Remote
And don’t think you can spin this with some kind of ‘my word against theirs’ bullshit.  I have every word you said to me on tape, and I’ll send copies to both the media and the cops.  I don’t think your wife and kids are going to be too happy about that.”
    “Ah, crap.”  Parkins slumped against the basement wall and closed his eyes.  “So this isn’t about ransom.  It’s about blackmail.”
    “Not the way you think.  All we want is for you to disappear for a few days, and keep your mouth shut afterward about what really happened to you.”
    “What am I supposed to do?  Tell people I was abducted by aliens?”
    “Oh, I think we can do a little better than that.”  She grabbed a folding chair leaning against the furnace, set it up and sat down.  “In fact, we’ve got a few days to come up with something believable.   Let’s see what we can do.”
    He opened his eyes and looked at her.  “You’re going to help me come up with an alibi?”
    She shrugged.  “Seems like the least I can do.  And hey, it’s not like I have anything better going on.”
     
    ***
    The hallway led to a kitchen—but it was like no kitchen Jack had ever seen.
    There was no stove, though there was a large microwave.  The floor was covered in what looked like thick, industrial rubber that gave spongily under his bare feet.  There was a huge stainless-steel fridge, several spotless white counters and a marble-topped island in the center.  The one window was large, barred, and made of thick, shatterproof plastic.
    He opened doors, cupboards, drawers, looking for something to use as a weapon.  He found plastic bowls and plates, plastic cutlery, paper towels.  No pots, no pans, no knives.  The fridge held condiments in plastic jars and some pastries.  The freezer was full of frozen fruits and vegetables in plastic bags—no meat. 
    Six pairs of heavy leather work-gloves filled one drawer.  Another held several books on microwave cooking.  There were no canned goods, and only a few spices.  The only cleaning supplies under the sink were a mild soap and a bottle of diluted vinegar.  Unless he planned on blinding Remote with a handful of basil, the kitchen held almost nothing he could use.
    Almost.
    He dumped a plastic jar of mustard in the sink, then ran the hot water.  He kept an eye on the door as he did so, expecting Remote to make an appearance at any second with a gun in his hand.
    “You’re wasting your time.”  The voice came from a small, inset speaker on the ceiling.  “With the water.  It won’t get any hotter than it is right now.”
    Jack tested the stream with his finger.  Luke-warm, and that’s how it stayed. 
    “You were planning on using it as a potential weapon, yes?  Fill that jar with scalding hot water and maybe throw it in my face?”
    Jack filled the jar with water.  “So you can see me,” he said.  He opened the microwave, put the jar inside.
    “And hear you, yes.  I’m afraid the microwave won’t do you any good, either.”
    Jack studied the controls on the front, set it to high power for three minutes.  “Why is that?”
    “It’s been modified with a temperature sensor.  If anything within gets hotter than one hundred degrees, it shuts off.”
    The microwave beeped and turned off.  Jack opened it, tested the water.  Barely above body temperature. 
    “You’re very prepared,” Jack said. 
    “As were you.  I suppose I really shouldn’t have taken the risk, but the more I thought about it the greater the temptation became.  You’re not Parkins.”
    “No.”
    “I thought not.  Hello, Closer.  It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
    “We haven’t met yet.”
    The voice chuckled.  “Not technically, no.  I’m surprised you didn’t try to capture my drone.”
    “Why take a pawn when you can trap the King?”  Jack began to search through the drawers again, this time more thoroughly. 
    “He’s more of a knight than a pawn, really.  Quite

Similar Books

Research

Philip Kerr

A Step Toward Falling

Cammie McGovern

His Surprise Son

WENDY WARREN

The First Affair

Emma McLaughlin

Parallel Life

Ruth Hamilton

Newport Summer

Nikki Poppen