Each of the hidden burner phones, including the one now resting safely in the bag at his feet, contained the same unsent text message—the one he’d prepared before abducting the girl.
As the courtroom wall clock marched toward ten, Thomas basked in the grandeur of the chamber, its high ceilings, and its majestic finishes. He even admired the way everyone present had their respectively assigned places: Courtroom staff adjacent to the Justices, attorneys and their clients just beyond the staff, and, finally, the gallery of spectators. The buzz among the spectators was growing. They were there to see how the 28th Amendment would fare, but he wondered how specifically they would each be affected by the Court’s decision. Perhaps he should say his decision.
Thomas’s eyes settled on the three of them: Brooks, Klein, sitting next to Brooks, Lotello, seated behind Klein. He recalled bitterly his prior dealings with each. He knew that Lotello and Klein had married. Klein had also adopted Lotello’s two kids, the brood sitting next to Lotello. How I’d love to take the lot of them down right now. But no time for such whimsy now. First things first. Their time will come.
As Thomas watched them, Lotello reached over and gave Klein an obvious last minute good luck squeeze on her shoulder. Klein turned and seemed to acknowledge the gesture with a preoccupied smile. Suddenly she glanced back, her line of sight intersecting Thomas’s. Her smile transformed into a brief, puzzled expression. She returned her attention to the papers in front of her.
Thomas smiled. Sneered might be more precise. Stare all you want, bitch. By the time you recognize me, it’ll be too late. It already is. About 170 minutes to be exact. But who’s counting?
* * *
The nine Supreme Court Justices marched into the regal burgundy and gold hall right on time, exactly at 10 o’clock. Thomas respected that. He always sought to be on time too. Several cracks of the gavel, not unlike a staccato of gunfire, followed the Justices’s entrance, reverberating throughout the courtroom. Momentarily startled out of his reverie, Thomas belatedly joined the remainder of the gallery in rising.
The Justices huddled and ceremoniously shook hands, demonstrating a lack of personal animosity despite whatever judicial differences they perhaps harbored. Thomas thought it played like a well-choreographed Broadway musical. As if on cue, they then took their places behind their assigned seats, the Chief Justice of the United States at the center and the eight Associate Justices alternating right and left of center in descending order of seniority, accompanied by the grand opening proclamation of the Court Marshal:
“The Honorable, the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court.”
That was Thomas’s cue. As everyone throughout the courtroom resumed their seats, he reached into his bag on the floor and discreetly removed the phone. Hunched over, as he had practiced countless times without having to look, Thomas quickly opened the app and hit “Send.” And just as quickly and discreetly, he returned the phone to the bag.
Showtime.
* * *
ASSOCIATE JUSTICE ARNOLD HIRSCHFELD’S cell phone started vibrating just as Chief Justice Sheldon Trotter began his opening remarks. Few people had Hirschfeld’s number. He reached inside his robe, removed the phone, and opened the text.
We have your granddaughter.
His eyes widened. His knuckles turned pale. Remembering where he was, he tried to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, and continued reading.
We have your granddaughter. Here’s what you need to do.
Chief Justice Trotter’s opening remarks seemed to come from a far-off place. “As many of you watching today have learned from the media, this is the first time we …”
Hirschfeld pushed Trotter’s words to the recesses of his mind as he hurriedly skimmed the balance of the text.
If you don’t follow these instructions exactly, your granddaughter dies.
Trotter rambled on “… are televising the proceedings of this Court …”
Hirschfeld half-rose from his leather chair and all but gave way to his urge to rush from the courtroom. He caught himself. And go where? Do what? Are they watching me? Am I telegraphing my anxiety? What’ll they do? He tried to swallow. He couldn’t.
The kids had given Cassie a cell phone on her last birthday. It was always with her. As nonchalantly as possible, he managed to tap in and send a text.
hey baby girl r u having a good day? luv u
He closed his eyes. The few unfilled seconds stretched to infinity.
Gazing vacantly out into the courtroom and the whirring cameras that glared back at him, the next text he fired off was to his daughter, Jill.
chk if cassie @ school NOW
All the while, Trotter prattled on. “For the benefit of those looking on from your televisions …”
Hirschfeld’s phone vibrated. Cassie? No. Only Jill.
What r u saying dad? ur scaring me!
He fired back: no time chk NOW
He felt certain everyone in the courtroom was staring at him. He remained painfully aware that someone was.
He strained to be unobtrusive, natural. As if he were concentrating on Trotter’s remarks. His phone vibrated again.
dad shes not at school! FOR GODS SAKE WHATS GOING ON?
He could no longer process what Trotter was saying. He put his phone on the leather notepad in front of him, pretending to be making notes. He tapped out and sent still another text.
someones got cassie call school back say she just walked in not feeling well came home b4 reaching school DON’T SAY ANYTHING MORE get mark home. DO NOTHING MORE! NO POLICE! wait for me 2 call @ 12 they r watching me on tv and in crtrm 2 b sure I do as told I WILL GET HER BACK
No sooner had he sent the message then his phone vibrated for the third time.
u no by now this is no joke. we r ur worst nightmare. u r starting 2 draw attention. put ur damn phone away. NOW! do exactly as we say or no more sweet little girl. on u grandpa.
