by Eva Hudson
Ingrid sat very still. She tried to recall their first meeting with Carrie Foster at the hospital. There had been something strange about it—a tension she couldn’t identify at the time. Then there was Gurley’s subsequent refusal to have any doubt about Carrie’s account of the incident.
Gurley was right: it was a fucking mess.
“Say something for God’s sake.” Gurley twisted in his seat again.
There were no words of comfort or reassurance she could give him. She reached up and squeezed his shoulder, looked into his face, trying to muster an expression of sympathy, suspecting she was failing spectacularly.
Her phone beeped.
It was a text from Kyle Foster.
“We’re on,” she said, “I have the directions.”
Gurley blinked hard a few times, as if he were trying to refocus his attention.
“I can’t let you go in there on your own,” he said after a moment.
“He’s not going to hurt me. He has no reason to.”
“He could be armed.”
“Really?”
Gurley slammed a hand against the dash.
“I really don’t think he had anything to do with the missing gun at the base. He didn’t have the opportunity.”
Gurley turned to the passenger door and opened it. “I’m going in.”
“He didn’t ask for you.” She put a restraining hand on his arm. “Please, Jack. Think about it.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Maybe Kyle knows about… Maybe you’re the last person he wants to see.” She braced herself, worried how Gurley would react. She needn’t have. He just slumped back in his seat.
“I don’t want you going in there without backup.”
He still didn’t trust her abilities. She would have gotten mad if she’d had the energy. “Tough—we’re doing this my way.”
“You should have some protection at least.”
“I can look after myself.”
“Why not have a little extra help?” Gurley shoved an arm behind his back, beneath his jacket. He yanked something from the waistband of his pants. Then held it out to Ingrid.
The Beretta M9 seemed small in his huge hand.
51
Recoiling from the gun, Ingrid pressed her back into the driver door. “What the—”
“Take it.”
“No way. Do you have any idea how much crap I’d be in if anyone found me with that?”
“Same for me.” He proffered the gun again.
“It’s the missing pistol from the munitions store, isn’t it?”
“We were hunting a man who tried to kill a fourteen month old and had abducted his son. I wanted a little backup.”
“And how convenient, to blame Kyle Foster for the theft. You were actually prepared to frame him?”
Just when Ingrid thought she was getting a measure of the man, that maybe Gurley wasn’t the dick she’d supposed him to be, he threw this at her. What was wrong with the guy? She wanted to punch him in the mouth now more than she ever had. How could he possibly think his actions were in any way justifiable? She was tempted to report him to his superior when this whole thing was done.
“I just wanted to get Tommy back safe and sound,” he said. Then added, “By any means necessary.” The gun was still balancing on his open palm, his arm outstretched towards her.
“Get that thing out of my sight.” She thumped the steering wheel with a fist. “And find some way of returning it to the munitions store. You better make sure it’s clear to everyone Kyle Foster had nothing to do with it.”
Gurley reluctantly shoved the gun back into his waistband. “You said yourself he sounded like a desperate man. You can’t go in there unarmed.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do. Foster’s instructions are quite clear. I have every intention of following them to the letter. If I can’t convince him of Carrie’s confession, that we finally believe his version of events, I can at least go along with his plan. That way no one has to get hurt.”
Her phone beeped again. The message contained just one word: now.
Gurley started to open his door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Let me at least walk you to the outside of the building, for God’s sake.”
“I go alone.”
She climbed out the car and hurried to the second building on the right-hand side of the street, as per Foster’s instructions. The darkness seemed to be falling more quickly now. She checked her watch: it was a little after eight-thirty. A distant street light was doing nothing to illuminate her path. She stumbled awkwardly over a brick or lump of masonry as she reached the curb. She glanced back towards the car. Much to her relief, Gurley hadn’t decided to rush to her aid.
She reached the entrance of the dilapidated building, one of the rotten wooden doors was hanging off its hinges. She shoved it a few inches to one side and squeezed through the gap. As soon as she was through the other side, the light disappeared almost completely. Standing still for a moment in the dark, she hoped her eyes would adjust to the gloom, but apart from a pale glimmer from a distant window, somewhere way over to her left, which cast the faintest of glows onto the uneven, litter strewn floor, she couldn’t really make out any detail. Even though she was reluctant to use her precious phone battery, she flipped on the flashlight app and quickly swept it in an arc in front of her. She spotted a doorway on the other side of the high-ceilinged, hundred-square-foot space, switched off the flashlight and slowly made her way towards it, each footfall landing on broken glass or rubble. After a few dozen more steps she reached out her arms, ready to touch the wall she’d been heading for. When she got to it she was surprised the doorway she’d seen wasn’t immediately in front of her. She must have deviated from a straight line. She felt along the wall and edged sideways, frustrated progress was so slow.
Her phone beeped.
Another text message from Foster:
whr the fck ru?
