Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Page 8

  “Oh, and what’re you, then?”

  Peterson had one card to play.

  “Alive!” he barked. “I’m fucking alive, unlike you, asshole!”

  He jerked the phone away from his ear and tapped the part of the screen where the red disconnect button should be.

  12

  Reunions: 5:17 AM

  Anthony Peterson tried not to think about Sully. Sully was proof of insanity.

  Or was Sully a genius who faked his death and set all this up for revenge?

  Peterson ran his hand over his hair and sighed. No, no, no. That was absurd, at best. He was just having an episode.

  It was the real world he needed to worry about. It was the money.

  If he didn’t get every cent of that ransom together, Sully would kill Susan and–

  He froze again.

  Sully? Was he beginning to believe that? No. Not Sully. He was already thinking of Sully as being real and behind this. That was impossible.

  Focus on the real world. Focus on reality.

  The money. Where could he get the rest?

  He sighed. He had the answer, but he didn’t like it. He wished he could have relied on Tom to make this call, but Tom was occupied with his own drama and…for once, Peterson needed to do something like a man…on his own.

  He was still nervous, giddy, almost hopped up on his endorphins as he lifted the phone, took it out of sleep mode, and dialed one of the other numbers he knew by heart.

  “Yes?”

  Peterson was silently relieved to hear the voice of his son. He had grown up to be a man, mostly while Peterson was looking the other way. Regrets.

  “Evan,” he said, quietly. “How are you, my son?”

  “Son?” Evan scoffed, sounding amused and taken aback. “You all right, old man? That sounded almost endearing.”

  The warm feeling he had at the sound of his son’s voice evaporated quickly.

  “Actually, no, son, I’m not all right. It’s been a bit of a clusterfuck over here.”

  “Ah, I get it. You need something.” Evan laughed. Peterson hadn’t expected Evan to sound so much like Sully had. “You know, it’s late. Maybe we can talk more about this in the morning. Wait, what time is it? Later in the morning when decent people are awake. Goodbye–”

  Peterson panicked. He was terrified that his son might hang up. “No, no, no, please…wait. Don’t go. We need to talk about this now.”

  “Dad?” Evan said, seeming to realize the old man was serious. At the sound of his son calling him ‘Dad’ again, he brightened ever so slightly. Then, Evan’s voice went back to business. “I see. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been kidnapped,” he said abruptly.

  “Pardon?” Evan responded, chuckling in disbelief.

  Peterson swallowed, dryly. “This is not a joke, Evan. I’m trapped somewhere in a metal shipping container. I’ve been talking to the kidnappers. They tell me I’ve got air for twenty-four hours and no more. And that leaves me, now…” Anthony tried to do the math in his head and gave it up. “I don’t know. Well, less than twenty.”

  “What is this? Really?” Evan stammered.

  Anthony laid out the last straw. “If I don’t pay them a ransom, I’m a dead man.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Evan said, shaken.

  “And…they’ve kidnapped your mother too.”

  Anthony realized his mistake as soon as the words left his lips. Time slowed down as he silently cursed his choice of words. Peterson had touched a sore spot that he should have known better than to even approach.

  Evan’s voice changed immediately. “No, my mother is here!” Evan spat back.

  “Now, now, Evan–”

  “You mean Susan, don’t you? That bitch is barely older than I am. She’s not my fucking mother!”

  “Evan, please, I didn’t–”

  “So, what you’re really saying is that someone has kidnapped you and your fucking trophy wife, right? You know, if this is some kind of sick fucking joke, it’s already not fucking funny.”

  “Evan, I told you this is not a joke!”

  “Then you’ve got a phone. Call the goddamn police!”

  “Evan, if I call the police, they’ll kill her. If I call the police, they’ll kill me, or let me die in here. You don’t know these people. They’re crazy! I…” Anthony paused and changed his tone to more of a whisper. “If I don’t pay them the ransom within twenty-four hours, we’re both dead!”

  “So why are you calling me?”

