The Family Business

11

     Jefferson woke up a few hours later. I was thankful, because I had grown very bored and wanted someone to talk to. He sat up and put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He looked much better than he had earlier.
     "How did they get you?" I asked him.
     "Well," he began, "shortly after you left, I went into town to pick up a few supplies. I was in the store, picking out some vegetables when some guy came up behind me and said that I should probably come with him. The next thing I knew, I was tied to that quite uncomfortable chair and surrounded by a bunch of pirates that smelled like they hadn't bathed in months."
"That's disgusting," I said.
"Yes it is," he replied. "But what about you?" I told him what had happened over the past two days. He listened, praising me for using the fighting skills he had taught me and quietly cursing Blake Archer and his cronies. It seemed like this was my life now; getting kidnapped over and over again by pirates and crazy men with guns. I didn't like it, but at least I had Jefferson.
     A few minutes later, after our conversation had lulled into a comfortable silence, a pirate came down the stairs. It was the same one that had brought us our tray of food, and once again he stopped at our cell, unlocking the door and coming inside.
     "The cap'n would like to see you," he said, addressing me. He had an unpleasant face that reminded me of a warthog and seemed to have settled into a perpetual scowl. He smelled like rotten cabbage and sweat and his hair was gray and stringy. He was altogether repulsive. I stood and faced him.
"Jefferson's coming with me," I said stubbornly. I was not about to leave him alone in this cell again. The disgusting man looked at my brother and his scowl seemed to deepen.
"Fine," he snarled, "but if the Cap'n don't like it, it weren't my fault, hear?" I nodded and he turned and led the way out of the cell and up the stairs. Jefferson grabbed my hand, and we followed. We were led across the deck and to the door of the Captain's office, where the pirate knocked with a grubby, long-fingered hand. We heard Blake tell us to enter, and our guide opened the door. Inside, we found ourselves standing in front of Blake, who was sitting in his chair, his booted feet on top of the desk.
"Thank you, Thomas," he said, "You may go." Thomas inclined his head a little, gave us one final scowl, and left the room.
"What do you want?" I asked, getting right to the point.
"Well, I just thought you might like to get out of that cell for a while," Blake answered. "I see you brought your brother along with you." He gave Jefferson a disapproving gaze.
"After the way you treated him before? I'm not about to leave his side."
"Hmph. I suppose you're right. Please, Jefferson, do sit." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Jefferson sat, and I perched myself on the armrest.
"So you had no real reason for summoning me?" I asked.
"Well," he began, "if you would like to continue our dance..."
"You keep your hands off her," growled Jefferson, giving him a glare that would freeze the hottest fire. Blake raised his eyebrows and lifted his hands, well, hand and hook, in surrender.
"Sorry, mate," he said. "I didn't know you were authorized to make her decisions for her." Jefferson made a move to get up, but I put my hand on his leg to stop him, and he sat back down, staring daggers at Blake. If looks could kill, he'd have been stabbed, buried, dug up, and stabbed again for good measure.
"So what did you mean when you said you couldn't say no to Nicholas?" I asked, partly to keep Jefferson from attempting murder and partly because I was curious.
"I don't want to talk about it, love," he said, putting his hands behind his head and staring at a picture of a surly looking pirate with an eye patch and a very tattooed face.
"What is he threatening you with that could possibly be worth all this?" I pressed.
"You wouldn't understand," he glanced at me, fire behind his eyes, before staring back up at the painting.
"Try me."
"NO!" he shouted. He pushed back from the table and stood, walking around the desk, eyes locked on mine. He dropped to his knees in front of me and grabbed me firmly by the arms. Jefferson's hand instantly flew out and grabbed his forearm. "You wouldn't understand," Blake repeated.
"I said, hands off," said Jefferson in a low, dark voice. Blake let go of me and sat back on his heels.
"You've never had something you loved ripped away from you," he continued. Everything seemed to click into place. It all seemed too familiar. Like a dream.
"Who does Nicholas have?" I asked him. He ran his hand roughly through his hair, as if deciding whether or not to tell me. Finally, he sighed.
"My sister," he whispered. "He's got my sister."
"Why didn't you tell us?" I asked. "We could have helped you."
"I was afraid. I couldn't cross Nicholas, he'd kill her." He stood and leaned against his desk, a hint of a tear forming in his eye. Looking at his face, all I saw was grief and regret. Regret, perhaps, that he could not save his sister, or that he had gone to such lengths to protect her. Either way, I knew that look. It was the same look I had seen in Jefferson just a few weeks before. I stepped over to Blake and put my hand on his shoulder. His eyes met mine.
"We can still help you," I said.
"What?" he asked, looking a little astonished.
     "What?" Jefferson echoed, looking a little mortified.
     "Why would you help me?" Blake asked.
     "Why would we help him?" Jefferson asked.
     "We will help you," I started, glaring at Jefferson for a second, "because we have been in the same boat. No pun intended."
     "Lana, look at what he did to us!" Jefferson exclaimed, throwing his arms out in a wide gesture.
     "Jefferson, might I remind you that you were the first person who kidnapped me?" I retorted. "You held both a gun and a sword to my head, you hit me, and you almost drove me to suicide. Blake has barely even raised his voice to me." Jefferson looked a little pained at the memory, but still not convinced we should help Blake. "When Nicholas took me, didn't you do everything you could to get me back?" I continued. "Blake is just doing the same for his sister."
     "He may not have hurt you, Lana, but look what he did to me. Look at how long I spent tied to that chair with nothing to eat or drink."
     "Blake didn't know about that," I said, "he put someone in charge of taking care of you and that person is at fault, not him."
"Aye, but-"
"Jefferson," I shot, "he needs our help." Jefferson looked at me for a minute, then at Blake.
"Fine," he growled. Blake heaved a giant sigh of release then grabbed me in a sudden hug. I could imagine Jefferson tensing up behind us.
     "Thank you," he whispered, as if he could hardly believe we were actually going to help him. He released me, and looked me in the eyes for a moment, a look of relief and gratitude in his deep blue eyes. He then held his hand out to Jefferson, and repeated his thanks.
     "This doesn't mean we are friends," Jefferson said coldly. Blake's face fell a little, but he tried to disguise it.
     "Of course not," he said, shrugging it off. I got the feeling that he desperately wanted friends. And for some reason, I found myself wanting to be his friend. With everything that had happened to me lately, I found myself becoming friends with more and more dangerous people. I had heard of Stockholm Syndrome, and I seemed to be infected. But there was something about this man, something hidden deep within his eyes, something in the way he talked, that made me feel like I could trust him. Something that made me feel safe and warm.

     We spent an hour in Blake's office, discussing how we were going to get his sister back safely. He had dinner delivered up to us by a member of his crew, a short, pudgy man with a golden tooth and a very deep voice whom I had not yet seen. And at the end of that hour, with our bellies full and our heads and plates picked clean, we had developed a plan.