Last Chance to Die

by Noah Boyd

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me noticing.”

  “It’s something I’ve always been afraid of. When you ran your hand through his hair, I knew.”

  “And Joey?”

  “He’s fine. Downstairs in a locked room. He’ll be restricted until he learns he’s better off here.”

  “Than with his parents?”

  “Since I’m the one with the gun, you don’t get to be judgmental,” Hillstrand said. “Besides, if they were good parents, they wouldn’t have left him alone in a crowd like that.”

  “You mean with the pedophiles and all.”

  Hillstrand raised the gun and pointed it at Vail’s face. “I am not a pedophile.”

  Vail took a closer look at the gun and said, “That thing looks pretty old. Sure it still works?”

  “It was my grandfather’s and it works just fine.”

  “That particular model is military. It has a number of safeties. Are you sure it’s set to fire?”

  Hillstrand smiled. “I’ve shot it enough times since my father left it to me to be positive.”

  Vail was trying to determine how familiar Hillstrand was with the weapon. Because it had been designed for the military, it had four separate safeties. Not many people knew about the disconnector safety. If the end of the barrel could be pushed back a fraction of an inch toward the person holding the weapon, the hammer wouldn’t release. Since Hillstrand didn’t seem to know all that much about the mechanics of the gun, Vail thought if he could get into position and push it toward him—with the body’s natural tendency to push back—it would keep the safety engaged for the split second it would take to disarm him.

  But right now Hillstrand was standing just far enough away to prevent that. “Can you at least let me see the boy, then?” Vail asked.

  “Sure. With the carpeting and all up here, it’ll be less messy downstairs.”

  “Call me cynical, but that doesn’t sound like a very happy New Year to me.”

  Hillstrand’s only response was to wave the gun toward the basement door. Once they were downstairs, he pointed to a heavy steel door with a thick lock and hasp. “He’s in there.” Carefully he tossed Vail the keys. Vail opened the lock and turned back to Hillstrand, holding the keys in his outstretched right hand. Hillstrand took a cautious step closer. Vail knew that this was it.

  As Hillstrand reached for the key ring, Vail half turned back to the door and, appearing distracted, drew the key ring back about six inches. Hillstrand leaned slightly forward to get it. Vail spun quickly and stepped into him, placing his hand over the muzzle of the gun and pushing it into Hillstrand.

  For a split second, Hillstrand pushed back against Vail’s hand, pulling at the frozen trigger frantically. But as Vail turned to get a better grip on the weapon, Hillstrand drew it back and pulled the trigger. The .45’s explosion echoed slowly through the basement.

  Kate and the Reston chief, Tim Mallon, sat behind his desk watching the interrogation of their sex-offender suspect, Frank Dillon, on a closed-circuit monitor. “What do you think, Kate, is it him?”

  She watched the suspect’s body language closely. “It’s hard to tell with these sociopaths. And I’m certainly no expert. I promise you that someone from Behavioral Sciences will be up here tomorrow. This detective seems to know what he’s doing, though. As soon as Vail gets back, he may be able to figure it out.”

  “Where is he? The desk officer said he went out.”

  “I think he went to get something to eat.”

  There was a knock at the door. A uniformed officer stepped in. “Chief, the parents are here.”

  “Bring them back.” Mallon turned off the monitor.

  “You want me to leave, Tim?” Kate asked.

  “God, no. That the FBI is involved is the most reassuring thing I can tell them right now.”

  The door opened again, and Mr. and Mrs. Walton walked in. Mallon introduced them both to Kate, and everyone sat down. Confusion and grief distorted Mrs. Walton’s face. Her makeup and hair were disheveled. Her husband, whose eyes were slightly red, tried to strike a calmer pose, more to keep his wife’s teetering hysteria in check than as a reflection of his own feelings. “Any news?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, not yet. But we’ve got the entire force following up on leads. We have brought someone in, and he’s being interrogated right now.”

  “Is he the one? Is there something you’re not telling us?” Mrs. Walton asked anxiously.

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Well, who is he?” the husband asked. “Why him?”

  Mallon knew that there would be no comfort in the answer. Kate said, “He’s a convicted sex offender. This is routine. There’s nothing to indicate that he has anything to do with Joey being missing.”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Walton said, and collapsed onto her husband’s shoulder.

  There was another knock at the door, and the desk officer leaned his head in again. “Chief, there’s someone here that you’re going to want to—”

  “We’re busy right now, Nelson,” Mallon all but snarled.

  The officer got a strange look on his face and opened the door fully, smiling as he stepped aside.

  Mrs. Walton looked up and bolted to her feet, her mouth gaping in a soundless scream.

  In the doorway stood Steve Vail. In one arm he held Joey Walton wrapped in his topcoat. His other hand was gently cradled around the back of Edward Stanton’s neck.

  Joey’s mother rushed to him, pulling him into her arms. His father hugged them both, no longer hiding his tears. The chief sat dumbfounded, and Kate just looked at Vail, shaking her head.

  Mrs. Walton asked Vail, “Was Joey . . . Is he all right?”

  Vail nodded at her knowingly. “He’s fine.”