  Peterson was shocked. How much had his son changed over the years. He went from thinking his dear old dad hung the moon to hating the elder Peterson with a white-hot intensity.

  “Why am I…” he trailed off in disbelief. “Because I’m your father!”

  Evan paused as if mulling this over to the same extent that Peterson himself had mulled over whether Sully was really real. “I don’t know, Anthony!” Evan said, using the first name for maximum hurt. “Sometimes I feel like I should say to you, ‘Hey, thanks for the sperm!’ and just leave it at that.”

  Peterson closed his eyes to try to calm himself. He knew better. He had never been the best father, but he had given the kids much more than just life. They were millionaires because of him…but he couldn’t get into that just now.

  “Son, I…I need your help.”

  Instead of responding, Evan just sighed, heavily as if to urge Peterson to just get it over with.

  “I’m…I’m short on the ransom,” Peterson said, pained. “I need every penny of what they’re asking for to save my life. Both our lives.”

  “So clear out some of your–”

  “I’ve cleared out everything!” Peterson said, perhaps too aggressively. “It’s all gone because of this. I even tried selling off the properties, but they’re mortgaged beyond belief.”

  “What’s this got to do with me, then?” Evan asked, and Peterson could hear the sneer in his voice.

  Carefully, he continued. “I gave you and your sister…your mother and I…gave you and your sister trust funds…and I need to borrow back that money.”

  “Then, why the hell didn’t you call and ask her?” Evan was angry, and Peterson couldn’t grasp why. This was his life they were talking about.

  Peterson tried to respond calmly and plainly and honestly. “Because…Elena hates me,” he said. It gave Anthony Peterson no pleasure to admit that fact, but it was the truth. If Evan had grown cold to his father, Elena despised him even more passionately. “She hates me more than you do. More than even your mother does.”

  Evan scoffed. “No, no, no. That’s impossible. No one hates you more than my mother does.”

  Peterson felt defeated. Completely beaten down. Evan was his last chance at salvation and the boy was pulling that lifeline away. “Son…I need some help here.”

  “Don’t ‘son’ me, Anthony. We’re not close. We’re barely on a first name basis, you and I.”

  “I need…help,” he repeated, hurting.

  Evan sighed and paused. “How much do you need?”

  Peterson ripped off the bandage. “All of it,” he said softly, regretfully. “Both accounts.”

  “All of it?” Evan shouted. “What the fuck?”

  “Evan, please!”

  “What the fuck are we supposed to live on?”

  “Son, it’s only money compared to your father’s life!”

  “Only money? Only?” Evan scoffed indignantly. “No, Anthony, if I learned anything from you, I learned that there is no such thing as ‘only money.’ I was raised by Ebenezer fucking Scrooge.”

  Peterson winced. He had taught his son that. He was hearing his own words fired back at him.

  “Son, I’ll be alive, we can make more money. I can pay it back!”

  “I can’t believe this, Anthony!” Evan shouted.

  Peterson gave his son a moment and then said, “We’re talking about your father’s life here.”

  Evan was quiet. It was as if he was thinking long and hard
about it, then he answered, wearily yet angrily, “You made your filthy fucking bed, Anthony! Fluff up that pillow and lie the fuck down in it.”

  Peterson flinched from the phone again. His sorrow quickly changed to rage. What did this greedy little shit think he was doing putting money over the life of his father and his step-mother?

  Fuck this kid. Fuck him! Fuck both his kids. Fuck Elena. Fuck Evan.

  “Yeah?” Peterson growled back at his son. “Well, maybe so, but, full disclosure, this was meant to be a courtesy call more than anything else.”

  “What?” Evan gasped, terrified.

  “Yeah, see, technically I don’t need your permission, or your sister’s, to access both accounts. I wanted to call to talk to you. I thought, stupidly, that you might value your father’s life. You know, maybe sympathize just a tiny bit with the danger I’m in, but I can see that’s not going to happen. So, I’m notifying you now, anyway! I’m pulling the money out of your accounts.”

  “You…can’t…do…that!” Evan insisted after a shocked pause.