Instead of wasting time fumbling with the phone to text a reply, she located the doorway and moved through it as fast as she dared. She hollered loudly, “I’ve just crossed the first big room. Can you hear me?”
“Hello?” a distant child’s voice answered. “Who are you? Have you—” The child let out a muffled yelp, as if someone had put a hand over his mouth.
“Tommy? Is that you?” Ingrid shouted. “Are you all right?” She stared into a deeper darkness, relieved that Tommy was still alive, but worried now that someone was hurting him. “Tommy?”
As she stood perfectly still, trying to hear his reply, a loud noise, a shuffling, scraping sound, came from somewhere ahead of her. She switched on her phone flashlight again, but there was no one with her in the twenty-foot square room. In the far corner she saw another doorway. With the flashlight trained on the floor, she quickly picked her way over the debris. She reached the door. Through the other side she was relieved to discover a narrow corridor, just as Foster’s instructions had described. She called out again, “Kyle? Tommy? I’ve reached the corridor now. Where are you?” She waited a moment for a reply, but didn’t really expect one.
The corridor would be much faster than the previous two rooms to navigate in the dark. All she had to do was reach out both her hands to touch the walls on either side to guide her. She was pretty sure, according to Foster’s instructions, her final destination was the room beyond this passageway.
She turned off the flashlight.
After a dozen or so steps another noise, much closer this time, forced her to stop in her tracks.
She felt something scurry over her feet. It was heavy. It had to be a rat.
She continued down the corridor, even faster than she had before. She reached the doorway at the far end and listened.
She heard only the rush of blood and beating of her own heart thump in her ears.
Concentrating hard, Ingrid tried to recall exactly what she was supposed to do once she’d come to t
he end of the corridor.
Through the doorway she turned right, and, with her fingers lightly touching the rough brickwork of the wall on her right-hand side, followed it until she reached another doorway.
Here she was supposed to wait. Though she was tempted to switch on the flashlight again, she resisted, concerned that in the pitch blackness she might startle Foster with the dazzling bright light.
He might be just feet away from her.
She held her breath and tried to make out the sound of Foster’s breathing nearby.
“Kyle? Are you here? Is Tommy with you?” she said, after a few moments.
She listened again.
All she heard was scuttling behind her. More rats, she supposed.
She swallowed hard. The rats themselves weren’t a problem. It was the fact she couldn’t see them that really bothered her.
She turned her head to the left, then right. But the blackness was absolute.
Behind her the scuttling noise stopped. She exhaled.
“Kyle?”
A split second later she felt an intense pressure across her throat.
Before she could react, a violent shove from behind pushed her face into the rough brick wall. More pressure on her throat, swiftly followed by heavy weight pressing against her body, and she was pinned flat against the wall.
She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She couldn’t make a sound.
52
“Are you alone?” Though the words were spoken in a harsh whisper, the voice was unmistakably Foster’s.
It was impossible for Ingrid to speak, the pressure against her throat was crushing her windpipe.
She managed to nod once.
“You’d better be.” Kyle Foster quickly slipped his arm from her throat, grabbed her head by the hair and shoved her left cheek hard against the wall. The rough surface scraped against her skin.
With his spare hand he patted her down, lingering at the pockets. He located her cell phone and threw it onto the ground.
“Please, Kyle.” Her voice came out in a murmur, her throat stinging. She coughed. “You’re not in any trouble. Carrie has told the police exactly what happened. How she hurt Molly. Why don’t you take me to Tommy?”
“You think I would trust you, after you betrayed me before?”
“The police insisted on being part of the operation. It was out of my control.” She coughed again. “They’re not here now—doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Maybe it’s a trap.” He pressed a knee into her thigh.
“Where’s Tommy?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Is he with Yvonne?”
“Shut up!” He shifted his weight, leaning more heavily against her. His breathing was rapid and uneven.
Ingrid relaxed her muscles as best she could, hoping Foster might loosen his grip.
He didn’t. After a few moments his breathing slowed a little.
“If what you’re saying is true, why did Carrie decide to change her story?” he said.
“She had no choice.” Ingrid coughed again, her throat felt raw. She tried to swallow. “The police found new evidence.”
“I’ve said all along I wanted to protect Molly and Tommy from her and you didn’t believe me. And now you’re telling me she’s confessed?”
“It’s true.”
“You’ll say anything to get Tommy back. You make me sick.”
She couldn’t argue with him. The way he was talking, nothing she said would make him trust her. “OK,” she said, “just tell me how you want this to work.”
He shoved her harder against the wall.
For the first time Ingrid worried what he planned to do to her once he released Tommy.
“Where’s Tommy?” she asked again, eager to focus on the reason she was there. “Is he safe? Is Yvonne here with him?”
“Do you have his papers? He needs them for the plane.”
“We have an embassy car waiting outside. All the paperwork is inside,” she lied. “We’ve done everything you asked.” Ingrid swallowed again. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could continue speaking. “You have me now. You can let Tommy go.”
