Chapter nine
I hear a motorbike engine, the familiar roar of my old Kawasaki, my one concession to fun. I jump up, heading downstairs, because I know that's Slater and Mikey, and I know my time with Seb is coming to an end.
I greet them outside, where they stand talking to each other, and they turn to me, their faces somber. Slater hands me the keys for my bike and I see him pocketing his own car keys.
"So, you guys didn't come together? And why'd you bring my bike?" Mikey glances at me, and his expression is unreadable.
"No, I've been here for a while, you know how slow Slater takes it on your bike."
I gulp; the door was unlocked, and there's no way Mikey stayed outside voluntarily in this frigid air. I wonder what he saw, or heard; but he isn't saying anything. Slater runs his hand over his face; he looks tired and drawn. Something's gone wrong.
I'm distracted as they tell me about Jason, as I hadn't been interested in asking about it during our brief calls and messages over the last few days: when they'd got to his place there were bodies splayed everywhere - the usual fallout after one of their frat house parties. Slater had abandoned him on a filthy couch between two of his roommates, sleeping peacefully, which was more than he'd deserved. Later he'd apologized to Slater for not coming - he'd forgotten the entire night, and been convinced by his friends, who clearly couldn't remember a thing either, that he'd been with them as they mistakenly inserted him into their anecdotes of the night.
"Whatever that stuff was, Mikey, get rid of it," I instruct. Mikey nods, wide-eyed.
* * * * *
Once we're inside, with hot mugs of coffee, Slater speaks.
"You were right, Ollie. He didn't pay. I think it nearly went very, very wrong."
"It all seemed okay at first," Slater tells me, "he just agreed that he'd pay the million, didn't even question anything, didn't ask for proof of life, nothing. Just said he'd send someone to the rest stop and they'd leave a briefcase with the money. I was happy it was so easy." Mikey rolls his eyes and I can imagine the less than flattering thoughts that are going through his mind about Slater's reaction, imagine, as well, him having to point out the potential for it going wrong.
"Because of what you told us, about how he wouldn't give up his money easy, we decided we needed to be careful," Mikey says. Thank god for Mikey, who at least has an ounce of sense. Slater is an anomaly; he grew up rough, his mother a borderline crack whore, his stepfather using him as a punching bag, but he was smart enough and sporty enough to get the scholarship and escape as soon as he could. But, despite everything about his upbringing suggested he should be full to the brim with street smarts and common sense, he's one of the most naïve and puppy-like people I know. Which is why I feel even guiltier for going along with his harebrained schemes. Mikey and I are such enablers.
"We got there early," Slater continues the story, "and we hid your bike in the bushes and climbed trees so we'd have a good aerial view. It's lucky we did. Two guys drove up an hour before it was supposed to happen. Big guys. They looked dangerous."
"They just left their car in the open and hid behind some bushes," Mikey tells me, "only a few feet from your bike, but they didn't even look around."
"They had guns," Slater whispers with wide eyes, "big, heavy black things. And they were talking really loudly, laughing and joking about how they were going to get rid of us."
"They gave up eventually," Mikey patted Slater's arm reassuringly, "drove off, pissed because they thought their boss had wasted their time. And we went home."
"I was so stiff after clinging onto that tree for hours!" Slater laughs, apparently already recovered from his earlier fear.
"But we didn't come up with any ideas. What will we do?" Mikey asks.
"I don't know, Mikey. What can we do?" I say
"I mean you were right, he isn't going to pay up, he's not bothered about Sebastian."
"Seb," I correct, and Mikey sends me one of his unexpectedly sharp looks.
Just then, Slater's burner vibrates in his hand. He fishes the voice synthesizer out of his pocket.
"Shit, that's him."
Slater answers on speaker.
"You didn't pick up the money," Winthrop senior has an imperious drawl. I see a sudden burst of white-hot fury and grab the phone and synthesizer from Slater.
"You didn't send it. And it seems you're playing stupid games. Think we'll start sending body parts, do you?"
Even through the synthesizer, I know there's no disguising the viciousness in my voice. But it has no effect on the man.
"Would you? I need some fertilizer. The boy might as well be good for something." We all gasp. I feel the blood slide from my face, push the phone back to Slater. I don't know how to deal with someone so callous, so cold to the wellbeing of his own flesh and blood. But why am I surprised? He hasn't cared for his son, his beautiful, broken son, before now. Why would mortal danger suddenly make him step up? The only thing he cares about is himself, if what Seb told me is even partly true - and I think it's all true. A wave of an idea comes to me. Not a good one, maybe, but something that will hit the sickening man where it hurts. I grab the phone back from Slater.
Before I can say anything, the man says something even more disgusting, making my blood boil behind my eyes.