  “Actually, I can. Read the fine print, son, my name is still on both accounts.”

  Evan exploded. He had never heard such fury from his son, even in the teen years. He shouted like a rampaging animal so loudly at his father that his voice distorted over the phone line.

  “YOU FILTHY FUCKING DEGENERATE PIG-FUCKER COCKSUCKER!”

  Peterson flinched away from the vitriol pouring out of the phone. His eyes snapped shut, and he pulled the phone away to save his ear from this torrent of abuse. Evan hung up before Peterson could respond.

  In spite of Evan’s reaction, the call really had been a courtesy.

  Peterson’s life was at stake. Could Evan not see the importance of this? Did Anthony Peterson mean so little, even to his own children?

  No, no, no! Nobody hung up on Anthony Peterson. He was not about to leave it like this. Not like this. Not with his son.

  His…son.

  That was who this was after all. He should never have let his anger get the best of him. Evan was his legacy. Elena too. How could he be so cold to them…again?

  Mental pictures shuffled through his consciousness like quickly dealt cards. He recalled one photo Marie had taken of Peterson walking with Elena when she was only seven years old. She was holding her daddy’s hand and looking up at him for guidance. Evan was there, too, a little older, trying to look cool in the corner of the photo in his leather jacket and torn jeans.

  Another image flashed of Marie, still healthy at the time, holding both the kids behind a flaming birthday cake. Anthony himself had just made it into the background of the photo before the timer snapped the photo for him.

  Another had Peterson posing on the shiny new motorbike he had bought himself with his growing wealth. He thought he looked like a young Brando, except for the fact that Evan was perched on the bike’s tank in front of his dad, wearing a cheap, plastic toy helmet and trying to look tough as a frustrated Elena tried to climb up on the seat behind Anthony. She just perched there with her chest on the seat and paused with a big smile as Marie had taken the photo.

  They really had been a happy family once, hadn’t they? Marie and Evan and Elena and Anthony, the breadwinner.

  Where had that all gone wrong?

  His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t need another electric shock for that or for the realization of the truth. He had gone wrong. Anthony Peterson and his greed had killed the family. He knew this now.

  No, no, no. He could still die even now. He needed to try to make things right with Evan to start with. Then, Elena would be next after the money was transferred. At least Evan would talk to him. Wouldn’t he?

  He shakily dialed the phone again and let it ring and ring until Evan finally picked it back up.

  It was as if the deluge of curses hadn’t stopped, and Peterson had only tuned back in to the continuation. “Why did you leave? Why? Why did you leave us? Your children? Our mother. Your own wife?”

  He prepared himself to tell Evan of his mother’s infidelity. How she had cheated on him with his own best friend. The day he figured it out because she was the only one who ever called Sully by his first name. But before the words could come out of his mouth, he swallowed them.

  No. Don’t denigrate Evan’s mother. He’ll only hate you more. Stay on topic.

  “Your mother was an invalid,” Peterson explained patiently, if on edge. “She was very, very sick. I couldn’t live the rest of my life married to an invalid.” The second the words were out of his mouth, he realized they were the wrong ones. If anything, those words would have alienated his son even more than telling him about Sully would have.

  “Oh, I get it. Well, that makes it all better, doesn’t it? So, you’re saying that you left our mother just when she needed you the most. Just when she was at her worst you left her so you could get yourself some cunt trophy wife?” Evan continued angrily and sarcastically. “Oh, and now, now, you’re calling me as a courtesy? A courtesy to tell us that you’re taking everything to save the life of that same cunt trophy wife you left our dying mother for?”

  Peterson listened to every single word and cringed inside. He couldn’t answer because that was exactly what he was doing.

  “Just…just…” Evan started softly, sounding sad and too tired to keep fighting, “Go to hell.”

  With those words, he hung up again.

  Peterson leaned sadly against the wall of his prison again, feeling beaten and stung by those words. All of the words.

  And all of the memories.

  And the old man was acutely aware that these might well be the last words he and his son ever shared before his death…and they were not good.

