by Mike Brogan
“Probably bugged them. From now on Christine, please use your cell phone to talk to me or Madison. Or use another office phone. We’ll have someone check your office phones. In the meantime, don’t tell anyone you’re helping us with this.”
“Okay.”
“William, did you notice anything else about the taxi Madison got in?” Shaw asked.
William paused. “Had one of them red ACDelco stickers on the bumper. Said “If it moves, AC Delco has the part.” And the back right fender was scrunched up a bit near the taillight.”
“Anything else?”
Pause. “Roof radio antenna had orange tape at the top. You know, so the car’s easy to find in a parking lot.”
“Was the taxi dark gray or light gray?”
“Dark gray.”
“This helps, William, thanks a lot.”
They hung up.
Shaw immediately called his NYPD contact and gave her the gray taxi’s description.
“Sounds like the gray Uber stolen two hours ago near Central Park and East 71st,” she said. “I issued a BOLO on it. We found the Uber’s license plates in some bushes near the zoo.”
“Switched plates,” Shaw said. “Can Uber GPS-locate their taxi?”
“Tried. No luck.”
“Why not?”
“The thief disabled the Uber’s GPS system.”
Shaw’s frustration heated up. “Let me know when you have something.”
They hung up.
Shaw turned to Agent Hayden and filled him in.
“The gray taxi’s got nearly a three-hour jump on the police,” Shaw said.
“Enough time to drive Madison to Connecticut or Rhode Island.”
“Or bury a body.”
FORTY
Madison watched Taxi Driver turn down a narrow alley a mile off I-495 and pull into a dark garage. Shaved Head crawled in back and flex-cuffed her wrists.
Then he got back in the passenger seat.
Another large man emerged from the garage shadows and walked toward the taxi. Six-three, long arms, dark hair, thick beard. He spoke what sounded like Arabic to the two men in the taxi, then rolled out a big Kawasaki motorcycle, started it, and revved the engine.
Taxi Driver and Shaved Head drove off with Madison. Kawasaki Man followed on his bike. They drove back onto I-495 heading east into Long Island, just under the speed limit. After Brentwood they headed south and passed through Eastport and Hampton Bays.
An hour or so later, Madison realized they were way out near the east end of Long Island, probably close to Montauk.
Why bring her way out here? Why pass several forests and dirt roads where they could have pulled off and executed her? They were probably taking her somewhere to question her, find out everything she and the FBI knew about Bruner and Van Horn. Find out who she talked to and what she said. And what the FBI planned to do.
And once they got those answers, she was expendable.
Suddenly, Taxi Driver turned and meandered down a bumpy road for a mile or so. He turned onto a rutted dirt and mud drive and pulled up next to an old, pealed-paint, wood-frame two-story gray house. Dead hedges slumped against its sides. The front yard had a leafless tree, broken wagon wheels laced with dried roses, and a tilted mailbox with its flap hanging open and junk mail sticking out. She was looking at the scary cabin in a horror movie. And it scared her.
Taxi Driver cut off her flex cuffs and she rubbed her sore wrist.
They walked toward the house. Taxi Driver talked excitedly in Arabic to Shaved Head as they walked beside her. Kawasaki Man was forty feet away, rolling his bike into a nearby garage where she saw another big motorcycle with two attached sidecars.
They’d brought her far from Manhattan to find out what she knew. They’d torture her in the house to find out.
Then they’d kill her.
She had to do something now!
Taxi driver whispered on his cell phone. Shaved Head walked beside her, his gun handle protruding from his pants pocket, just inches from her. Her hands were un-cuffed. Could she grab it before he stopped her? Could she turn the safety off in time? Could she pull the trigger and shoot them both - before they or Kawasaki man shot her?
Was this be her now or never chance?
She inched closer to Shaved Head, focusing on the handle of his gun dangling inches away. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
Shaved Head slowed a bit.
NOW!
She lunged for the gun – her fingers just starting to grip the handle . . . as his large hand yanked the gun from her.
