24 Hours

by Greg Iles

  “Where do we stand?”

  “My man down there has narrowed the search area to about seven square miles.”

  “I had that before I called you!”

  “No, you didn’t. You said ten or fifteen miles west of Hazelhurst, on a logging road. That could describe an area as large as twenty-five square miles.”

  Will groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m going crazy here. You haven’t notified anyone official, have you?”

  “No. But it’s long past time we did.”

  “Not yet. Please, not yet.”

  “These are very short calls, Doctor. We’re looking at a minimum tracing time of an hour from now. And that’s if the subject keeps making these check-in calls on the half hour. What if he skips another one? What if he skips two?”

  God forbid. “Calling the FBI has to be my decision, Harley. We’ve still got some time. There’s nothing the FBI could be doing right now that we can’t. You have all my numbers.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  He hung up and sat beside Cheryl on the sofa. She slept with her mouth open, and her snores were as regular as a metronome.

  “Wake up,” he said.

  She opened her eyes but didn’t turn her head.

  “I don’t think Joe would kill Abby or Karen until he knew he had his money. Do you agree?”

  She swallowed like someone with a bad case of cottonmouth, then nodded and closed her eyes again. So much for reassurances. Will got up and walked back to the window.

  Dawn was coming, a lighter blue hovering in the indigo, far to his left. What he had taken for pale cloud formations was actually the diffuse light of the sun making its way between much darker clouds, and the narrow strip of beach he had watched all night was resolving itself into a thin, rocky breakwater. There was no beach here. The gulf’s waves actually spent themselves against the marina beneath the casino.

  “Think with your head, Joe,” he said softly. “Not your heart. Think about the money, not your mother. The money’s what you want. The money . . .”

  FIFTEEN

  Karen felt hands on her body and screamed.

  “Shut up!” snapped a male voice. “It’s time to get up.”

  She blinked her eyes and saw Hickey leaning over her. He was shaking her shoulders. “What happened?” she asked, trying to collect her thoughts.

  “You fell asleep.”

  Two facts registered with frightful impact. First, Hickey was dressed. Second, daylight was streaming through the bedroom curtains. “God, no,” she breathed, unable to accept the idea that she’d fallen asleep while Abby’s life was in jeopardy. But she had. “What time is it?”

  “Time to shower and doll yourself up for the Man. Fix your face.”

  Her eyes went to the digital clock on her bedside table. 8:02 A.M. Two hours had passed since she last woke Hickey for a check-in call. What had happened in the interim? If Will had succeeded in finding Abby, Hickey wouldn’t be standing here telling her to shower and get dressed.

  “Is it time to get Abby?”

  “You mean, get the money. Play your part right, then you get Abby back.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s still asleep. I just talked to Huey.” Hickey turned and walked into the bathroom.

  Karen heard the shower go on. If Hickey had just talked to his cousin, that should have given Will’s friend a chance to trace the call.

  “Get a move on,” Hickey said, emerging from the bathroom. He was wearing the same khakis and Ralph Lauren Polo shirt he’d worn yesterday. He didn’t look any more natural in the outfit today. “I’m going to make coffee.”

  “Could I talk to Abby on the phone? Would you call her for me?”

  He shook his head. “You’d only upset her more. You’ll see her soon enough.”

  Before he reached the door, Karen said, “May I speak to you for a minute.”

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  “I know what’s supposed to happen today,” she said. “I know . . . what you want to do.”

  He looked intrigued. “What’s that?”

  “You want to hurt Will. Because of your mother.”

  His eyes went cold.

  “I understand that anger,” she said quickly. “And I’m not going to try to convince you that you’re wrong about Will, even though I believe you are. You think you’re right, and that’s all that matters.”

  “You got that right.”

  She gathered the full measure of her feelings into her voice. “All I’m asking you to do—no, begging you to do—is to take pity on a five-year-old girl. Use me instead.”