  13

  Climbing Hedera: 5:41 AM

  Anthony Peterson was not currently on the mind of one Tom Pocase.

  He had made it to the Doctor’s house, appropriately covered in ivy, and had banged on the door.

  Doctor Ivy had shushed him, pointing both directions as if to say, ‘shut up for the neighbors’ and then motioned to the garage.

  Smart. The doctor didn’t want to bring a body in through the front door. “Oh, I get it,” Tom said as the Doctor slammed the door.

  When the garage door had opened, Tom drove in quickly, and he and the Doctor carried the girl in to try to revive her.

  Tom couldn’t even remember the girl’s name. He supposed he should feel really bad about that, but he figured there was time for guilt and reintroductions later. He just wanted to get this done…somehow.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully with her alive.

  Ugh, and then, there was that whole Anthony thing. Was that even real? How the hell could two things this bad happen on the same night?

  Tom leaned in the doorway watching the Doctor work his magic on the immobile girl.

  “Aw, man, I’m gonna lose my job,” Tom said aloud.

  Doctor Ivy looked up at Tom for a second, as if disbelieving he had said anything so ridiculous at a time like that, then got back to work.

  Then, he realized something. Oh, yeah…I’m still working! I’m, like, at work right now.

  He had an alibi. And it was getting close to dawn.

  “Hey, just you let me know if I can do anything to help!” Tom called out to the Doctor who simply nodded and gave the girl another shot through her IV.

  Tom texted his wife and spoke the words aloud, stupidly, as he did. “Honey, Anthony’s…got…me…working…all…night. I know… Typical… Anyway…be…back…soon, I hope. Will…explain…later… You…know…how…he gets…when…he…thinks…it’s…life…or…death.”

  He considered adding something about not being with an overdosing girl he had picked up, but deduced that might be a bad idea.

  “Love…you,” he added in a second text.

  “Hey, that was easy. Convenient, really. At first, I thought my luck was terrible with all this happening on the same day, but you know, Doc? First, there’s you, and now, my wife doesn’t susp
ect a thing. Sometimes, things work out just–”

  “Dude, do you mind shutting the fuck up here?” Doctor Ivy demanded as he checked the girl’s eyes.

  “Oh, oh, right. The…the saving the day thing. Right.” Tom nodded and fought to stay quiet.

  Tom paced back and forth, saying, “Please let her be all right, please let her be all right. Please let me still have a job tomorrow. Please let me have a wife tomorrow. Please let her be all right, please let her be all riiiiight…”

  The Doctor was frantically working and shouted back at him, “Dude, do you mind? I can’t hear myself think here.”

  Tom idly realized that he had never once heard a doctor say, ‘dude,’ and that was really funny to him. “You think it’s because of all that beeping that machine’s doing?” he asked.

  The Doctor sighed and said, “No, joker, I don’t. That beeping signifies her heartbeat. That’s what I need to be listening for. Now, if you don’t mind, push that table over to me with the instruments on it. Slowly.”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Tom said, delighted to be helpful. He started to push the cart, then noticed a certain object glimmering up at him. “Oh, hey, do you mind if I keep this Bluetooth you’ve got here?”

  Doctor Ivy jerked the wheeled table from Tom and said, “If that’s what it takes to get you to shut up, sure. It’s all charged up, it’s yours, just don’t say another goddam word, dude.”

  “Fine,” Tom said. “Nice Bluetooth.”

  The Doctor scoffed and kept working.

  “Okay,” Ivy said at last. “I think that does it. She’s got adrenaline and a few–” The Doctor looked at Tom for a second and decided he wouldn’t understand a single word he said, so he moved on. “–a few things that counteract the drugs you said she’s taken. I can’t promise there won’t be any brain damage, but I am hoping.”

  “What happens now?” Tom asked, excitedly.

  “Well, I just gave her the charcoal solution, so she should be puking her guts out into that bucket pretty soon. When that happens, you can either wait here with her to take her home, or she can stay with me, and I’ll drop her off somewhere tomorrow. That, of course, will cost Anthony a few more bucks.”