No doubt the bastards were watching him. Hirschfeld quickly scanned the courtroom. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a sea of faces. Among them his longtime friend and law school classmate, Cyrus Brooks. Sitting in the Court well with the other lawyers in the case. Is Cyrus staring at me?
Hirschfeld had to stop broadcasting his terror. Do as they instructed. Calm down. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. He willed it to stop. He tried to focus on Trotter. How am I ever going to make it to the noon recess?
* * *
Thomas stared at Hirschfeld. Get it together, asshole. We have a lot riding on you. So does the girl.
* * *
Cassie woke suddenly. At first, she couldn’t find herself. As if she were in some long, dark, tunnel. She was confused. Her head hurt. Her knees ached. She struggled to remember what had happened. And then it came rushing back to her, along with the sheer terror she’d felt when the man attacked her, slammed her to the ground, thrust that scary needle at her. But why me? Where am I? What time is it? And, where is my pump?
Like tearing something sticky off her skin, she opened her eyes. Ow! Burns. She rubbed them and tried again. Lying on a bed. She struggled to sit up, look around. She was in a dingy room. Not much light. Just one hanging bulb. No windows. Stuffy. Cold. Walls dirty.
What kind of a room doesn’t have windows?
A basement.
She spotted a door at the end of the room. She stood, but felt dizzy. She managed to cross the cellar. She grabbed at the doorknob. Locked. She listened for any sounds on the other side. “Hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? Please, can you help me?”
Silence. Now more afraid than ever, she returned to the bed. For the first time, she noticed a little table in the corner. She made her way over to it. She found the note addressed to her: You
have everything you need. You’re going to be here for a while.
PROLOGUE
Two years before
I THINK I’M DIFFERENT. Not just the way I think. Hey. There’s that word again. “Think.” Aren’t good writers supposed to avoid repeating the same word close to when they last used it? Or close to where they last used it? I can’t remember. Is it “when” or is it “where?” And is it “where?” or is it “where”? To be more precise, is it”? or is it?”?
But sometimes repetition’s unavoidable. Isn’t it? Now that’s a word I do like. “Unavoidable.” That’s a word I use a lot. To explain why I am the way I am. Why I … think … the way I do. Why I do the things I do. To others. To … them.
But I digress.
Let me start over. Please. (I could have said “Let me start over again,” but I’ve already used “again.” Recently.)
So. I am different. Not just the way I think. But the way I’m wired. And that’s another word I like. “Wired.” Not just to describe my nervous system. But also to describe when I’m nervous. Too nervous.
This way. I have to stop thinking. This way. Because it makes me use the same words again. And again. Too soon. Too close together.
Well, let me … think. Just a little more. I’ll try to be clearer. I promise.
I remember exactly when I first discovered I was … different. That I treated … them … differently. Until then, I thought it was them. Their fault. Not mine. Because of the way they treated me. Not because of how I was … wired.
Finally, I understood. It was me. Not them. It was me. The way I … think. The way I’m … wired.
I had to change. I had to stop being … different. I had to behave the way they do. To become like … them. Even if I didn’t like them. Even if sometimes I still thought it was their fault. Not mine.
I needed … a distraction. My mind needed … a distraction. To stop me from being so … different.
And then it occurred to me. The distraction that I needed. The distraction that I would choose.
I would find other things to think about. I would think about other things. As often as possible.
I would become … a writer! I would write about … other things. Not the things I think about. The things that make me … different.
I just need to learn how. To be a writer.
CHAPTER 1
Two months before
ELOISE BROOKS HAD AN idea.
Her husband, Cyrus Brooks, loved the law. He had retired from the bench after a 35 year career as a distinguished Washington DC trial court judge. Old habits die hard. He still kept his toe in the water. Teaching law classes at Georgetown University Law School. Writing law review articles on obscure legal theories. Handling occasional courtroom cases of interest to him. Trying to stay out of trouble. But often ending up smack dab in the middle of it.
Married to the law, and to Eloise, his wife of soon to be 55 years, Cyrus wasn’t one dimensional. As most who knew him thought. He loved music. Playing it and singing it. Dancing to it. In his mind. But he couldn’t play it. Sing it. Or dance to it. Not in the real world. Not a lick.
He also loved books. Exciting novels. Especially mysteries and thrillers. Whodunnits. The more suspenseful, the better. Reading them. Not writing them. If you didn’t count the five or ten novels he had started over the years and abandoned every time before the end of a chapter or two. He didn’t understand the ingredients of good writing. Voice. Point of view. Dialogue. Pace. Cyrus was disciplined. But he wasn’t patient.
Eloise had been pondering what to get Cyrus for their 55th anniversary. Something exciting. She had quickly ruled out music or singing lessons. He was tone deaf. There was no chance he could play an instrument or sing. She had also dismissed dancing lessons. It would be hard to dance on his two left feet.
