Coldwater Revenge, James Ross [books for 9th graders txt] 📗

“Another gold star. I’m told they’re important to you. Almost the only thing.”

Fuck you. Sweat dripped from Tom’s temples, though the temperature inside the glass and concrete room was low enough that he could see his breath. But what was the alternative?

“Okay, I’m game. Let’s see if she’s right.” He took as long as he could and then began. “First, even if this is personal, which I can’t believe, you don’t need anything on that boat to get rid of me.” He lifted his chin toward the gun in Hassad’s hand. “You could have used that at Joe’s cabin and saved yourself a dangerous boat ride.”

“And that tells you what?” Hassad’s tone was mock pedantic. “Show me Susan isn’t exaggerating.”

“It tells me you’re not just pissed at me. And that your hit list is long enough for a boatload of mystery boxes to come in handy.”

“Anything else?”

“That there’s a chance that the folks on your list will be in the same place at the same time, so you can use whatever’s in those boxes on them.”

“Perhaps. What else?”

“That you’re mad enough to risk your life to have a chance to do it.”

“Angry not mad. But otherwise excellent. You’re not just a pretty face, after all.” Tom’s ears flushed at the line Hassad could only have gotten from Susan. But further banter was forestalled by the opening bars of Vivaldi’s Le Quattro Stagione trilling from Hassad’s cell phone. Hassad pressed the keypad and walked to the far corner of the large open space. Tom couldn’t overhear words, but the tone was diffident and cautious.

Dobermans began to howl. A door slammed. Tom twisted his limbs beneath the tape without result. Minutes passed. Then a draft of cold air swept across the floor, followed by footsteps. “We should leave soon,” a new voice said. “I was out there a long time. Someone may have seen me.”

Tom squeezed his eyes and lifted his head. Only his mother’s voice could have been more unnerving.

* * *

Hassad raised his arm toward the row of windows. “There’s a large police boat tied up at a dock at the bottom of that cliff. Can you drive it?”

“Yes,” said Susan.

“Are you sure? It’s still snowing.”

“It’s just a squall. They pass quickly. When the wind dies down, we can go.”

“Good.” Hassad raised his gun to the back of Tom’s head. “You don’t have to watch this.”

Tom tensed for the sound or sensation, or whatever was going to come next and last. Though instead of the blast of a handgun at close range, or a half-hearted plea on his behalf, what came next was more Vivaldi trilling from Hassad’s cell phone.

Footsteps retreated. All Tom could see was snow swirling through trees. All he could hear was Hassad arguing loudly with whoever was on the other end of the phone. He waited for Susan to say something, to offer excuses, or help. But she said nothing… did nothing.

He knew that he did not have time to be angry. Intent on survival and with mind and voice his only tools, Tom began to riff. “Do you remember the Barney and Fred story you told me?”

She didn’t answer, but Tom continued as if she had.

“I have another version. I want you to listen carefully.” He spoke quickly, almost sarcastically. “Fred leads his group on a hunt for a new home. Night falls, the temperature drops and a drizzle that’s been falling all day turns to freezing rain. The little Freddies are wet and hungry. But the group gets lucky and Fred stumbles across a deep, dry cave. Everyone except Barney rushes in.

“Something about the cave gives Barney a bad feeling. He shouts after the others. But only Betty and Bamm-Bamm pay any attention. Barney convinces them to go back out into the rain to look for another shelter.

“Barney doesn’t have a word for the instinct that warned him not to go into the cave. But it’s what saved him and his family. A pride of Saber Tooth tigers had found the cave first and ate Fat Fred and all the little Freddies for dinner.”

Susan was silent. He ploughed ahead and hoped that she was listening, and even more that he was making sense.

“You and I are the great, great grandchildren of intuitive Barney, Susan. Not Fat Freddie. Do you see the difference between that and the story you told me?”

From the next room came the sounds of harsh, guttural arguing. Susan remained mute. Tom could not tell if she had heard his little parable, or if she was listening to Hassad and whomever. He could not tell if she was tuned-in at all.

“Listen to me, Betty,” He prompted. “Your instincts have got to be screaming at you now. Listen to them! When does Solomon start asking what you’ve done for him lately? How soon before his fanatical buddies tell him to kill anybody who knows anything… including the infidel girlfriend?”

“Suliman,” said Susan quietly. “His name is Suliman. He loves me.”

Tom felt lightheaded, almost breathless, his lungs shrunken and shredded. “Non-overlapping immune systems? High energy?” He hectored his own reflection in the floor to ceiling glass. “Is this the happiness you were preaching to me about? What’s your goal here, Susan? Mass murder?”

Her voice was a whisper. “Peace.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Susan, the only peace that comes from what’s on that boat is Eternal Peace.”

“That’s not true.” Susan’s voice trembled, but the tone was defiant. “We have biological weapons in this country, and worse. But we’ll never need to use them because it’s enough that everyone knows we have them.”

Tom felt his heart galloping. “Susan! A trunk full of toxins isn’t a national defense. It’s the arsenal of a hit squad. I don’t know what this Suliman told you, but this isn’t about peace. It’s about settling old scores here in Coldwater. He was bragging about it, just before you got here.”

Hassad’s side of the phone call had grown louder and angrier. He was screaming