone else had.

It would take me days to sort through the mess, and I expected I would need several boxes of tissues to work through the nightmare they’d endured.

With Senator Westonhaus having opted to use me as a publicity stunt, I decided against going to a police station to get help, which meant I’d have to try Bradley’s email, hope he checked it, found the library, and figured out where I hid until he could catch a flight over.

While I waited, I’d prowl the beach and find some place to lay low until he could come. I’d also make sure he understood if I didn’t get good Chinese food after a nine-month hiatus, I might actually expire. I also asked for my cane, as I expected after a full day of walking around, my foot would be a miserable mess. As I had some awareness of my current state of mind, I asked him to please ignore any incidents involving tissues, and that I’d only met with the senator because he was donating to the library and needed information on the donation and how to submit it.

The articles on Senator Westonhaus and his campaign had made mention of the donation, which he’d upped by several million dollars after it had become obvious I wouldn’t be found like he’d been found, within hours of having been kidnapped thanks to someone who’d called in a report of someone driving erratically.

Senator Westonhaus hadn’t gone out without a fight, unlike me, who’d slept right through being moved across the country.

I questioned that.

Then again, I questioned everything about my situation.

Then, because my sense of humor had survived, I informed Bradley I was a self-rescuing princess who needed a lot of love from her fluffy goddess, and if something had happened to my precious Ajani since I’d had a bad run in with some goats, I would be inconsolable. I left the address of the library, and that I’d be somewhere around, probably at the beach, attempting to roast myself because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to the beach.

I hit send, closed my email tab so I wouldn’t have to witness any chaos if Bradley was actively checking his email, and resumed researching the lost months of my life.

I leftthe library half an hour before closing. If Bradley saw my email immediately, if he took a commercial flight, and if he hit no delays or snags, he could arrive in California at a painful three in the morning. Considering the library wouldn’t be open, I would need to find some way to amuse myself until it reopened if he didn’t show and locate me in the small area.

Hiding out would challenge me, as would making certain I didn’t kick the bucket until he arrived. The lack of a wallet or anything of use would make the next day or two of my life a miserable prospect at best. The state beach had water fountains, however, and I’d take advantage of them to make sure I stayed hydrated.

Assuming he showed up, Bradley could solve my hunger problem, although I wouldn’t be getting Chinese food at some obscenely early hour of the morning. I’d take whatever he’d give me, though. By the time he arrived, I would be hungry enough to try to catch a shark and eat it raw.

I refused to consider he might not show up. I could only hope he believed I’d accessed my email, asking him to return me to civilization. If he didn’t show, I would find somewhere private to cry before accepting defeat and coming up with a second plan. My second plan might involve hitchhiking across the entirety of the United States without a single penny to my name, showing up at my parents’ place, and indulging in hiding in my old room for the rest of my life. My third plan involved breaking into the Hampton’s residence and taking out my frustrations within their bunker and gun range before somebody stopped me. If neither of those plans worked, I would do the equivalent of sticking my head in the sand and becoming a hermit, living out the rest of my life hiding in some mountain cave somewhere until I starved or froze to death.

My plans needed work, although I tried to convince myself I’d done well emailing for rescue rather than showing up at some police station after having gone missing for almost nine months. Once I added in how Senator Westonhaus used me for his presidential bid, I wanted to dodge the media for as long as possible.

I would spend the time waiting to see if somebody showed up grieving for my lost job. I wouldn’t worry much for my cat.

Bradley would have taken care of my fluffy goddess. Given an opportunity, he’d enjoy taking care of me, too. After having no company for months upon months, I would concoct reasons I needed him to take care of me in some fashion or another.

I would begin with a hug, and I’d do my best not to cry at having contact with someone else. I would brace for the worst, too. I’d disappeared once, and with how upset most had been with me for insisting on attending Senator Maybelle’s memorial, I expected to emerge with fewer friends. I wouldn’t even blame my parents if they distanced themselves from me.

Losing me once had been hard enough on them—and on me. Losing me twice might be the straw that broke their backs. If I went in with the understanding I had lost more than I gained, I would be able to emerge on the other side hurt but ready to keep fighting.

I couldn’t afford to harbor any hope beyond that. I could handle a pleasant surprise. I doubted I’d be able to handle any unexpected rejection, not after so long in solitude.

With nothing left to do, I returned to the beach, took off my sneakers, and kicked at the surf, shivering at the ocean’s cold bite. The temperature helped my feet, both of which were sore from the exertion. My right held up better than I thought possible. When I tired at kicking at the water, I picked a spot where the waves sometimes reached, digging my toes into the sand.

Boredom drove me into collecting tiny shells, which were few and far between. As the sun set, I found a piece of blue sea glass, which I pocketed as a souvenir. I lingered on the beach until most had cleared off before wandering in the general direction of the library, searching for a place to hole up and wait. I found a grove of trees with shrubs, which created a small niche within, visible during the day but invisible at night, assuming I didn’t draw attention to myself. Once certain nobody watched me, I ducked behind one of the palms, crouched, and pushed aside the larger fronds.

The gravel and rocks within would make an uncomfortable seat, but I’d make it work until either the sun rose or Bradley came—if he came.

I could only hope.