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“How do you track her?” he asks, bending down to talk at eye level.
My skin starts to crawl with awakening. The aches and bruises will fade over time, but time is of the essence now for Lindsay. She must be terrified.
And I know she’s waiting for me. I can’t fail her.
I won’t.
“Get me out of here.”
“I can’t! They’re --”
“Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.”
“For a guy who’s being charged with enough offenses to stay in prison for the rest of your life, Drew, you’re awfully demanding.”
“And for a guy who just kidnapped my girlfriend, you’re being an asshole, Mark.”
His eyes widen, jaw dropping, face gobsmacked.
And then he bristles.
“You know damn well that wasn’t me.”
“And you know damn well I didn’t do any of the things I’m charged with,” I reply.
“I know that!”
“Then DO SOMETHING about it! You’re Mark Paulson, for fuck’s sake!” I explode.
“Like what?”
“You’re the famous Senator James Thornberg’s grandson. According to Harry, you walk on water. Use that influence. Make calls. Get me the hell out of here so I can go get Lindsay.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Make it that simple.”
“There are limits to what I can do, Drew.”
“Push them all. Push every fucking limit until it breaks, then get me out of here.”
“If – if! -- there’s even the smallest chance I can get you out, it’ll take days. Weeks. Give me the microchip information so I can start pinpointing Lindsay’s location now.”
I stare him down.
Here’s the thing: I trust Mark Paulson with my life. With Lindsay’s life.
But my brain feels like someone filled it with wet helium balloons. I just got the shit kicked out of me in custody after a raid on my apartment for crimes I didn’t commit. “Mark Paulson” kidnapped my girlfriend from her father’s high-security compound.
I don’t know who to trust.
A flash of insight into Lindsay’s frame of mind the day we left the Island hits me between the eyes.
Mark lets out a nasty sigh of disbelief. He knows what I’m thinking. “That wasn’t me.”
I just look at him. He’s blurry on one side. I reach up to find a very raw right eye socket on my face. Pain blooms as I touch it.
“They really roughed you up,” he says with sympathy, handing me a small package of baby wipes from his breast pocket. I open them and gently blot the facial injuries.