He turned and glared at her.
“Bad move bitch!”
He whacked the gun barrel hard against her ear.
She fell back, dazed, warm blood trickling into her ear.
“Try that shit again and I’ll use the serious end of this Berretta!” Shaved Head flex-cuffed her hands again, tighter.
The men pushed her inside the dilapidated house and then into a dark, musty, windowless room in the back. They locked her inside.
She held a Kleenex to her bleeding ear.
What do they want?
They want to know what Brooke Daniels overheard Bruner say. And what she told the FBI. And what I told them.
By now, my assistant Christine knows I missed the PetHealth meeting and will have alerted the police and Agent Shaw. Maybe they tracked my phone to where Shaved Head tossed it next to warehouse off 495. Maybe they can find the phone and pull Shaved Head’s fingerprint from it, put out a alert for him. A long shot, but maybe . . .
The door opened and Shaved Head handed her a paper plate filled with dried grape leaves and cold rice. The food looked old enough to give her food poisoning. Maybe that’s their plan. She pushed it aside.
She reviewed what she’d told Agent Shaw. First, she told him that when Robert Bruner worked at GV, Brooke Daniels overheard Bruner talking to Nester Van Horn often. She also said Van Horn worked for a big DC lobbying firm with clients like the railroads, coal, a petroleum consortium, service stations, airlines, and electronic components companies.
She also informed Shaw that Brooke Daniels saw Van Horn and Robert Bruner in Benny’s Bar with a third man months ago. Brooke thought she’d seen the third man’s picture in the press. She was planning to check some photos.
In the outer room, she heard the men whispering. They seemed to be arguing. She heard “The Daniels woman.”
The Daniels name felt like a punch to Madison’s solar plexus.
What did I get Brooke into? Did they abduct her too? Have they hurt her?
If so, I’ll never forgive herself.
Madison closed her eyes and prayed for her friend.
She heard the men mumbling. She cupped her ear to the door to hear better. One man mentioned “Montauk Road.”
Montauk Road was obviously near Montauk, a town at the end of Long Island. Her good friends, Justina and Hayes, lived there.
Taxi Driver said, “No way. Napeague Road better.”
And she recalled Napeague was either a nearby bay or lake.
The men were moving around in the other room.
“Gimme more Jack Daniels.”
“Get your own fuckin’ Jack!”
“Shut the fuck up! I can’t hear my TV show!” Kawasaki Man shouted. The television show was explaining how to knit infant booties. Booties? Who are these guys?
She then heard what sounded like liquid splashing into glasses. They were getting drunk. Working themselves up to kill her?
Minutes later, she heard someone walk over to her door . . .
. . . and slide a key in it.
FORTY ONE
The door squeaked open.
Taxi Driver and Shaved Head blackened the doorway and glared in at her. Madison’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.
Shaved Head’s handgun was holstered under his shoulder.
“Time for a short ride,” Taxi Driver said.
“Real short!” Shaved Head fla
shed a knowing smile.
Taxi Driver gun-nudged her out into the main room. She looked around at the scratched, broken furniture, a threadbare carpet, a green sofa with dark stains that looked like dried hummus, vomit, or blood. She smelled burnt wood, marijuana, spoiled garbage, booze, and urine.
Kawasaki Man was riveted to the television knitting show, practicing his “purl one, knit one” stitch on what looked like man-sized blue booties.
Despite the fact her hands were still flex-cuffed, she looked for something to use as a weapon. She saw nothing.
They escorted her outside.
Beside the garage, she saw a wood-chipper and panicked, flashing back to the FARGO movie where the thug stuffed a human leg down a wood-chipper.
She saw no houses, no people, no roads, no buildings. No sign of life. Just a flat, gray, desolate moonscape.
Taxi Driver pushed her into the back seat, then got behind the wheel. Shaved Head sat in the passenger seat, opened the Plexiglas front-seat divider, and smiled back at her.