  Hickey’s eyes narrowed. “Use you?”

  “To punish Will. Kill me instead of Abby.”

  Again she saw the disturbance in the dark wells of his eyes, as though eels were roiling in the fluid there.

  “You’ve got sand,” he said. “Don’t you, Mom? You really mean that.”

  “Yes.” It was the truest thing she had ever said. If by dying she could guarantee that Abby would grow into a woman, marry, and bear her own children—or at least have that chance—then she would die. Gladly. “I think your mother would have done the same for you.”

  Hickey’s cheek twitched, but Karen’s honesty seemed to overcome whatever anger she had caused in him. They had entered the realm of truth, and offense was beside the point.

  “She would have,” he said. “But you don’t have to. Nobody’s going to die today. Let me tell you a little secret. This is the last job I’ll ever pull. In a few days, I’ll be in Costa Rica. A rich expatriate, like Hemingway and Ronnie Biggs.”

  Ronnie Biggs? “Who’s Ronnie Biggs?”

  “One of the great train robbers. You know, from England.” Hickey looked toward the window. “Maybe that was before your time. Biggs planned a perfect crime, just like me. And he got away with it, just like me. I’ve got away with it five times. And today is my grand exit.”

  Karen felt a sudden ray of hope, like a light blinking on in her soul. Maybe she’d read Hickey wrong. Maybe he thought twenty-four hours of hell was enough punishment. Or perhaps, deep down, he knew that his mother ’s death had not been Will’s fault.

  “Take that shower and get some nice clothes on,” he said. “You’ve got to put on a good show for your broker this morning. Davidson gets to his office at eight-thirty. You’ll call him at a quarter to nine. Then we’ll drive over and you’ll sign off on the wire.”

  “What exactly am I going to tell him?”

  “I’ve got it all laid out for you. Just get in the shower.” He chuckled. “Or do you need me to help you?”

  “I can manage.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  As she walked toward the bathroom, she spied a small but fresh bloodstain on Hickey’s khakis, just above the knee. “You’d better wrap that leg again,” she told him. “There’s more gauze in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.”

  He looked down at the blood and grinned. “Guess I’ve got a new angle on safe sex, don’t I?”

  His sudden levity disoriented her. There seemed no reason for it, at least none she could fathom. Maybe the impending collection of the ransom had lightened his mood. His fantasy future in Costa Rica.

  She paused by the bathroom door. “Why Costa Rica?”

  “No extradition to the U.S.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “I’ve got some land down there. A ranch.”

  Hickey looked about as much like a rancher as Redford and Newman had in Butch Cassidy and the Sun-dance Kid. For them the pipe dream had been Bolivia. Karen looked over at the clock again, wondering what had become of Will’s efforts to trace Huey’s cell phone. Had it all come to nothing? Or was a host of FBI agents even now preparing to crash into the cabin where Abby was being held?

  “Get your ass in gear,” Hickey said. “We’ve got less than an hour.”

  She walked into the bathroo
m, her limbs heavy from truncated sleep. The events of the next few hours had passed beyond her control. Possibly beyond anyone’s. It was like your water breaking at the end of pregnancy. That baby was going to come, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do to stop it, short of killing you.

  Will stood at the sitting room window, wishing for a balcony. The stink of old eggs drifted from the room-service tray Cheryl had ordered. All Will had managed to get down was some tea and a biscuit, but she had eaten a massive breakfast, dubbed the “Natchez Plate” by the Beau Rivage marketing people. He wondered briefly if repeated cycles of Anectine and Restorase had a stimulating effect on the appetite.

  The sun was shining full on the water now, turning the brown waves silver in its glare. Hickey’s last check-in call had come three minutes ago—exactly eight o’clock—after which Cheryl had informed Will that they would be leaving for the Biloxi branch of the Magnolia Federal Bank within the hour. Harley Ferris had not yet reported in, but Will still held out hope. CellStar ’s first-string tracing team had reached Hazlehurst at 7:15 A.M., but Hickey had skipped the seven-thirty check-in call making pointless the crew’s hell-for-leather ride from Tunica County. But at least they’d been on station for the 8:00 A.M. call—if Hickey had made one to Huey, and not just to Cheryl.

