Captive Dove. Judith Leon
living room floor lamp and eased down the hallway. Alex was, at this very moment, off someplace in the Amazon birding with his buddy, Ronnie Obst. Suleema had met the young Obst once, at Regina’s house. She had liked him, and thought him a good friend for Alex. Alex, so exceptionally bright and mature for his age, was too serious. Ronnie was outgoing and adventurous and had traveled all over the world with his rather famous father. Ronnie encouraged Alex, who had been more devoted to his computer than to nature before their friendship, to get out and explore life.
She used the wall switch to light her nightstand lamp. Another night of sleeping alone. Her gaze was drawn to her favorite photograph of Raymond, gone from a heart attack for just over five years. He’d not lived to see her elevated from the Ninth Circuit Court, but he’d always believed she had a good chance to be “the one.”
Hypatia wiggled, and Suleema let her drop onto the quilt.
“I know it’ll happen,” Raymond had said. “You’re the smartest woman, the smartest person, I’ve ever known, Sulee. You’re a natural for the Supremes.”
He’d been right. He was a building contractor, the practical one, she the one who lived a life of the mind. They’d been a great match. The place in her chest where her heart had been ripped away by his death still throbbed with longing and loss.
It took no more than ten minutes to undress, snuggle into a cotton nightgown and down under the covers. Hypatia curled up at her hip. She’d never had trouble sleeping, and quickly drifted into the state of fractured thoughts that came just before full unconsciousness. Then she heard a sound.
What was it?
Silence. She let her mind drift again.
Another sound, a definite click. She stiffened in the bed, eyes open, peering at the dark ceiling, ears straining.
Hypatia lifted her head from her paws and looked toward the bedroom door. Suleema sat up halfway on one elbow, peering into shadows formed behind moonlight flooding through the bay window, and then a shadow, dark as a cave, blocked off the pale glow. A gloved hand grabbed her throat and shoved her back down into the bed.
The man, it had to be a man, knelt so that he forced one leg between hers, right through the covers. He grabbed Hypatia by the scruff and lifted the calico into the air.
Suleema clawed at the gloved hand, unable to suck in even a tiny breath. She raked her fingers down his sleeve. He leaned on her, his weight that of a man at least as tall as Raymond’s six feet.
“If you don’t want me to kill your cat,” the dark shadow said, “lay still.”
Lie still! Shouldn’t she fight for her life?
Could she even fight for her life? She was sixty-three years old! His hand felt huge, his body enormous. He was probably going to rape and kill her, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
She tried to say, “Can’t breathe,” but no words would come out.
“You gonna lay still?” he said. He spoke softly, an ominous near-whisper, but clearly and with authority. He moved so that some light fell on him and she saw that his head was bald and he wore only one gold earring.
He wasn’t masked, not hiding his identity. Yes, he was going to kill her.
He let up enough on her throat for her to drag in a choked breath, then another.
He sat Hypatia on her chest. “I could kill this cat right now. I could kill you right now. Right?”
She nodded. Clever Hypatia leaped off the bed and headed for a safer place.
“I got in here, I can get to you anywhere. I have a message for you. You listening?”
Again she nodded. That seemed to be all he wanted from her so far. To listen. Her mind was going lickety-split, thinking what a woman was supposed to do. Try and talk to him.
“The Supreme Court’s decision in the case of Sharansky versus the United States Government is due in eight days. On the twenty-seventh of December. I’m telling you that you are to vote against Sharansky.”
This is insane. It doesn’t make any sense. What the hell is he saying?
“You hear me? In Sharansky versus the U.S. Government, you are to vote against Sharansky. And if you don’t, your grandson, Alex Hailey Hill, will be killed.”
She got it. He was here to make her vote for the U.S. Government in this bitterly fought case brought by New Hampshire’s lieutenant governor and the lieutenant governors of seven other states. The court was split. Their deliberations were secret, but it was widely assumed that the decision would be up to the new justice, Suleema Johnson, the swing vote, the tiebreaker. And this assumption was, in fact, correct. And someone choking off her breath claimed to be able to kill Alex unless she voted against her conscience and her judgment.
But Alex wasn’t even in the country. The threat seemed preposterous.
“Now here’s the way it’s going to be,” he said. He leaned his knee hard into her groin. “You will not tell anyone—and I mean anyone—what I’ve just told you. You will vote for the government. That is why I’m here. To make sure you do. If you tell anyone, the boy will be killed. You understand?”
She nodded, wondering who she could safely tell. Someone would have to be told.
“I know that when I leave, you’ll want to call your daughter to check whether the boy is safe or not. Don’t. She won’t know yet that we have him. Your calling would tip her off you know something you shouldn’t, and we will be listening.”
The very mention of Regina from this thug sent Suleema’s mind bounding off in a rabbitlike panic.
“You just wait a day. Watch the news. Maybe give your daughter a call tomorrow. She’s in for a nasty surprise.”
“Get off me!” she managed to hiss out.
With his free hand, he pulled something from his pocket. A knife. The blade—short and thick and serrated along the top—gleamed silver in the moonlight.
One quick stroke toward her chest. She felt nothing at first, then a stinging sensation and then liquid trickling warmly across her skin.
“That’s just a little taste,” he said, his voice still that ominous whisper, “of what could happen to the boy. And to you.”
He released her, stood, turned and strode out of the bedroom.
Suleema lay still, afraid to even move enough to touch her chest. How badly had he cut her? Maybe he was still in the house.
No. He’d want to get out.
She forced her hand to move, touched the cut beneath the cotton, and felt a surge of relief that it was sticky but superficial.
She should get up. Call 9–1-1. Call the federal marshal’s office.
But what if he, or whoever had sent him, did have Alex? How could that possibly be? Maybe Alex hadn’t gone on the trip. Maybe they had taken him from school. Kidnapping was FBI responsibility. She must call the FBI, of course, not 9–1-1.
But the FBI could only help if Alex was in the States. Wasn’t that so? What if Alex wasn’t? She crossed her hands as if lying in a casket and hugged herself, still terrified to get out of the bed, nightmare images and thoughts scrambling through her head. How could they know how much Alex meant to her? The man had been so confident that he wasn’t even wearing a mask.
What if she didn’t call the FBI at once, if she waited until tomorrow to call Regina to find out if the threat was real? If she called the federal marshals, they would insist on putting a bodyguard on her, even when she was away from the court. Except occasionally at high-profile speaking engagements she had never felt the need for a bodyguard, provided when requested to Supreme Court judges by the marshal’s office. Until now. Having her driver, Sam, with her had been reassurance enough. Asking for protection now would wave a red flag.
Someone