“Enjoy the view . . .” He said it like it might be her last.
They hadn’t questioned her about what she’d told Agent Shaw. Or questioned her about anything. Maybe they already had the answers. Which meant they grabbed her for one reason. Eliminate her and bury her out here in a forest where her body would never be found.
Kawasaki Man rolled the larger motorcycle with two sidecars out of the garage. Scuba-diving gear was stacked in one sidecar.
Taxi Driver drove off, Kawasaki Man followed on his bike.
She tried to loosen her wrists, but the flex-cuffs wouldn’t give.
Behind her, she saw the Atlantic Ocean, large waves and whitecaps rolling toward shore. Maybe she’d see tourists and homes facing the shore. Maybe she could show her cuffed wrists at someone and scream - HELP!
They turned right onto the Montauk Point State Parkway. About a mile farther, they turned right at a tennis club and drove along Napeague Harbor Road. She saw a huge forest and a few luxury homes nestled along the shore of another large body of water. Signs of life, but no people.
Taxi Driver gulped some whiskey, then handed the bottle to Shaved Head who chugged some down.
The farther they drove, the fewer homes Madison saw. At the end of the road, Taxi Driver slowed and crawled to a stop. Shaved Head checked a map, then signaled a right turn. They turned right and drove ahead, rising over a few small hills and sand dunes.
A minute later, they drove over the summit of a tall grassy mound – and suddenly Madison was looking down at a sprawling blue-water bay.
“Here!” Shaved Head said.
Taxi Driver nodded, pulled off the road, crept down closer to the water, and parked.
Kawasaki Man parked the big bike behind them.
This was it, she knew.
They would kill her here. No one around. No way out. No way her life could come down to this.
But it had . . .
Taxi Driver pointed his gun at her. “Get out and get in the driver’s seat! And don’t forget to click your seatbelt on, cuz it’s the law!”
“Yeah - Click it - or ticket!” Shaved Head laughed.
She got out. They pushed her behind the steering wheel and put her seat belt on.
“And don’t forget your briefcase.”
They placed it on the passenger seat. Shaved Head opened the briefcase and quickly checked for a weapon. He saw only papers, folders, a pencil case, and closed the case.
Shaved Head said, “Betcha a busy woman executive might lose control on this tight curve.”
“Puttin’ on lipstick!”
“Or textin’ on her phone -”
“- impossible cuz it’s in fuckin’ pieces two miles off I-495!” Shaved Head laughed.
Their plan was clear now. Push the taxi down into the ocean. Trapped inside, she’d be unable to free her hands. She’d die in the car at the bottom of Napeague Bay. Then Kawasaki Man would come back later with his scuba gear. He’d dive down, remove her flex-cuffs so it would look like she accidentally drove into the water. Driving too fast on the big hill curve. A terrible mishap. Maybe a suicide.
Taxi Driver closed the car doors, smiled at her, and hit the lock button.
Then he, Shaved Head and Kawasaki Man stepped behind the taxi and pushed it down the grassy slope toward the water.
The car splashed into the water and began to sink. In the mirror, she saw the three men smile and wave good-bye. Then they got on the big three-seat motorcycle, paused a few seconds, and watched the car sink slowly into the bay.
The water climbed over the tires, then up to the fenders, then halfway up the doors, and windows. She felt the ice cold water hit her feet, then her ankles.
She unlocked the doors, but they snapped locked again. Taxi Driver had the remote. She unlocked them again. He locked them again and smiled at the sinking car.
The water crept higher and tears flowed from her eyes as her life flashed before her . . . her life with Kevin, their family, their unborn children, their unlived lives, all missed . . . all disappearing beneath the cold water . . .
FORTY TWO
Special Agent Neal Shaw felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked Caller ID: Montauk Police Dept.
More bad news?
He answered.
“Agent Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Tena Kavanagh with the Montauk Police. Have you located that gray taxi with the abducted woman you’re looking for?”
“No.”
“We have a good lead.”
