by Sean Black
‘Ah, come on, Ryan. He knew Natalya, then magically she pops up as Josh Hulme’s nanny.’
‘Au pair,’ Lock corrected him.
‘Whatever.’
‘I guess we should call Frisk. Hand this back over to the Feds. People might not have wanted to cough up Parker when he was the Che Guevara of furry animals everywhere, but this might change his image.’
Lock pulled out his cell from the pouch on his belt. It buzzed in his hand. The prefix was for the Federal Plaza. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He flipped to answer.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ The voice was unmistakeably that of Frisk.
‘Just the man I wanted to speak to.’
‘The hell with you, Lock.’
‘We know who has Josh Hulme.’
‘That’s great. You know who has his father too?’
‘What?’
Ty read Lock’s face. ‘Wassup?’
Lock waved him away. ‘Richard Hulme is with your guys, isn’t he?’
‘He was until about an hour ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘He left his apartment and now we can’t find him.’
Thirty-six
Stafford Van Straten took some papers from an eight-hundred-dollar leather attaché case and laid them out on the back seat of the Hummer. ‘I spent most of the day negotiating with our insurance company,’ he said.
Richard looked down at the documents, a glazed expression on his face.
‘I managed to convince them that because there’s only been a short window between your terminating your employment and your decision to rejoin the company, they won’t void the policy which covers you in relation to kidnap for ransom. In other words, you’ll still be covered.’
Stafford smiled to himself. He would have made a great door-to-door salesman.
‘It wasn’t an easy negotiation under the circumstances. They’re placing a limit on any ransom of two million dollars. Usually they’d go to five. But I think we were lucky to get them to extend their cover at all, don’t you?’
Again, Richard said nothing.
‘In the event that any ransom that’s paid exceeds two million dollars, Meditech have agreed to cover the excess beyond two to the usual ceiling of five. We can write it off against tax, in any case.’
Finally, Richard looked up at him. ‘This is my son’s life you’re putting a figure on.’
Stafford loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I don’t mean it to sound so clinical. I’m not really the best guy when it comes to dealing with emotions. I tend to suppress things, you know. It’s easier for me to try to fix things than worry about why they went wrong in the first place. I understand that you’d give anything to get him back.’ He eased a contract across the seat with the fingertips of his right hand.
Richard looked down at the thick sheaf of laser-printed heavy bond paper. ‘What’s this?’
‘Well, in order for this to work you have to be in our employ for at least the next twelve months. Any less and the insurance company would void the policy again. Along with the cover for other employees. Which in turn would make it near impossible for us to be insured with anyone else. And that would present major difficulties, especially for our overseas operations. Major difficulties for you too, as you’d be liable for any ransom. And I’m guessing if you had a spare few million lying around we wouldn’t be here now. You do see what I’m saying here, Richard, don’t you?’
Richard hesitated, then reached out for the contract. He began to flip through it, looking for where his signature was required.
‘It’s all fairly standard stuff,’ Stafford said quickly, handing him a Mont Blanc. ‘All the usual caveats, in particular with regard to the commercial sensitivity of your work.’
Richard stopped flipping. ‘I won’t go back to using animals.’
‘And neither will we. Our word is our bond on that issue.’
Richard flicked to the last page and signed his name. Stafford handed him the copy. He signed that as well.
‘You’re talking about a ransom,’ Richard said, ‘but there hasn’t been any demand yet.’
‘That’s not entirely true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We had to resolve some other issues first. Before we told you.’
For a moment Stafford thought Richard was going to stab him through the throat with the pen.
‘The kidnappers have contacted you?’
‘They were obviously confused about your status with the company. Didn’t you think it was strange when you didn’t receive any demand?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Richard sounded disbelieving.
‘If we had, you’d have told the FBI, and where would that have gotten us? Listen, Richard, you’ve been a bit of a loose cannon for the company. Even prior to all this. All your objections to the animal testing didn’t go down well with senior management.’
‘It’s bad science. The genetic structure of a primate isn’t close enough for something of this nature. Fine if you want to come up with something to treat, say, diabetes, but there’s no margin of error with these agents.’
Stafford cut him off. It was tough love time. ‘Well, while you were busy baring your soul on national TV, I was hard at work trying to get the company to sort out this damn mess. The people who have your son have made it plain they don’t want news of any ransom demand getting to the FBI. Nor do we. How many kids of our employees would be snatched if this were made public? Millions of dollars involved. Every scumbag loser in the country would be looking to repeat the trick. Every child whose parents were employed by a major corporation would be a target. Do you want that?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.’
‘Good. So no telling anyone else. Especially not the FBI. If they find out, they’ll block it, and your son will likely die.’
‘How can we be sure he’s still alive?’
‘Proof of life?’
Richard nodded.