  Any second the phone would ring, and Ferris would tell him one of two things: they had pinpointed Huey’s position, or they had not. If they hadn’t, Will had a decision to make. Should he call the FBI and try to convince them to start a search of the woods around Hazlehurst? Or should he pretend to play out the endgame according to Hickey’s rules, withdraw all the money he could get from Magnolia Federal, give it to Cheryl to keep her cooperating, and be wearing her gun when he came face-to-face with Hickey? After the nightmares of Waco and Ruby Ridge, it was too easy to envision disaster resulting from calling in the FBI. An armed search team might panic Huey into killing Abby, perhaps even unintentionally. But the alternative was hardly more appealing. There was no guarantee that Will and Hickey would ever come face-to-face. Once Hickey knew Cheryl had the ransom, he could simply order his cousin to kill Abby and flee.

  The ring of the telephone floated through the spacious sitting room. Will said a silent prayer, then walked over to the end table by the sofa and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Will, it’s Harley Ferris. We didn’t get it.”

  Will stood motionless, not speaking or even thinking, the way some people reacted to the news that an emergency room X ray had turned up lung cancer. As if by not making any move at all they could stop the terrible reality rushing toward them with the implacable indifference of a tidal wave.

  “Why not?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “The calls are just too short. We’re very close in absolute terms, but we’re talking about undeveloped land. Thick Mississippi woods. Waist-high underbrush. As far as the logging road you mentioned, there are dozens cut through there, all turning back on each other. And there are a hundred shacks in those woods.”

  Will could imagine it all too easily: typical Mississippi backcountry.

  “Doctor, what we need now is a battalion of national guardsmen to line up shoulder to shoulder and march through those woods. And an FBI Hostage Rescue Team to bring out your little girl after the guardsmen find the place.”

  Will put his hand over his eyes. It would take hours to organize that kind of search. Karen would be sending the ransom wire in less than an hour. Abby’s captor would almost certainly leave the cabin before then, to meet Hickey at some prearranged rendevous. Hopefully, he would be taking Abby with him. They might have left already, Will realized, just after Hickey’s last check-in call.

  “Doctor?” Ferris prodded.

  “I’m thinking.” The only assumption Will felt comfortable making was that Hickey would keep Abby alive until he was sure he had the ransom money. He wanted revenge, but there was no reason to risk losing two hundred thousand dollars when it was an hour from being in his possession. And if he killed Abby too soon, he would lose leverage he might need if Karen or Will balked at the last minute.

  Maybe that’s the only card I have left, Will thought. Hesitate at every step until I get confirmation that Abby’s alive. It would be a game of chicken. Hickey could order Huey to hurt Abby in order to force Will to proceed, but he couldn’t tell Huey to kill her. Not if he wanted the money.

  “Doctor?” Ferris snapped. “I’ve got to say this. I don’t believe you’re thinking rationally.”

  “Keep your tracing team on the job, Harley. I’m going to get them another shot at that trace.”

  “How?”

  “Just tell them to keep their eyes and ears on their screens.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  Will ground his teeth and looked out at the gulf. The cool air that had settled over the land during the night was taking on the yellow density of a Mississippi summer morning, as the sun baked it and sent it skyward again. Skyward . . .

  “My God,” he breathed. “Cheryl!”

  “What?” Ferris asked.

  Cheryl came to the wide door that divided the sitting room of the suite from its bedroom. All she wore was a towel on her head.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “What kind of car does Huey drive?”

  “An old pickup truck.”

  “What make? What color?”

  “Last time I saw it, it was baby-shit brown. Which is green, I guess. With lots of primer on it. It’s one of those old Chevys. You know, with the the rounded cab.”