Shaw exhaled. “Where?”
“Out here near Montauk. A young reporter, Dorothy Stein, was jogging along Napeague Bay and she’s sure she saw that taxi. She saw an ACDelco sticker on the fender, orange tape on the antenna, and a slightly damaged right rear fender near the light.”
Shaw snapped his finger, catching Agent Hayden’s attention.
“Where exactly did she see it?”
“On Napeague Harbor Road. Runs alongside Napeague Harbor and then around to the Atlantic bay.”
“Can you get someone out to that site fast?”
“Me. I’m driving there now.”
FORTY THREE
Madison felt icy water creep up over her knees. She struggled to remove her flex-cuffs, but they wouldn’t budge.
She was sinking deeper into the cold watery abyss . . . in seconds she’d be completely underwater . . . and there was nothing she could do about it.
An empty Jim Beam bottle floated up from the floor.
She opened the glove compartment, looking for something to cut her cuffs. Saw nothing.
The water rose to her hips. She opened the storage compartment beside the seat, saw nothing to cut the cuffs or break the windows.
Water rose to her waist.
She grabbed her last hope. Her briefcase. She couldn’t remember if it contained anything that might help. Her freezing fingers struggled to unlatch the briefcase.
She finally snapped it open, reached in, grabbed the pencil case and prayed she could find something inside that might help. Something she once kept in the case.
She unzipped the pencil case and pencils floated out.
And then she saw it - buried under pens - the Exacto blade.
She grabbed it and began sawing its razor-sharp edge against her plastic cuffs. But the blade cut too slowly.
She started slicing like a madwoman, praying the blade didn’t slip and slit her wrist.
Seconds later her hands swung free.
But the water was up to her chest. Some splashed into her mouth. She coughed it out and stretched her head higher.
She pulled up her door-lock button. It stayed up because the water had incapacitated the door electronics.
She leaned against the door to open it – but the outside pressure was too strong. She tried to lower the window – but the window button electronics were dead.
The water reached her chin.
She leaned back and put both
feet against the door and managed to push it open a few inches. She pushed harder, opening it a foot. Water gushed inside, equalizing the water pressure in and out . . . making it a little easier to push the door out.
She wedged her briefcase into the two-foot opening - took a deep breath - and pulled herself out through the opening. She floated up to the car roof and sprang off . . . swimming toward the shimmering halo of sunlight far above her, praying for enough air to get there, pulling water like crazy . . .
Her lungs burned with pain. Her mind raced with fear. She was panicking.
She wasn’t going to make it.
She gulped seawater.
Seconds later, she burst onto the surface of the water, exploding seawater from her mouth.
Gasping, she treaded water a moment. She coughed out more water, then sucked in fresh air, then cool air deep into her lungs. She treaded water and paddled toward the shore . . . a hundred feet away.
A few feet from shore, she crawled, stood up, and stumbled toward the beach, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Her ears were ringing.
Then she heard something.
A motorcycle coming down the road toward her.
Kawasaki Man was coming back.
In seconds, he’ll see me!
FORTY FOUR
“Send him in,” Kurt Krugere said to his assistant Grunella.
Nester Van Horn hurried into Krugere’s office, shut the door and sat down opposite his desk. Krugere shifted the stacks of green file folders to see Van Horn better, then pressed a button that slowly elevated his chair three inches. He liked looking down on underlings.
He turned on the white-noise machine to prevent anyone hearing their conversation.
Krugere studied Van Horn’s haggard face for any hint of good news, but as usual, saw the opposite. Van Horn mostly delivered bad news. Van Horn was bad news. The guy knew too much, worried too much, and tended to crack too much under heavy pressure. Like now, it appeared.
But Krugere needed him for this program because Van Horn had the right business leverage with the right industries to corral the program funding.
“Did you find Bruner’s location?” Krugere asked.
“He’s disappeared again. Somewhere in Michigan’s thumb area. Between Port Huron, Flint, and Detroit.”