Stafford reached back into his smart leather attaché case and retrieved a clear plastic bag with a bright blue Ziploc sealer at the top. Inside were four locks of brown hair. ‘We’ve had it analysed using our own labs. It’s definitely Josh’s. And they sent us this.’
Aware that a Polaroid avoided any suspicion that the image had been doctored, Stafford produced a white-edged snap, and passed it to Richard. In it, Josh stood, blinking against the flash, hair shorn and coloured, holding a two-day-old copy of the New York Post.
‘Oh Jesus. My son. What have they done to him?’ said Richard, breaking down at last.
Thirty-seven
Close to midnight, lights still shone from inside the Korean deli. A pool of hard commercial reality illuminating the ‘For Lease’ sign.
‘This’ll only take a minute,’ Lock said, pushing open the door.
‘You could just send a card,’ Ty objected.
On the way back to headquarters they’d got word from Carrie that the old Korean man hadn’t made it, that his heart had stopped working.
His daughter was behind the counter. She stiffened as Lock walked in. Even more so when Ty followed in his wake. Lock sighed: some things in the city never changed.
He took off his ball cap and held it against his chest. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
She looked away, grief still catching her unawares. Tears welled. Ty studied the ground.
‘That’s all we came to say, really.’
‘Thank you.’
They started back to the door.
‘Wait,’ she said, moving from behind the counter. ‘My father thought you were a hero. You know we’d been robbed once before. And people did nothing. Just stood there and watched it happen.’
‘Have the police said anything about the men who broke in?’
‘They’ve asked about the people who were doing the protests down the street.’
‘That figures.’
�
�Why?’ she asked.
‘Doesn’t matter. When the shooters came in, what did they say?’
‘They didn’t say anything.’
‘Nothing at all? Not even “get down” or “don’t move”?’
‘They gave us each a note.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Instructions on a piece of paper. The one they gave my father was in Korean.’
Lock felt suddenly wide awake. Ty, who had picked up a newspaper to kill time, put it back on the rack.
‘And what did it say?’
‘Just told us what to do.’
‘And the notes were definitely written out in Korean?’
‘And English. Yes.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Did you give them the notes?’
‘The men didn’t leave them behind.’
Lock looked at Ty, both thinking the same thing. They told her again how sorry they were to hear about her father’s passing and left.
A civilian cop wouldn’t have made the connection. To him or her it would just have been a neat trick, perhaps a way of making sure that the victim didn’t pick out an accent. But to Lock and Ty the written instructions meant something else. Something heavy.
In Iraq, when military patrols conducted raids on houses where they didn’t have access to a local interpreter, they used cards written out in all the local dialects. They relied on the fact that the Iraqi population was an educated one, and that although literacy levels were high, it wasn’t guaranteed that people could speak English. They also knew that a failure to understand instructions led to misunderstanding, and misunderstandings led to death. So the cards were brought in.
Lock felt a jolt of adrenalin. Whoever had taken over the store had been military, or ex-military.
Speed-walking along the sidewalk, they made it to the entrance of the Meditech building in under a minute. They spoke only once they’d reached the elevator.
‘Cody Parker have any service?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Don Stokes?’
‘Are you shitting me? With that kid’s attitude he’d last about two seconds.’
Brand was sitting behind a desk as they filtered into the makeshift ops room. Above Brand’s head a huge poster-size blowup of Josh Hulme gazed down on them.
Brand pushed back his chair, put his hands behind his head. ‘The wanderers return.’
Lock leaned over the desk so his face was inches from Brand’s. ‘Where’s Hulme?’
‘Safe.’
Lock took a step back, lifted his boot and used it to roll back Brand’s chair into the wall. ‘I said where, not how.’
‘I know what you said, Lock. But while you’ve been trawling the titty bars of the five boroughs for fresh skank, the situation’s moved on. He’s up at the Bay, if you must know.’
‘Brand, cut the shit. What’s going on?’
‘Relax, it’s all being taken care of.’
‘I’m in charge here, and you know it. When things happen, I need to be told.’
‘Correction. You were in charge.’
Brand stood up and picked up two white business envelopes from the desk. One was addressed to Lock, the other to Ty. He passed them over.
Lock ripped his open. The single line in bold upper case beneath the letterhead left no room for interpretation: NOTICE OF TERMINATION.
Thirty-eight
Stafford stood on the deck of the family’s Shinnecock Bay compound, phone in hand. Ten thousand square feet of property porn with nothing between it and Europe, save the Atlantic. New money fronting the old world.
He ended the call and turned to the two men standing behind him. One was his father, the second Richard Hulme. ‘It’s agreed,’ he said.
Richard’s shoulders slumped, gravity seeming to return to normal for him. ‘Tell me he’s OK. Tell me my son’s safe.’
‘He’s fine, Richard.’
‘So when can we—’
‘If everything goes smoothly, this’ll all be over in less than twenty-four hours.’
