Deliverer

Chapter 11

He went straight to his office. His head pounded with too many thoughts. He shouldn't have eaten with them. He didn't want to know them. He didn't need to know who they were. Suddenly they seemed more real to him, and he resented it.

Out. They had to get out of his house.

Truman settled himself behind the desk, sinking into the padded chair. Where was Barley when he needed him? Sid should be in Canada by now. Truman scrolled through his contacts and pressed send.

"Hello," Sid greeted, his voice smooth and mirthful all at the same time.

How did Sid manage that? He didn't know who was calling. He had no fear, no concern for those who might wish to end his career. "It's Truman."

"Truman." The smile came through the phone. "What can I do for you?"

Truman gritted his teeth, wanting to wash his phone of Sid's sliminess. "Are you in Canada yet?"

"Yes, arrived just yesterday. You ready to enact our deal?"

"I'm ready to discuss things, yes." Truman led out a careful breath, hoping Sid didn’t notice his anxiety. He needed to get these girls out of his house. "I'd like to meet with you tomorrow."

"Certainly. I'm free in the morning. You remember where the house is?"

"I can find it again." Truman had only been to Sid's Montreal residence one time, right after he inherited his father's accounts. Sid had insisted on offering his help to Truman as he established himself.

Truman had rejected his help, and managed to make a name for himself without it. But the fact that the man had built a replica of a South American summer home, complete with palm trees, in the northern part of North America, said a lot about what he expected reality to do for him: Bend.

"Good,” Sid replied. “We'll see you at ten. I'll have breakfast ready."

Truman hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk. Within a week, the girls would be gone, and Truman would have a little bit of extra money, as well. Just a little bit. It made him nervous to leave the girls at the house without him, though.

He opened the desk drawer and scanned the list of phone numbers. Fayande was their contact inside the Montreal police force, and his number topped the list. Truman dialed the number.

French words carried through the receiver, and Truman cut him off with, "Officer Fayande?"

The French stopped, and the man said in crisp English, "Yes. Who is calling?"

"The Canadian White House," Truman said, spouting out their code words.

Fayande didn't miss a beat, but Truman knew he was paying attention now. The tips Truman paid him more than doubled his police salary. "How can I assist?"

"I need two or three of your men to pay me a visit tomorrow morning, about nine a.m. Can that be arranged?"

"I believe so," Fayande said, his voice cordial and unassuming.

"Make sure you know their loyalties." The police would see the kidnapped girls, and he couldn't risk an officer he didn’t know trying to be a hero.

“I will make sure.”

“That’s all, then." Truman hung up the phone, feeling reassured. With the police nearby, there would be an added level of security for the girls.

He switched on his tablet and opened his online bank account. Finding Fayande's account, he transferred over several thousand. It was the only way to guarantee his silence.