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“Harvey, where’s Rachel?”
“I…I do not know. Is she not with you? Is she all right?”
“She’s not with me. She sent me to Quincy to an empty house. There was no husband or jewelry or photos or anything else. Why did she do that?”
“An empty house?” I hoped that his confused look was because he hadn’t known about it.
“Yes. She moved out last week in the middle of the night. It seems to me she wanted me out of the way so that whoever grabbed you could do it without interference. Does that sound right?”
“No. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she have to? I would have gone with her, had she asked.”
Sadly, that was probably true. Rachel had to know that. There would have been no need for the elaborate subterfuge just to get Harvey to go somewhere with her. “Do you know who took you?”
“No. I…” He tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but his arm was a little floppy. “I ca
“What can you remember?”
He looked around his room, as if absorbing the familiar might sharpen his memory. “We were listening to music, Rachel and I, and…” He squeezed his eyes shut. One of his arms slipped off the armrest, which caused him to tilt slightly. “She left. She had to go, and then I was alone in the music room-”
“The room upstairs with the turntable?”
“Yes. It was our music room when she lived with me.” The thought seemed to relax him, but only for a second. “Someone came up the stairs. I thought it was you, but they put a bag over my head. They put me in a vehicle, in the back of an SUV, perhaps. I was lying flat. I tried to think about how long the trip was, but I was disoriented. I was…” His voice trailed off.
“Did they speak?”
“No one spoke. I asked them several times who they were and what they wanted. They would not answer.”
I sat on the corner of his bed and looked at him. “Harvey, the FBI was here earlier. They were asking questions about Roger Fratello and Betelco and some cash they found in Brussels.” I looked for a reaction. There was nothing but dazed confusion. “They believe you helped Fratello flee the country after he defrauded his company. Is that true?”
“I do not know where Roger Fratello is.”
My stomach tightened. “But you do know him?”
“I might. Perhaps a client? I…” He looked as if he wanted to answer my questions, but he’d been without food or medicine for hours, and he was fading fast. “Must we speak of this now?”
I gave it one more shot. “Rachel was the outside auditor for Fratello’s firm. Could she have been the one involved in this somehow? Is that why she was here this morning? Maybe she was looking for your help?”
“Help…yes. But I ca
“I need you to tell me about Fratello. I need details. I need-”
He lifted his hands with difficulty and began to unbutton his shirt. “I can do it myself.”
On a normal day, he could have. He had the kind of modified shower with a seat, plenty of handrails for maneuvering, and enough pride that he could still find a way to take care of the deeply personal aspects of his self-care. It was pride and, I suspected, fear that crossing that particular threshold would take him downhill fast. Faster. This wasn’t a normal day, but he still had his full measure of stubbor
“Just tell me one thing. Do you know where Rachel is?”
He shook his head. I had never had to wonder before if Harvey was lying to me, but I wondered then.
I helped him unbutton his shirt and peel it off. Then I pulled his T-shirt over his head. Without letting him notice, I checked the soft white expanse of his back and then his chest for bruises or cuts. Saw none. I took off his shoes and socks. He unzipped his own fly, and I helped him stand so he could step out of his trousers. It was all very clinical and mechanical until he was stripped down to his boxers.
“Um…do you need me to-”
“I can manage from here, thank you.” He tried to turn his chair and roll himself to the bathroom. Left to his own devices, it would have taken hours. I pushed him in, turned on the shower, and made sure a fresh towel was in reach. I went back to the bedroom to find his pajamas and robe hanging on a doorknob. When I got back, he was listing to the right in his chair.
“You should have let me go.”
“What?”
“I was ready to go.” He turned his head slightly. “You should have let me.”
I had hoped that his wishing to die had come from the stress of the situation, but he looked like a man who had already given up. I hoped that a shower and a good night’s sleep in his own bed would change his outlook. All I said was, “I’ll be right out here.”
I hung his bedclothes on the inside knob and pulled the door almost closed. The clothes I had stripped from him were piled on the floor across the room. I didn’t feel comfortable pawing through them, but maybe they could tell me what he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
There were no coins or keys or wallet in his trousers. Those would all be in the desk drawer in his office. His cell phone was missing, presumably taken by the kidnappers and inadvisably turned on at some point. His schedule of medication was in a side pocket. The only other item was a photograph. It was Harvey in younger, healthier days. He was standing with Rachel at some scenic overlook. The sight of Harvey in sunlight was enough of an oddity, but to see him smiling was stranger still. With his arm around Rachel’s waist, he was gazing upon her as if she were some kind of rare hothouse flower. Rachel was gazing at something off camera. The photo paper was soft and fringed around the edges, the way pictures get when you take them out and look at them often. As much as I disliked the woman, he obviously took comfort in seeing her face. I set it on his nightstand, leaning it against the base of his reading lamp so he could look over and see it if he wanted to.
The clothes offered up nothing more beyond the stale and pungent odor of a helpless man stiff with fear. I piled them into a corner and took the medicine list to the prescription stash in the kitchen. I pulled out everything he should have taken and didn’t while he was missing. He could figure out what he could skip and what he had to catch up on. I put the pills on his bedside table with a glass of milk, which is what he typically used to push them all down.
For a brief moment, I gave consideration to calling Ling to let him know that Harvey was home. I even took out the business card he’d given me and stared at it. Calling him would have been the safe thing to do, the right thing to do. Instead, the phone rang. Not my cell but Harvey’s land line. I went into his office to take the call.
“Harvey Baltimore’s office.”
“Goddammit, Shanahan, don’t you ever return phone calls?” It was Dan. “I left you about a hundred messages on your cell.”
“What are you talking about?” I dug into my pocket for my phone. “I don’t have any-” Oops. I had turned it off before the big rescue and never turned it back on. When I did, I found seven messages waiting: five from Dan and two from Felix.
“Sorry. We were out getting Harvey back.”
“You got him? How is he?”
“A little worse for the wear. I think he’s really depressed.” I left it at that as I dropped down into Harvey’s desk chair. “Did you find something?”
“I’ve got one word for you. Are you ready? Afghanistan.”
“What about it?”
“The U.S. invades Afghanistan, right?”
“We did, yes.” I clamped the receiver between my shoulder and ear and began straightening the stuff on the desk. I needed to be doing something.
“In towns and villages and mud huts all over the country, Marines are rolling in through the front door and terrorists are ru