  “Listen to me, Harley. If you’ll make me a promise, you can call the FBI.”

  “I’m tired of your conditions. I already regret—”

  “She’s my daughter!” Will shouted, blood pounding in his temples. “I’m sorry. You’ve already done more than I had any right to expect. But I’ve just learned what type of vehicle the guy in Hazlehurst is driving. And the sun is up now. If the FBI could get a chopper up over that area, they might be able to find it pretty quick.”

  “You’re damn right they could!” Ferris cried. “And if they can’t, the state police can. They can put out a statewide APB for the vehicle, too. If that guy tries to move with your little girl, they’ll be on him like you know what.”

  “No state police. Highway patrolmen aren’t anywhere close to trained for something like this. A hostage standoff with a five-year-old? It’s got to be the FBI. A chopper out of Jackson could be on station fifteen minutes after takeoff.” Will was excited, too, but he knew the realities. ER work in small towns had taught him that while helicopters were much faster than ground vehicles, the time required to prep them for flight often meant that conventional ambulance runs were faster, even over distances of eighty or ninety miles. But Ferris’s enthusiasm knew no bounds.

  “I’ll handle everything,” he said. “I’m so goddamn relieved. You just leave it to me.”

  “The FBI is going to ask you a hundred questions about me. You can’t answer them. That’s my condition. You can’t even give them my name. If you do, they’ll have someone out at my house in ten minutes, and that could get my daughter killed.”

  “Damn it—”

  “The kidnapper is at my house right now, Harley. He can kill Abby with one phone call. The FBI’s job is to find that vehicle and that cabin. That’s it. In ninety minutes you can tell them all you know, but for now, nothing. Just the vehicle.”

  “Jennings—”

  “Don’t give them my phone numbers, either. If they called at the wrong time, that could get Abby killed, too. If I think of something that can help them, I’ll call you and you relay it. Understood?”

  “I don’t like it. But I understand.”

  “Use your head, Harley. Before every step you take, remind yourself that there’s a five-year-old girl out there, scared out of her mind.”

  “I’ve got two of my own. College age now, but I remember what it’s like.”

  “Good. And tell t
he FBI to put a paramedic in that chopper. With insulin. My daughter’s a juvenile diabetic.”

  “Jesus. Insulin, I’ve got it. Well . . . I’d better make that call. Godspeed, boy.”

  “Harley?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to know what kind of vehicle they should be looking for?”

  “Shit, I forgot. What is it?”

  “A green Chevy pickup with lots of primer on it. The old kind, with rounded cab.”

  “Got it. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Will heard the click as Ferris disconnected.

  Cheryl was still standing in the door, but at least she had wrapped the towel around her torso. Will saw the bruises on her neck and arm, where he had injected her during the night.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I woke up with the flu,” she said. “My bones ache, and all my muscles are twitching.”

  “That’ll pass.”

  She cinched the towel tighter around her breasts. “Um . . . there’s something I didn’t tell you.”

  A shiver of premonition went through him. “What?”

  “This is the last job. Joey’s last kidnapping.”

  “He said that?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s been talking about it all year. He’s had his money in the stock market a long time, and he bought some land down in Costa Rica. He’s never been there, but he says it’s a ranch. A Spanish ranch. Like zillions of acres with gauchos and stuff. For a while I thought it was, you know, bullshit. But I think maybe it’s real.”

  She had held back more than he thought. But this new information only confirmed what Will had thought all along. This kidnapping was different from all the others. Hickey meant to kill Abby—and possibly Karen and himself—then vanish for good.

  “You calling in the cops?” Cheryl asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Are we still going to pick up the money?”

  “Absolutely. And it’s all yours.”

  She looked skeptical. “Once we get it . . . are you going to let me go?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “I need you to bluff Joe a bit longer. Over the phone, you know. Like we have been. Just long enough to get Abby.”