He shoved her again. “Shut up! We’re doing this my way. When I say.”
“You wanted an exchange. You got it. Please. I just want to help you.”
“Stop lying to me!” He twisted sideways in an attempt to shove her even closer to the wall.
But this time Ingrid resisted with all the strength she had.
Her efforts threw Foster off balance. He stumbled.
She took her chance.
Driving back both elbows as hard as she could into his torso, she stamped down onto one of his feet. It was enough to knock him further off balance. She used the little momentum she’d gained to spin around and wrap both her arms across his body, pinning his arms to his sides.
He struggled against her.
Now she shoved him against the wall. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him there for long. He was bigger than her, stronger.
“Kyle—listen to me. Tommy will be safe. We can work together on this.”
“Why should I believe you?” He struggled against her grasp.
A strange, high-pitched gulping sound came from behind her. Then a bright light threw her shadow onto the wall. She couldn’t turn to see what was there without loosening her grip on Foster. She heard the noise again. More of a sob this time. Then a scream.
Then something barreled into her at speed. The beam of a flashlight bounced around the room, momentarily blinding her. Weak punches hit at her lower back, followed by kicks to her calves. The flashlight clattered to the floor.
“Daddy’s right! Stop telling lies!”
“Tom-my!” Her voice cracked between syllables.
“Stop lying.” Even though the boy’s punches and kicks weren’t doing any real damage, they were making it much harder for her to contain Foster.
“Mommy didn’t hurt Molly. You’re telling lies. Stop it!” The punches came faster and harder for a few moments then eased and gradually stopped. The boy had exhausted himself. He slumped onto the ground. “It’s naughty to lie. Mommy didn’t hurt Molly.” He started to cry.
“It’s OK, Tommy,” Foster said. “Everything’s OK. I’m sure Mommy didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“Listen to your dad.”
Tommy punched her weakly behind her knee. “Let Daddy go!”
Foster wasn’t offering any resistance. Ingrid was tempted to release him. “What I said before, it was true. Carrie told the police it was an accident.”
“That’s true. It was an accident,” Tommy said, then sobbed again. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” He slid past Ingrid’s feet and wrapped himself around his father’s legs. “I just wanted to stop her screaming. She was making Mommy cry. She makes Mommy cry all the time. I didn’t mean…” His voice was swallowed up by the sobs erupting from his throat, coming faster and louder with each snagging breath he took.
“What?” With his right arm Foster pulled against Ingrid and tried to reach down to his son. “What did you just say?”
Ingrid tightened her grip.
“For God’s sake, let me hold my son.” Foster strained against her.
“Where’s Yvonne?” Ingrid asked.
“She’s supposed to be with Tommy.”
“I ran away from her,” the boy said.
Ingrid let go of Foster and stepped away, out of her reach. Foster dropped to the ground and gathered Tommy into his arms.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Shhh… there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
“But there is. Molly was on the bed, screaming. Like she always does. I could hear Mommy in the bathroom, crying. I told Molly to be quiet. But she wouldn’t. So I grabbed her and shook her a little. But she screamed louder. So I shook her some more… I think maybe she hit her head on the back of the bed. I just wanted to…” His voice trailed away.
“It’s OK. It’s
all right, Tommy,” Kyle said in a soothing voice.
“That’s when Mommy hit me. I let go of Molly then and I hit Mommy back. I punched her in the leg. She shouldn’t have hit me. I was just trying to help. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”
For the next few moments the only sound that echoed around the room was Tommy’s violent sobbing.
“He’s lying,” Foster said eventually. “Trying to help his mom. He wouldn’t hurt his baby sister. He’s a good boy.” Clearly Foster couldn’t believe what his son had just admitted. His voice was shaky, uncertain.
Even in the near-dark, just from the sound of their breathing, Ingrid could tell Foster was squeezing the boy tighter to him.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her so bad. It was an accident.”
“Shhh, you don’t know what you’re saying. Be quiet.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“It was Carrie,” Foster insisted. “It had to be. Molly was just lying so still in Carrie’s arms when I got back to the room. But she can get help, right? She’s been depressed. That will be taken into account, won’t it? Temporary insanity. The stress… the depression she’s been suffering from…”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy said again between sobs.
“Shhh… I’m not going to lose him,” he told Ingrid. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Ingrid knelt down next to them. “You won’t lose him,” she said firmly. “That won’t happen. Tommy’s only eight years old.”
“So? He’s old enough to be prosecuted. I can’t have him go through that.”
“He doesn’t have to. He’s too young.”
“You think I’m going to believe you?”
“It’s different here than back home. The age of criminal responsibility in the UK is ten years old.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Foster’s head. “The police can’t even arrest him.”
“What?”
“I swear.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“I can call a lawyer right now, if you help me find my cell.”