Free Exposure by Mal Peet Page A

bed. His drug-induced sleepiness is dispelled by something that feels like a shower of ice. He has sometimes imagined, dreaded, a call like this. The kidnap call. ]
BRABANTA: Who is this? What do you want?
    The line has gone dead.
    Brabanta presses the last-call redial buttons, but, as he expected, a robotic voice tells him that the caller withheld his number. He dials Desmerelda’s apartment and gets the answering machine, as usual. He waits, dry-mouthed and impatient, for the beep.
    “Darling? Are you there? Pick up the phone. Desmerelda, please pick up the phone. Okay, listen, darling — call me back the instant you hear this. I’m going to try your cell.”
    He cannot remember the number and curses himself. He goes to where his dressing gown is draped over a chair and finds his own phone in the pocket. He scrolls down the list of names and when DES appears on the display, stabs CALL .
    “Hi. I can’t take your call at the moment, but —”
    Brabanta swears and cuts her message off. Five seconds later, he tries again and waits.
    “Desmerelda. It’s Papa. Call me back now. Right now. I don’t care what time it is. This is serious.”
    He drops the phone onto the bed and clasps his hands together because they are shaking. It occurs to him that he is one of the best-connected men in the city, and he can’t think whom he can talk to. After a while he takes up the phone again and calls Desmerelda’s so-called personal assistant. He listens to the ringtone for what seems an eternity, and then she answers.
    “Hello?”
    “Ramona, this is Nestor Brabanta.”
    “Señor. Hello. Just a second, I . . .”
    There is a little patch of silence; she has put her hand over the mouthpiece. Then he hears her clear her throat.
    “Señor, how can I —”
    “Ramona, do you know where my daughter is?”
    “Um . . . no, I’m afraid I don’t.”
    “Why not? Dammit, girl, aren’t you supposed to know? Isn’t that what you’re paid for?”
    “Well, I . . . Señor, is there a problem?”
Brabanta’s bedside phone rings.
He says to Ramona, “I’ll call you back.”
BRABANTA: Desmerelda?
VOICE: I wouldn’t bother waiting up if I were you, Senator. I don’t think she’ll be calling you back tonight. I imagine that Daddy is the last thing on her mind right now.
BRABANTA: Listen, whoever you are. If you do anything . . . if any harm comes to my daughter, I’ll find you and kill you. I promise you that. [ A pause. He hears what might be wind or surf, or perhaps just electronic slush. ] How much do you want?
VOICE: Oh, no. No, no, Senator. Money can’t get back what you’ve lost. You think you can put a price on your reputation? Your honor? Your family name?
BRABANTA: What the hell are you talking about? Listen, if this is a hoax or —
VOICE: I just want to put you in the picture.
BRABANTA: What picture?
VOICE: King Kong.
BRABANTA: What?
VOICE: King Kong. The movie. You’ve seen it? Of course you have. And I know the bit you remember best. It’s where that dirty great gorilla picks up the half-naked blonde in his paw. Right?
BRABANTA: What is this crap? Tell me where my daughter is, damn you!
VOICE: I just did. But you’re not listening. I’m wasting my time. Good night, Senator.
BRABANTA: Wait! Okay. Please. I’m listening.
VOICE: That’s better. Where was I? Oh, yes. The pale vulnerable girl in that big black fist. What did you think, Senator, when you saw that? What do men like you and I think when we see that?
BRABANTA: I don’t know.
VOICE: Yes, you do. We imagine our wives in that situation. Or our daughters. Wriggling and squealing. Hmm? Don’t we?
BRABANTA [ hoarsely ]: Who are you?
VOICE: Mind you, that King Kong is a real superstar. I read somewhere that he cost a cool fifty million. And right now your daughter must be thinking he was worth every cent. Probably thinks it’s the best present her daddy ever bought her.
[ Click and hum. ]
    Brabanta sits holding the phone. After a while it starts to feel