Deadfall

by Anna Carey

  “Fine, twenty-four hours,” Lena says.

  “I can be there by tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully by then I’ll have something and I can arrest him on the spot.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Don’t do anything to her.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you have a phone now? I’ll text you a plan tomorrow. Promise you’ll wait to hear from me.”

  “Promise.”

  Celia takes down the number. She can hear a siren wail in the background of whatever street Lena’s on. “Tomorrow,” Celia repeats. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Stop, please. I won’t.” Then Lena hangs up.

  D’Angelo is still pacing. “This doesn’t bode well for us,” she says. “I thought you said she was under control. That she was going to wait to hear from you.”

  “This is bad, Alvarez,” Fitzpatrick says. “You’re asking me to have my men follow twenty different people? For who, this one girl? When she just kidnapped someone’s daughter?”

  Celia feels her chest tighten. She should at least pretend to be angry, but she can’t. She looks up at D’Angelo, meeting her gaze. “All of them are after her. All of them want her dead—she doesn’t have much time. She’s desperate.”

  “Damn right she is,” Fitzpatrick says.

  Celia adjusts her uniform as she stands. “You’ll put some guys on it?”

  Fitzpatrick lets out a long, heavy breath. “Yeah, I mean, we have names now. I’ll look into it.”

  “Great,” Celia says. “We’ll get on the first plane.”

  Fitzpatrick says something about logistics, complains for another two minutes, then hangs up. D’Angelo has already collected the photos and put them back in the folder. She presses her lips together in a thin line—it’s not a smile, but close. “I guess this is it,” she says. “I guess we’re going to New York.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  AS YOU DIAL, your hands are shaking.

  You know that the disposable phone can’t be traced, but even so, you keep scanning the perimeter of the park. It’s just after eight A.M. and the area is filled with people headed to work. Every stranger—every man in a suit, every person in a hat or sunglasses—seems like they could be watching you.

  The phone rings twice before he picks it up. Alana gave you this cell number, so you know it’s him, but he doesn’t say anything. You listen to his shallow breaths. He’s waiting for you to speak first.

  “Theodore Cross,” you say.

  “Yes.”

  “We have your daughter.”

  “I know, Lena.”

  Your name, spoken by him. You have a sick, sinking feeling. It takes you a few seconds to respond. “We’ll meet you today in City Hall Park. You come, and she’s released. The police want to talk to you.”

  “They can talk.”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Will you be there?” he asks. “You know, when I first saw you on the island, I didn’t expect much. I’ve been hunting there since the beginning. I’ve gotten good at estimating who will last and how long. No one bets against me.”

  He’s trying to get to you, but you won’t let him. You stay silent.

  “I never would’ve bet on you, on Blackbird. You’ve come after us, I respect that. It’s just . . . I wouldn’t have thought you could survive even a few days. Look at you now.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “They’ve told me you turned the Paxton boy. That you infiltrated the ceremony. That you’re responsible for the breach at the hospital. For Reynolds.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead.” He says it in a cold, flat tone. No emotion. “He was a disturbed man. Under a lot of pressure at work, family stress. They found his body under the George Washington Bridge. He must’ve jumped. . . .”

  Your jaw is set. “You show up today, and we won’t hurt her. She’ll be waiting for you on the south side of the park by the fountain. You have to answer for what you’ve done.”

  “She’s my daughter. I’ll show up. But there’ll be no answers, only more questions.”

  Then he hangs up. You turn back to the baseball fields, where you can make out Rafe and Devon behind the dugouts. They have the girl hidden in a public restroom that you’ve taped off with an OUT OF SERVICE sign. You start toward them, pulling up your hood to hide your face, feeling more uneasy than before.

  Two hours later, you’ve met up with Celia and moved downtown to the meeting place. You’ve situated yourself on the roof of a nearby apartment building to watch the exchange. The building is only three stories high. From the eastern corner you have a good view of the girl sitting on a bench near the fountains. Celia sits beside her. You can see the flat blue top of her hat, the shock of Alana’s pink sweatshirt against the trees.

  Rafe kneels by the edge of the roof, looking down at the park. “He’s not just going to get her and leave. He’s not going to stay and talk to the police. . . . He has to be planning something else.”

  “But what? What is he going to do?” You look at the three cars stationed at the curb. Celia’s contacts are along the perimeter, waiting for Cross. Even if he was planning something else, he couldn’t get away with it. Not in public, with cops all around.

  You can’t see Devon from the roof—he snuck into an office building across the street. He’s watching from one of the upper floors, at the other edge of the park, to alert you if Cross’s car approaches from another side. Ben took Salto to a construction site near the Brooklyn Bridge to set up camp. You gave him a hug good-bye and promised that you’d see him soon. While you had hoped they could be taken into police custody, Celia cautioned against it—after what happened to Goss, it’s clear AAE has people on the inside. You won’t be safe at the station until the cops have Cross with charges that will stick.

  A black town car pulls up thirty feet from the fountain. Its flashers are on.

  “This is it.”

  The back door opens and a man with white-blond hair steps out. He’s wearing a tan coat, blue pants. He walks directly toward Alana and Celia. You can only see him from behind as he passes Celia some papers and waits.

