He didn’t recognize the number of the sender. It was clearly meant for someone else. He clicked the reply button.
I think you have the wrong person.
“Tim, here’s the list you asked for.”
Tim looked up from his phone. Penny stood before his desk, waving a piece of paper at him. “You asked me not to send it electronically so I handwrote it. I feel so old school.”
“Thanks, Penny,” Tim said, taking the list. As he did so, his fingers brushed against hers. She seemed embarrassed for a moment, then she smiled.
“Anything else you need?”
“No, no this is great. Thank you. Go home early if you like. You’ve done great work today.”
“Thanks, Tim. Um, actually me and the guys are going to Echelon later for a drink. Would you like to come?”
She smiled at him, and Tim didn’t miss the implied reason for asking him.
“Some other time maybe? I want to go through this list before I go home.”
“Okay sure. Maybe next time.” She gave him a little wave then left his office.
Dear Penny. Fiercely loyal and dependable, always keeping him organized. She was lovely, and Tim certainly found her attractive, but she was at least ten years younger than him and he felt she should be with someone her own age. He had also not given up hope that Claire might come back. Sometimes he missed her more than he’d ever missed anyone or anything. Other times it was a relief to go home and not be scared to say anything for fear of triggering an argument. They had been married five years before she left, three months ago. She hadn’t asked for a divorce; said she wanted to work things out. He owed her time to reevaluate and decide what she wanted. He still loved her, still cared about her, but was no longer sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. When she walked out, he was surprised to discover that he felt just as relieved as he was upset.
His phone beeped again. Another text.
Tim, I’m a friend. Trust me. Go home now.
He frowned. Not a wrong number then. He found himself peering outside his office where his staff sat, trying to catch one of them pranking him.
This isn’t funny.
He waited for the response. It was deeply unsettling. If he went home would someone be waiting for him? Should he call the police?
The mystery messenger read his mind.
Don’t call the cops. They work for Granger. Go home. Tell no one where you’re going.
Tim stared at it. Then he packed up his laptop, grabbed his jacket and left his office.
“Going home early?” Penny asked on his way out.
“No, I have to meet a potential donor,” he lied.
“Oh, okay. Good luck!”
Tim arrived home some twenty minutes later to find his front door ajar. He crept inside, putting down his laptop case in the hallway and pushing the door closed behind him. Then he stood and listened. Sounds issued from the door to the basement, which was also slightly open. He took his phone from his pocket, intending to call the police. Then he reread the last message sent from his mystery contact.
Don’t call the cops. They work for Granger.
He put his phone away and slipped off his shoes. He crept along the hallway, being careful to plant his feet at the edges of the floor nearest the wall, where the floorboards would be less likely to creak. He overshot the door to the basement, heading for his study at the back of the house.
A crash came from downstairs; Tim froze. After a moment of hearing no footsteps on the stairs, he kept going until he was in his office. Carefully taking his keys from his pocket, he found the right one and unlocked a large bureau against the far wall. Inside one of the draws was his prized Richmond Braves baseball bat, signed by a great many players from the seventies. He hated the thought of damaging one of his most valued possessions, but he couldn’t think of anything else he might use as an effective weapon.
Holding the bat in both hands, Tim returned to the basement entrance.
Here, he hesitated. Should he just leave? Nothing down there was worth risking his life over. Perhaps he should get out now, wait for the intruder to be done, and then… well he didn’t know what he might do. Find a hotel for the night? Call the police anyway? Nuke the site from orbit?
What was that? Was there someone down else down there? Tim swore he heard the muffled cries of someone obviously restrained in between the crashing caused by the known intruder. That settled it, now he couldn’t leave.
As quietly and quickly as possible, Tim descended the stairs. The wall continued all the way down to the foot of the stairs, which worked to his advantage – if the stairs were open to the basement, his feet would have visible to the intruder long before he could have ducked his head down low enough to see.
His back to the wall, he raised the bat and made ready to leap out. He peered around first and then ducked back. There was a woman, young, black, terrified, tied to a chair in the center of the room. Her captor, a huge man with a mask on, was bustling around in the far corner of the dimly lit basement. The only light came from the small windows up at ground level. He was not facing the stairs, so Tim stepped out. He raised the bat and crept forward, intending to slam the intruder’s head with it.
Unfortunately the woman noticed him and drew a sharp intake of breath. The big guy turned and took in both him and his baseball bat instantly. Tim cried out and nearly dropped the bat as the big man crashed into him, far too close to get in a good swing. And then Tim was sprawled on the floor with the wind knocked out of him. The intruder had already disappeared up the stairs. Tim tried to stand but his legs didn’t work and he couldn’t breathe. Footsteps pounded across the hall above his head and then the front door slammed.
Praying the guy was really gone, Tim got painfully to his feet and dropped the bat. He stumbled over to the woman and pulled off her gag.
“Oh my God, help me!” she cried, frantic with terror, pulling at her bonds.
Coughing and nursing his bruised ribs, Tim attempted to loosen the ropes holding her to the chair. They were far too tight, so he stumbled over to a shelf where his tool kit sat open. He pulled out a box cutter and crouched down behind the chair.
“Get me out, please!”
“It’s okay,” Tim reassured her. “He’s gone. I’ll get you out. What’s your name?”
“Melissa,” she said. “Melissa Jones.”
“Well then Melissa Jones, just sit tight for a moment and I’ll get you out.”
Tim worked furiously to cut through the ropes. They were thick and took some sawing.
“I just want to go home,” sobbed Melissa, exhausted and almost delirious.
“Who was that man?” Tim asked her.
“Don’t know,” she blurted. “Never… saw his face.”
“Did he say anything to you? Why did he bring you here?”
“…Said I… shouldn’t talk to anyone…”
At last Tim was through the ropes and Melissa’s hands were free. It was easier to undo the ropes tying her legs, and a few moments later he was helping her to stand. Her legs gave way and she fell into his arms.
“Sorry,” she said weakly.
“It’s okay, you’ve been through a lot.”
Tim took her over to the old sofa beside the far wall. He sat her down and went over to the kitchenette to get her a glass of water. She drank greedily from the glass, draining it quickly, and handed it back to him.
“I