And then it came to her. Well, to one of her author friends. Who had mentioned to Eloise in passing a highly regarded international writing retreat she attended for the better part of a week every summer on the sun drenched Mediterranean island of Punta Maya. Sponsored by an organization called TITO, The International Thrillers Organization. The conference was called Thriller Jubilee. Or just “TJ” for those familiar with it. It was held each year at the five star Hotel Marisol destination resort.
It was attended by writers. Branded pros and amateur newbies and wannabees. Like Eloise’s author friend.
By those who provided collateral services to authors. Editors, literary agents, publishing houses. Book cover and interior designers, website developers, and printing companies. And expert consultants in a variety of fields: public relations, marketing, distribution, and self-publishing gurus.
By the media who reported on the writing industry. Bloggers, journalists, newscasters.
And by book lovers who just wanted to watch and listen. Buy a book written by one of their favorite big name authors and have it autographed.
Some went to teach. Some went to study. Some went to eat, drink and party. There were countless panel presentations, lectures and interviews. All day long. On the hour. From sunup to sundown. There were networking parties and bar hopping festivities into the wee hours each night. Opportunities galore to meet and mingle. As long as you weren’t shy. Or easily overwhelmed.
Eloise decided this would be the perfect anniversary gift for Cyrus. Segueing to a writing career where he could stalk imaginary murder and mayhem instead of the real world murder and mayhem that always seemed to stalk him. As a real world judge and lawyer. He could write about judges and lawyers instead of being one.
The website pictures of the Hotel Marisol facilities and grounds were beautiful. Dense foliage, gorgeous beaches, sapphire blue waters. Great dining and shopping. A perfect break for Eloise too. From her daily routine.
And she’d be there for Cyrus too. To prop up him up when he needed it. Social skills came more naturally to Eloise than to Cyrus.
Besides, what trouble could Cyrus possibly get into at a writer’s conference?
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Day Zero, One Day Before, 5:30 a.m.
GENEVIEVE LASKO WAS THE founding partner of LPLA, Lasko Partners Literary Agency. LPLA was comprised of Lasko and four other literary agents. The other agents were partners. But in name only. Lasko called the shots of LPLA. All of them.
Her offices were in New York, where each of the “big five” publishing houses were headquartered. She was a member of TITO’s board and had been attending the annual TITO writing conference at Punta Maya for years.
Lasko chaired one of the most popular panel presentations at the conference every year: “What Literary Agents Want To See In An Effective Query Letter.” Several hundred rapt writers hungry if not desperate for an agent hung on every word in the fifty minute presentation. As panel “master,” and in contrast to the five other panel members, Lasko controlled the microphone and received the greatest amount of speaking time. And audience respect and attention.
Every year, each of hundreds of literary agencies, LPLA among them, received on the order of three to five hundred unsolicited email “query letters” per week from authors in search of a literary agent to hawk their manuscripts to the publishing houses. Especially the big five publishers.
Each agency website listed their precise query submission requirements. Different demands from one agency to the next compelled authors to spend hours and hours preparing customized query letters. Constrained to distinguish and sell their wares in but one or two short paragraphs. Seldom did an agency allow authors to submit more than the first few pages of their actual manuscript.
Compensated on a contingent fee basis, and increasingly pressured by publishing houses to screen and tender to them only “publication ready” manuscripts, literary agents tended to stick almost exclusively to new product from their proven veteran clients. At most, 1-2% of the “newbie” writers were lucky enough to be invited to the next phase in the query process: submitting their full manuscript for consideration.
Several years ago, TITO introduced a one afternoon innovative querying concept at its annual writing conference. Called “PitchGala,” approximately fifty literary agents reportedly looking for fresh clients gathered at small tables spread throughout a large convention room and held themselves available to newbies and self-published wannabees looking for an agent. Authors lined up in front of one agent at a time for a chance to introduce themselves and their latest creation. Likened to “speed dating,” each author was given a maximum of three minutes per agent to make a pitch. The fortunate gladiators were handed the agent’s card and invited to then submit a query letter including precious express reference to the PitchGala invitation to do so.
The newbies were welcome to move from agent line to agent line until the afternoon ended. Or until their feet gave out. Or their enthusiasm and confidence faded. Whichever came first. Three minutes with each agent was not a lot of time. However, it was probably three times the amount of time a query letter was given that did not contain the magic words in the email subject line “Invited to Submit at PitchGala.” With any luck, the agent might also remember the author’s face or personality.
Lasko always participated in PitchGala. Already attending the weeklong conference for her trophy panel master position, why not? Besides, she usually identified one or two attractive new clients a year at PitchGala.
This year, for the first time, Lasko had landed still another choice opportunity at the writing conference. The conference officially runs each year from Tuesday through Saturday, concluding with the festive annual awards banquet on Saturday night. Where various awards are handed out, a good time is seemingly had by all, and the event is covered by media from all around the world.
The Puppet Master Page 43