  A woman gets out of the town car. Stiff brown hair, a purple cardigan. Celia doesn’t follow Alana as she runs to her mother. She just says something and nods to the cars. Three other officers are getting out. They move in, and the man with the blond hair turns around.

  You catch his profile. A long, narrow nose. Dark eyes. A thin hand that he holds out, offering it to one of the officers, shaking it in greeting.

  “Alana didn’t acknowledge him,” you say. “Did you notice that?”

  The woman brings Alana in for a hug. She smoothes her hair away from her cheeks and kisses her on the head. As the mother and daughter step into the town car the woman waves to the man by the fountain.

  “What do you think?” Rafe watches Celia. The three officers surround her. The man with the blond hair is talking, gesturing with his hands. The car pulls away.

  “I think she doesn’t know him,” you say. “No matter what she thought about that room or about what he did . . . she would be relieved to see her father. Wouldn’t she hug him or something? Isn’t it strange that she didn’t?”

  “Unless it’s not him.”

  “Exactly.”

  You pull the phone from your pocket, flipping it open. You have to warn Celia.

  You’re dialing when you hear the door somewhere behind you. The empty beer bottle you used to prop it open falls over, clattering against the metal. You look up, expecting to see Devon or Ben.

  Three men are on the roof. Two wear sunglasses, the third in a hat, the brim pulled down to shield his eyes. Rafe reaches for his gun, but they already have theirs up, aimed at you. They fan out to surround you.

  “Don’t try it,” one says.

  They take a few more steps forward. You know you can disarm the one in front, but the other two have fallen back. Even if Rafe manages to fire off a few shots, the chances of them
killing one of you is too high. You turn your head the slightest bit to the left, checking out the apartment entranceway below. There’s a metal awning out front, a long flat peninsula that juts out over the front doors. You could jump. You might be able to make it.

  Rafe notices the escape route at the same time you do. He looks out over the buildings, waiting for you to go first, but you won’t. You can’t leave him here. If he makes it onto the awning you’ll jump seconds later. If they wanted you dead you’d be dead already.

  When you speak you are focused on the man in front, staring at your reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. But the words are only meant for Rafe.

  “Go now.”

  Rafe grabs the edge of the roof and turns, preparing to throw his legs over and jump down onto the awning. But before he can push off, a man rushes toward him, grabbing at his sweatshirt. Another pulls Rafe back onto the ground. He falls hard, his head hitting the roof.

  You move toward them, but the first man steps in, pressing his gun to your neck. There’s no time to reach for the knife at your belt. He grabs your wrists and binds them with thick plastic ties.

  Rafe is on his stomach, his cheek pressed to the ground. One of the men kneels on his back to tie his hands. He tries to look at you, but they yank a cloth bag over his head. A moment later, another comes down over your face.

  Everything is dark.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  THE VAN MOVES over uneven ground, gravel grinding beneath. You tried the doors repeatedly on the way out of the city, but they’re locked from the outside. No windows. No obvious way to punch out the taillights. Your hands have scoured every inch of the interior, feeling behind your back, but there’s nothing to cut yourself free. They took your pack, your knife, everything on you.

  “How long do you think we’ve been driving?” you ask. You were on the freeway for hours—you could tell by the way the van sped up, the ride smoothing out over open road. It was only in the last hour that you switched to different terrain. Lying in the space behind the backseat, you can hear the radio beyond the plastic divider. There’s a country song playing. Something low and sad.

  Rafe lies beside you, his chin nestled by your shoulder. He can barely talk through the cloth hood. “I’d guess about eight hours. They’re taking us somewhere.”

  “I know,” you say. “But where?”

  You feel him shrug. “When they open the door, we have to be ready.”

  Rafe inches closer, his body hugging yours. Your right arm is numb from being on it for so long. You shift, turning onto your other side, trying to relieve the pressure. It’s hard to get any air, the fabric of the hood sucking in with every breath. They cinched it around your neck so tight you can feel the cord against your skin.

  As you lie there, you have the heady, dizzying feeling of a memory coming on. You don’t say anything to Rafe. You let it take you, closing your eyes.

  “Get up,” he shouts. He’s somewhere in front of you. They all are.

  “Blackbird, get up.”

  You’re on your back, your hands pressed into the dirt behind you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, trying to kick your legs out underneath you. You’re aware that your neck, your stomach—all the most vulnerable parts of you—are exposed.

  Then one of the men yanks you onto your feet. Your hands are numb from the ties. Someone undoes them and cuts the cord around your neck.

  When you pull off the hood you can finally breathe. You look up. There are ten of them, maybe more. An older man with a white beard. Two women in their thirties, their cheeks smeared with mud, hair pulled back. They’re all wearing camouflage. Dark greens and browns.

  The kids with you are all lined up together. Twenty in each direction. All of you wear bright white. White T-shirts, white pants, socks, and sneakers. The boy beside you pulls off his hood.

  Rafe.

  “Your shirt,” he says. He peels his T-shirt up and away. “Hurry.”

