She definitely needed to add another guest to the list for her first party.
12
Less than an hour later, Mercy sat on her bed in the Polanco house, turning the slim foil packet over and over between her fingertips, almost afraid to open it. She never chewed gum. She never bought gum. So what the hell was this doing in her purse?
She had waited to inspect it until after the taxi dropped off the other two women and she was home again, alone in her own bedroom. The bungled theft, she was now convinced, hadn’t been that at all. Nothing was missing from her purse; she’d checked and double checked. The boy must have been paid by someone to slip whatever this was into her purse. Why?
Carefully, she opened one end of the foil wrapper, peered inside and drew out not a piece of chewing gum but a stiff piece of paper. It was folded back and forth on itself seven or eight times, the way she and her friends used to make little paper fans for their dolls, when they were children.
She pressed out the ridges, laying the paper flat on the bedspread beside her.
On the side facing up were hand-printed letters:
JUST RECEIVED FROM EUR-ASIAN CONTACT. COULD HAVE BEEN TAKEN IN PREP FOR RANSOM DEMAND. NO LOCATION YET. SORRY, C.
Clay .
Mercy turned over the accordioned paper. On the reverse side was a faxed photograph. Clay must have been afraid to send it by regular mail or even attached to an email. Was the agent worried Peter, or someone else in the household, might intercept it?
The image was grainy, underexposed, out of focus. Obviously not her mother’s work. But what she could make out of the picture took her breath away.
Mercy’s stomach heaved. The acid-hot burn of bile hit the back of her throat. No doubt in her mind what this image represented.
A woman lay in a fetal position on a sagging metal-frame cot. Wrists and ankles lashed to it. The tethers appeared just loose enough to allow her to roll over while keeping her on the thin mattress. Her hair was matted with something dark. Blood? She looked emaciated, unconscious.
Is she even alive?
Downstairs, Mercy heard someone enter the house. The clink of keys, a door latch clicking closed. Footsteps crossed the foyer below. Their sound matched her heart’s frantic beat.
Peter!
But she couldn’t pull herself away from the horror clamped between her sweating, now trembling fingers. There was no doubt in her mind. This was Talia! Her mother.
Desperately she searched the murky details of the photograph for any clue to the location. A small cracked white bowl, empty, rested on the bare mattress ticking near Talia’s head. Her left arm curled around the dish, almost protectively. She was wearing thick, baggy sweats, definitely not hers.
The bed. Ropes. Her mother. A bowl. That was all. Not even a wall or window to indicate where in the world she might be.
Mercy choked back an agonized sob. Until this moment she hadn’t wanted to involve Peter any more than she already had by requesting his help through the State Department. After all, he hadn’t exactly moved mountains yet. She still wasn’t convinced he’d taken Talia’s situation seriously.
Snatching up the photo, she ran from her room. Pain radiated through her injured hip. She ignored it as best she could, hobbling down the stairs. She intercepted Peter on his way up.
“Look!” she demanded, thrusting the photograph at him.
He scowled at her from the landing below. “What the hell happened to you? Your face looks like you walked it into a brick wall.”
“Look at this , damn it, not me!” She felt tears streaming down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. “Tell me this isn’t my mother.”
With a petulant grimace, he took the photo and made a show of studying it. And then he really did look. Color leaked from his face. “Good Lord.” He flipped over the photo. “Where did you get this? Who is C?”
A huge problem suddenly occurred to her. If Clay
12
Less than an hour later, Mercy sat on her bed in the Polanco house, turning the slim foil packet over and over between her fingertips, almost afraid to open it. She never chewed gum. She never bought gum. So what the hell was this doing in her purse?
She had waited to inspect it until after the taxi dropped off the other two women and she was home again, alone in her own bedroom. The bungled theft, she was now convinced, hadn’t been that at all. Nothing was missing from her purse; she’d checked and double checked. The boy must have been paid by someone to slip whatever this was into her purse. Why?
Carefully, she opened one end of the foil wrapper, peered inside and drew out not a piece of chewing gum but a stiff piece of paper. It was folded back and forth on itself seven or eight times, the way she and her friends used to make little paper fans for their dolls, when they were children.
She pressed out the ridges, laying the paper flat on the bedspread beside her.
On the side facing up were hand-printed letters:
JUST RECEIVED FROM EUR-ASIAN CONTACT. COULD HAVE BEEN TAKEN IN PREP FOR RANSOM DEMAND. NO LOCATION YET. SORRY, C.
Clay .
Mercy turned over the accordioned paper. On the reverse side was a faxed photograph. Clay must have been afraid to send it by regular mail or even attached to an email. Was the agent worried Peter, or someone else in the household, might intercept it?
The image was grainy, underexposed, out of focus. Obviously not her mother’s work. But what she could make out of the picture took her breath away.
Mercy’s stomach heaved. The acid-hot burn of bile hit the back of her throat. No doubt in her mind what this image represented.
A woman lay in a fetal position on a sagging metal-frame cot. Wrists and ankles lashed to it. The tethers appeared just loose enough to allow her to roll over while keeping her on the thin mattress. Her hair was matted with something dark. Blood? She looked emaciated, unconscious.
Is she even alive?
Downstairs, Mercy heard someone enter the house. The clink of keys, a door latch clicking closed. Footsteps crossed the foyer below. Their sound matched her heart’s frantic beat.
Peter!
But she couldn’t pull herself away from the horror clamped between her sweating, now trembling fingers. There was no doubt in her mind. This was Talia! Her mother.
Desperately she searched the murky details of the photograph for any clue to the location. A small cracked white bowl, empty, rested on the bare mattress ticking near Talia’s head. Her left arm curled around the dish, almost protectively. She was wearing thick, baggy sweats, definitely not hers.
The bed. Ropes. Her mother. A bowl. That was all. Not even a wall or window to indicate where in the world she might be.
Mercy choked back an agonized sob. Until this moment she hadn’t wanted to involve Peter any more than she already had by requesting his help through the State Department. After all, he hadn’t exactly moved mountains yet. She still wasn’t convinced he’d taken Talia’s situation seriously.
Snatching up the photo, she ran from her room. Pain radiated through her injured hip. She ignored it as best she could, hobbling down the stairs. She intercepted Peter on his way up.
“Look!” she demanded, thrusting the photograph at him.
He scowled at her from the landing below. “What the hell happened to you? Your face looks like you walked it into a brick wall.”
“Look at this , damn it, not me!” She felt tears streaming down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. “Tell me this isn’t my mother.”
With a petulant grimace, he took the photo and made a show of studying it. And then he really did look. Color leaked from his face. “Good Lord.” He flipped over the photo. “Where did you get this? Who is C?”
A huge problem suddenly occurred to her. If Clay
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