Richard nodded to himself, desperate to believe this, as Stafford knew he would be.
Nicholas Van Straten walked to the edge of the deck, arms still folded. ‘How much?’
‘Three million.’
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he stared beyond the swimming pool beneath them to the ocean. ‘A small price to pay.’
‘Especially when we have someone else picking up most of the tab,’ added Stafford.
‘Richard, would you allow me a moment with my son?’
‘Of course.’
Nicholas waited until Richard was out of sight.
‘Well done, Stafford.’
It was the first unqualified piece of praise Stafford could recall his father ever giving him. Even as a child, any compliment had always been tempered by an immediate addendum that while he’d done well it was the least that could be expected given the advantages of his birth.
He wanted to savour it. But all he felt was resentment.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Perhaps I should have involved you earlier.’
‘Perhaps you should have.’
And then it came, the ubiquitous qualification: ‘Let’s just hope the handover goes smoothly, shall we?’
Thirty-nine
The room snapped to darkness. Josh felt his way on his hands and knees over to the TV set and pushed the power button, but nothing happened. The fear he’d pushed away over the past few days was back as a pounding in his chest, and a dryness in his mouth.
The absence of light was total. The room was so dark that he could feel his hand against his face but he couldn’t see it. He shouted for help, but no one came.
Then, maybe a minute later, maybe five minutes, he heard the door being opened. Outside the door was dark as well. Then a sharp blinding light burst on, directed at his face. He squinted into it, black shapes edged in yellow swimming in front of him. He sensed someone behind the light. Then a bag was thrown into the room, landing at his feet.
‘Merry Christmas,’ a man’s voice said.
Josh stared down at the bag.
‘Go ahead, Josh. Open it.’
He reached down and undid the zip. His hands shook.Don’t be a baby, he said to himself.
Inside were a pair of sneakers.
‘Put them on.’
He sat down on the floor and hurriedly threw them on to his feet, fumbling with the Velcro fasteners.
‘OK, now turn round so you’re facing the other way.’
He did as he was told.
‘Now, I’m going to put a hat on you. A big hat so you won’t be able to see anything. But I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Josh said. His voice sounded strange to him. Then he remembered he hadn’t spoken in days.
He turned round and the man pulled the hat down over his face.
‘OK, do you promise not to peek?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good, because if you do, you can’t go home ever again. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, I’m going to hold your hand and show you where to go.’
Josh felt rough skin against his hand as the man led him out of the room. The air was colder, and he could hear the echo of the man’s shoes as he walked next to him. There was a click, like a door being opened. The man pushed Josh forward and then there was another click. He guessed that was the door closing again. Then the man took his hand again and they kept walking forward. Josh struggled a little to keep up, rushing every few steps to stay level. The last thing he wanted to do was make the man mad.
There was a buzz and the click of another door opening, and then an icy blast of cold air.
‘Watch your step,’ the man said, almost hauling Josh off his feet. ‘This way.’
There was the sound
of a heavy car door being opened, and then he was shoved inside, bundled into the back.
‘Here, sit down.’
He felt a pressure against his chest as the man forced him back down. The seat felt soft, cold and smooth against his bare hands. There was the sharp clip of a seatbelt.
‘Keep the hat on. I’ll be watching you.’
A moment or two later the engine started. Josh placed his hands in his lap. He could feel the wool of the hat tickling his skin but resisted the urge to scratch. He dug his fingernails, which had grown since he’d been taken, into the palms of his hands, to distract himself.
The car smelled the same as the one he and Natalya had got into after the party, what seemed like an eternity ago. It brought back memories of things he’d tried not to think about. The panic he’d felt as they drove away. The smell of the river. The spine-stiffening crack of the gun. He clenched his hands tighter, his nails pressing deeper into his flesh, the pain pushing it all away.
In the front seat, the driver made the first of three phone calls. The first one worried him the most because he had no idea if the person he needed to reach would answer. He was relieved to hear the voice on the other end of the line. He’d spent hours familiarizing himself with it, listening over and over to the threats made by the man who possessed the voice.
‘Yeah?’
‘I know what happened to Stokes, and why.’
‘Who is this? How’d you get this number?’
‘If you want to find out, you need to meet me in one hour,’ the driver said. Then he gave him the address and ended the call.
Human nature would do the rest.
Forty
Ty and Lock slid into a booth. Opposite them, Tiffany stirred a hole in the bottom of her coffee cup with a spoon.
Ty slid a picture of Cody Parker across the table. Tiffany glanced at it for less than a New York second and shook her head.
Lock leaned across the table towards her. ‘But that’s him, that’s Cody Parker.’
‘He didn’t look nothing like that.’
Lock used his hand to crop the top of Cody’s head, reasoning that for all he knew Cody’s long flowing locks could have been a disguise, grown at a later date. ‘Look again.’