  You take yours off, exposing the white sports bra underneath. Some of the other kids just stand there. They’re frozen. They don’t move as you push down the thin white sweatpants, pulling them over your sneakers.

  The men and women all watch. Another girl down the other end of the row takes her clothes off, too, knowing that she’ll be harder to track that way. In a forest, the bright white stands out. Rafe kneels down and plunges his hands into the mud. Wipes it on his face and chest. He covers his white cotton boxer shorts.

  You do the same, smearing it over your face and chest, over the white cotton boy shorts. Then you turn and run into the woods.

  Rafe cuts the other way, down a steep embankment and through the trees. As the last of the kids take off, the men and women start to give chase. You’re suddenly very afraid.

  You dart through the forest, over roots and fallen trees. Whenever you hear footsteps behind you, you head the opposite direction. You’re not running toward anything. You’re just running away.

  It’s no more than ten minutes before you hear the first shot.

  “What is it?” Rafe asks.

  “A memory. One of the worst ones.”

  “From the island.”

  “You’re the one who told me to get rid of my clothes. I was just standing there.”

  “Most of the targets were. No one knew what was happening.”

  The van slows. Branches scrape the sides of it, the gentle patter of leaves and brush. You sit up, leaning against the backseat. It’s hard to stay upright. The van pitches to the left, making a turn. The front dives into a ditch and you fall forward, then slam back against the divider. You try to stay aware of the positioning of the double doors. You try to keep your bearings.

  “When we get out, we run,” you whisper.

  “You lead.” You can hear Rafe somewhere above you. He’s pushed himself to stand. You kneel, then use the side of the truck to get up, trying to stay beside him. Your hands are still numb.

  When the van finally stops they don’t say anything. You think there are two of them now, not three, but it’s impossible to be sure. The engine is off. The radio is silent.

  You both move to the doors, crouching right beside them. Footsteps outside. One of the men is coming around the left side of the van. There’s the jangling of keys. You press your shoulder to the door, hoping you can surprise him when he opens it and knock him down.

  The door opens. Outside, the world is dark—you can’t see anything beyond the thin fabric. You take two seconds to listen to the man’s breaths. He’s only a foot to your left. You jump down, launching yourself at him.

  Your shoulder collides with his chest and he stumbles backward. You hear the air leave his lungs. When you hit the ground you roll, righting yourself, trying to stand. Before you can get up you hear the other one climb out of the front seat, his steps coming toward you. “Christ,” he says. “If you just hold still we’ll let you go.”

  The other one is yelling. “Get down, don’t move.”

  Rafe must have started to run.

  One of them unties the cord under your chin, yanking off the hood. You blink, able to see for the first time in hours. The forest is lit only by the van’s taillights. The trees have a strange red glow. All you see is the darkness between them.

  The guy you knocked over has gotten up. He goes back to the front seat, climbs in without another word. The man behind you clips the tie around your wrists and you are free, the blood coming back into your hands. When you turn he is already running back to the van. He gets in, slams the door, and the van barrels forward down the dirt road.

  There’s no license plate. The logo on the back has been taken off—there’s no way to even tell what make it is. It speeds away and out of sight.

  “They’re gone.” You go to Rafe’s side, your eyes finally adjusting to the dark.

  The cord on his hood was pulled so tight there’s a thin indent around his neck. He rubs the skin. “Where are we?”

  The woods spread out in every direction. The sky above is the
clearest you’ve ever seen. It’s a deep bluish black, every star a perfect point of light. The air is much colder here than in the city. The moon is just a sliver in the sky.

  “They took us north,” you say. “However far you can get in eight hours.”

  You follow Rafe off the road and into the trees, where you’re more hidden. The ground is covered in dead leaves, which crunch beneath you as you walk. Thorn bushes sprout up in places, clinging to your jeans.

  “We should go south,” you continue. “How long do you think it’ll be before we hit a main road? If we stay in one direction we should hit civilization eventually. If we can get to a phone, I can call Celia.”

  “How long before they show up?” Rafe says. “That’s my question.”

  You move from tree to tree, hoping to stay out of sight long enough to put some miles between you and where the truck dropped you off. “Just keep moving. We’ve gotten away from them before.”

  But it’s only a few minutes before you sense someone watching you. You reach for Rafe’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

  The silhouette is a hundred yards off to your right. He’s not trying to hide himself. Instead he stands between the trees, in full view. Moonlight casts down around him. He looks bigger beneath his thick jacket. His gun hangs at his side, the end pointing at the ground.

  “It’s time,” he calls out.

  It’s the same voice you heard on the other end of the line, the same voice you heard leading the hunter’s vow. Cal. Theodore Cross. The man who started it all.

  The panic rises in your chest, a tight, twisting feeling around your heart. Each breath is shallow. Your lungs feel small.

  “You didn’t think this was really over, did you? That I was going to turn myself in to the police simply because you asked?”

  He waits for an answer as you move behind a tree, out of sight.

  “They don’t have anything on me,” he continues. “They can’t prove anything. Stop lying to yourself. Stop lying to the others. It’s cruel, you know, to give your sorry friends hope.”