The Upside of Death

Zach arrives. Part 21

Zach was cold. Only twenty minutes he'd been in the car, and the temperature had dropped swiftly. Goosebumps pimpled his arms, his cotton tee thin protection against the seeping chill. Again he searched the door compartments, and the mesh bags behind the front seats. Too dark to see much but his fingers told him the bad news anyway. Nothing warm left behind.

When his cell chimed, it startled him. It was loud, maybe loud enough to be heard inside the house. He snatched it out of his pocket and stared at the screen in confusion.

A text.

From Keera.

Dad, this is really urgent and important. Please confirm you have this by return text asap. Keera.

What the hell? He sank down on the back seat and read the message over and then over again until the screen blanked out. Was she free? Wouldn't she call him if she were? Call him first? Not send a damn text to her dad?

His cell chimed again.

An attachment. He opened it and watched it play, the image blowing him apart. Keera sat calmly, staring at the camera, her face rebellious and fearless. Behind her, the torso of a man was visible from chest to waist. A hand, his hand, smashed across her head one way and then the other.

Keera moaned, her hands up, covering, shielding her face. An enormous hand grabbed her by the hair, lifted her head up. A muted voice spoke, then Keera.

"I am being held," she said, her words halting and erratic. "Please do what they say."

The video ended. Zach breathed out. His heart hammered and he wanted to smash his way out and run to her. He kicked once against the door and stopped. Any violent shock to the door could trigger an alarm.

He sat and listened but no one came out of the house. He blew all the air out of his lungs. Drew it all back again and repeated until he was calm.

Started thinking again. The Russians thought they had sent a ransom demand to Keera's father, but she had given them his number.

If he replied, they would think he was her father. Get some time. Work something out. And he had to conceal his number or they'd see his name on the screen.

He thumbed a short message back. Who is sending this? He emailed it via FlagMail, routing the text to Keera's cell.

If the Russians noticed no incoming number or ID displayed, they would assume that Keera's father was security conscious.

His cell chimed again and he didn't want to look.

But he did.

You like to see your daughter again. We need one million dollars in nominated account in 24 hours. Acknowledge now.

One million. They weren't messing around. Did Keera's dad have that much on hand? Had to. His salary alone must be five or six million a year. The kidnappers knew their target.

The first thing was to stop any more violence to Keera. He constructed a reply. I have to know if she is fine. Send a new image within ten minutes. He paused. He had no way of knowing when the last image of her was taken. He needed a new one. She could hold up today's paper. But they mightn't have one.

It didn't matter. She only had to hold something they wouldn't have thought of. Something simple, a household object. A cup, a bowl, a glass. A glass. The easy choice. The Russians were probably knocking down their vodkas while they waited for his reply.

Please hold up a glass, he added, and sent the message.

His adrenaline levels settled. He was in a situation he could work with. Eventually, the kidnappers would have to move. Texting a series of ransom notes from the same location was stupid.