  She tightened her arms around the child.

  Vail turned the Stanton boy toward them so he could get the full impact of the reunion. Then he squatted down and looked into his eyes. “Now do you see why it’s important to go back to your real parents? This mom and dad have only been separated from their son for a couple of hours, and look how they feel. Your parents have been without you for four years.” The boy nodded dutifully, but Vail could see it still wasn’t registering fully.

  Kate came over to them and smiled. “And who is this good-looking young man?”

  “This is Edward Stanton,” Vail said. “He was taken in Maryland four years ago.”

  Kate’s head snapped toward Vail. It took her a few seconds to comprehend that this boy was another kidnapping victim. “The same guy had him? How’d you find him?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Kate sensed that her questions were interfering with Vail’s attempt to have the Stanton boy realize that he belonged with his real parents, but, like Mrs. Walton, she couldn’t help but ask about his well-being. “And he didn’t . . .” She bobbed her head back and forth euphemistically so the boy wouldn’t know what she was talking about.

  Vail pulled Kate back away from the eleven-year-old. “Apparently not. This guy who abducted them, George Hillstrand, his wife and son died in childbirth just before he took Edward, here. He just wanted some part of his family back. As far as I can tell, Edward’s been raised well. He’s having a little trouble comprehending it all, figuring out where his loyalties lie, but otherwise he seems okay.”

  Kate watched the boy carefully. She knew that it was not unusual for long-held kidnapping victims to identify with their abductor rather than their family.

  For the first time, Kate noticed that Vail’s hand was wrapped in a white handkerchief and was damp with blood. “Are you all right?”

  “That depends. Do you believe in sympathy dates?”

  “Obviously you’re fine.” She looked closely at him and then back at his hand, as if putting off some argument until they could be alone.

  The chief came over and asked Vail how he’d found the boys. Vail explained about the race photos and how Hillstrand’s name had come up in the Maryla
nd investigation. “Where is Hillstrand?” Mallon asked.

  Vail took Kate’s car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Mallon. “I didn’t have any cuffs, so I duct-taped him and put him in the trunk.”

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “In all the excitement, I must have cut it.”

  The phone rang, and Mallon picked it up, listening for a moment. “Okay, give us a few minutes.” He hung up. “The media is on the way. Straighten your tie, Steve, you’re about to be a hero.” The chief nodded at the Stanton boy. “And wait till they hear about this young man also being safe and sound after all this time.”

  Kate looked at Vail and knew what he was thinking. “Tim, we appreciate it, but this is your time. Just mention that the FBI assisted in the investigation.”

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t take credit for this.”

  Kate cleared her throat, signaling Vail that she was about to tell a lie. She nodded for Mallon to follow her and Vail out of the room. In the hallway she said, “Tim, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t being straight with you when I said Steve wasn’t with the Bureau. This is classified. You’ll have to tell your people and the Waltons not to say anything about his involvement. He’s been working a major municipal corruption case undercover in Chicago as a bricklayer. His name or face in the news will blow two years of hard work. Just tell the media what I told you: An undercover agent found them and is involved in an ongoing investigation. Except lie about Chicago. Since Edward was taken in Maryland, tell them it was Baltimore. That’ll keep them running around in circles until this calms down. And don’t be too modest—you are the one who called us.”

  “Kate, I may have worked applicants my whole career, but I was in the same FBI as you. Plus, I know what a terrible liar you are. I don’t understand why Steve wants to duck this, but I’m too indebted to you both to question it. I’ll just assume it’s necessary.” He gingerly shook Vail’s hand, just interlocking fingertips to avoid the wound. “Whether you’re an agent or not, Steve, I am most grateful.” Mallon hugged Kate. Then he walked back into his office and said to the Stanton boy, “Edward, what do you say we go call your parents?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy answered, his voice starting to gain some enthusiasm.

  Kate unwrapped Vail’s hand, revealing the grazing wound. Fortunately, the round had hit only the fleshy edge. “You’re going to need some stitches.”

  Vail tightened the handkerchief back around his hand. “I’ve been here less than four hours and you’ve already gotten me shot.”

  “Me? You’re the one going off on your own. Again. How is this my fault?”

  “I don’t know. Every time I get near you, something like this happens. It’s like you’re crime’s version of Typhoid Mary.”

  On their way out, Vail remembered something and detoured back through the detective bureau. He picked up the note he’d left on the desk and handed it to her. “Before we have an argument, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t cutting you out. When I left here, I was cursing myself for not going with you, because your lead looked so much better.”

  Kate glanced at the note. “You’re getting a lot better at covering your tracks.”

  “From your tone, apparently not good enough. Just remember who unleashed the hounds. I am a simple mason who was looking forward to free liquor and unsuspecting maidens.” Vail checked the clock on the wall. “Happy New Year, Deputy Assistant Director Bannon.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, trying to determine if they were back on a date. Her response was disappointingly neutral. “Pace yourself, woman, we’ve got the whole night in front of us.”

  This was how it was with Vail, she thought. If there was a mystery in front of them, he was amazing, but once it was over, difficulties between them were inevitable. “Just because you rescued a couple of kids and got a little shot up, don’t think that I’m waving you in for a landing, Vail.”

  When she called him “Vail,” it was a good sign. She used it only when she wasn’t mad. As they walked out into the parking lot, she took his arm, her touch sending electricity through him.

  By the time they left the emergency room less than an hour later, dawn was coming up. Vail had taken four stitches in his hand, and the doctor had told him there shouldn’t be any permanent problems.

  “Well, what’s your poison?” Kate asked. “I guess I owe you some sack time—on the couch. I can get you to the airport later.”

  “Why don’t you just drop me there now.”

  “If you’ll let me buy you breakfast first.”

  Then Kate noticed a familiar black Lincoln Town Car idling in the parking lot, its white-gray exhaust disappearing into the icy air. It belonged to the director of the FBI. As they approached the vehicle, the driver got out.

  Kate said, “Hello, Mike. What’s up?”

  “The director sent me to get you.”

  Kate looked at Vail with a mixture of apology and apprehension.

  One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “Ever notice how seldom the really good dates start out in the emergency room?”

  The driver turned to Vail. “He sent me to get both of you.”

  2

  The black Town Car pulled up to the curb in the 1100 block of Sixteenth Street in northwest D.C. They parked in front of an old mansion that had a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding it. “Where are we, Mike?” Kate asked the driver.

  Vail pointed across the street to a large tan and gray four-story residence. “That’s the old Russian embassy over there.”

  “They’re waiting inside for you,” the driver said, ignoring Kate’s question and Vail’s observation.

  As they got out, Vail pointed at the building they were about to enter and said, “This is the old observation post where the Bureau used to monitor who came and went across the street, but then the Russians built that big compound up on Tunlaw Road, so this place was no longer necessary. Apparently they’ve found some new use for it.”

  When Kate and Vail walked up to the entrance of the huge old dwelling, an agent who was not wearing his suit coat opened one of its heavy, ten-foot-tall oak doors. Along with his sidearm, two magazine pouches were clipped to his belt. He studied both of their faces briefly and then, in a voice that was neither welcoming nor overly official, said, “The director is waiting for you upstairs.”

  They followed a curved staircase to the second floor, and Vail took a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship of the elegant structure, which he estimated to be at least seventy-five years old. The staircase was constructed of Spanish black marble that was almost without any impurities to distort its ebony gloss. A large but delicate glass chandelier hung down through the helix of stairs. “Okay, I’ll ask first,” he said to Kate. “What’s going on?”

  “Not a clue,” she said. “But considering that today’s a holiday, the smart money is that it’s not going to be good news.”

  “Next time I’m planning the date. Someplace without telephones or emergency rooms. Or FBI directors.”

  “Do you think if you use the word ‘date’ enough times, we’ll actually be on one?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll admire me for my perseverance.”

  “Isn’t that the stalker’s official mantra?”

  On the second floor, they could hear low voices coming from a room that faced the street. They walked in, and Vail could see that it had once been an oversize bedroom but was now filled with equipment that looked dated. Metal tables, recording equipment, a small telescope on a long table at the window—which was covered with what he recognized as a one-way shade. A second telescope stood on a smaller table at an adjoining window, also shaded.

  Aside from the director, there were five other men in the room sitting on a couch and chairs. As they entered, Vail was surprised that most of their curiosity seemed to be directed toward him. A room full of men invariably turned their attention to Kate when she entered, even if they already knew her.

  Bob Lasker got to his feet and shook hands with
Vail. “Steve, how’s the hand?”

  “It’s fine.”

  The director nodded to one of the men, who got up and closed the door. “Good morning, Kate,” Lasker said.

  She looked at the faces of the other men. “Is it a good morning, sir?”

  “We’re about to find out. Please, both of you, have a seat. Kate, I think you know everybody here.” The director then introduced the others to Vail. “Bill Langston is the assistant director in charge of the Counterintelligence Division. His deputy, John Kalix. Tony Battly, Jake Canton, and Mark Brogdon are unit and section chiefs within the division.”

  The director watched as Vail gave them each a snapshot evaluation. It was something Lasker wanted him to do, something that would help convince Vail to grant the request Lasker was about to make, that these men, while adequate administrators, were unqualified to do fieldwork.

  The three unit and section chiefs were startlingly nondescript, reminding Vail that at FBI headquarters individuality was rewarded only with suspicion. Each of the men was overweight, as if even that shortcoming also met some sort of Bureau standard. Their suits varied little in color or quality and had become too small due to burgeoning waistlines. The sleeves on Battly’s jacket were too long, covering half of his thumbs. Judging by the wear on the elbows, it had fit him that way since its purchase years before, and he’d never felt the need to have the minor tailoring done, probably because he took it off at his desk.

  Brogdon’s suit was equally fatigued, the pant cuffs frayed, the lapels wilted and beginning to curl up. Canton’s shirt collar was too tight and had been left unbuttoned. Dusty spots dotted his tie where he had apparently scraped away food particles. The apprehensive expressions on all three faces, aside from their momentary curiosity about Vail, were those of men who were much closer to retirement than to taking on anything remotely associated with the unpredictable rigors of the street.