False Positive

by Andrew Grant

  Devereaux called Page. He asked him to double-check the address to make sure it matched the location of the woman’s webcams. As far as Page could tell, it did. Still dubious, Devereaux hung up and saw he’d missed half a dozen calls from Lieutenant Hale on the drive from Birmingham. He debated calling her back. She might have an update about Nicole. It could be good news. Or bad. But she’d also yell at him for not going to Georgia, as he’d agreed to. He didn’t have time for that, so he called headquarters instead and spoke to Hale’s civilian aide. She told him Hale was still at the airplane museum, but there was nothing else to report.

  Devereaux decided to trust his instincts. He wasn’t being completely irresponsible. If the report of the exchange in the hotel parking lot was true, then Hale, the FBI agents, and the Georgia police would be more than equal to handling things on their end. But something told him he was likely to be closer to the action where he was.

  It was tempting to find a place to stake the house out and wait for the woman to show her cards. The problem was, Devereaux didn’t know for sure if she’d come. Or even if it was her house. She could have been using one of the tricks Page had mentioned to disguise the location of the webcams. Given the shortage of time, Devereaux decided he needed to force the issue. To find out if he was on the right path. Or if he’d talked himself into the longest wild-goose chase of his life.

  And the most disastrous.

  Particularly for the daughter he’d never even seen.

  Chapter One Hundred and Six

  Wednesday. Evening.

  Nicole missing for twenty-seven and a half hours

  Devereaux parked the Porsche two streets away, in the opposite direction from the route in from the highway, and walked back to the house.

  No lights were on, and there was no sign of movement. The plot was open, so he walked around the side of the garage and inspected the rear of the property. From the patio he could see into the kitchen and the living room. Both were furnished, but with bland basic items that expressed no personality at all. The drapes were closed in the upstairs windows. There was no sound of voices or TVs or music to suggest that anyone was home.

  A large red alarm klaxon was prominently mounted just below the roofline at the front of the house, and another was visible high up at the back. Devereaux looked through the kitchen window. There were alarm sensors on the window and door frames, but no sign of a PIR device. It was the same story in the living room. Devereaux returned to the front of the house and knocked on the door as a cover for checking the security. Again, he saw no PIRs. Only a generous smattering of perimeter sensors.

  This setup made sense if the house really did belong to the woman. Passive Infra-Red sensors are invaluable when they’re working properly, but they’re notoriously unreliable. Over ninety percent of false alarm activations are down to PIR malfunctions. The woman would want her property to be secure, but she couldn’t afford the risk of annoying her neighbors—or alerting the police.

  Devereaux hurried back to the Porsche and squeezed into the tiny area that passed as a rear seat. He pulled out the razor-sharp switchblade he’d carried since his teens and plunged it through the carpet-covered hardboard parcel shelf. He hacked around in a rough circle. Then he tore out one of the enhanced-bass premium-audio speakers he’d paid an arm and a leg for when he’d ordered the car, four months earlier.

  Back at the rear of the house, Devereaux held the speaker against the kitchen door so that its magnet was as close as possible to the sensor. He used the blade of his knife as a lever to enlarge the gap in the frame. Then he slammed into the wood with his shoulder, splitting the frame and opening the door without shattering the glass or triggering the alarm.

  The first floor had the feel of a model home. All the walls were painted pale yellow. Several reed diffusers gave off a strong scent of jasmine. Each room had one piece of furniture too few: a living room with no coffee table, a dining room without chairs. Up close, the quality of the materials was nowhere near what it promised from a distance. Devereaux glanced into each one on his way to the staircase. He paused at the bottom, settled himself, then ran up two steps at a time.

  At the top of the stairs the landing forked to the left and the right. Devereaux went to the right. Four doors were laid out ahead of him. The first led to a bathroom. The second, a bedroom. The scene inside came as less of a shock than when Devereaux had discovered Miranda Gonzalez, the day before, but his mind still rebelled against the reality of what he saw. The room was illuminated by two giant chrome-plated floodlights on adjustable metal tripods. The walls were covered with stylized murals of 1920s cars and buildings in black and silver. In the center of the room was a raised podium, and lying on it was the body of a tiny boy kitted out in a miniature tuxedo, complete with silk scarf and bow tie. On the floor a silver champagne bucket was filled with imitation ice cubes and a real, unopened bottle of vintage Cristal.

  Devereaux came out of the room, took a breath, and checked behind the third door from that half of the landing. It led to another bathroom. The fourth door led to another bedroom, but this one was empty.

  Devereaux moved back along the landing and started down the other branch. The layout was the same: two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The first bedroom he tried was empty. That meant something unpleasant was most likely waiting for him behind the last door. He paused. Steeled himself. And went inside.

  This room was set up as a NASCAR circuit. One wall was painted like a row of garages, with the crews brandishing their tools for a fuel stop and tire change. The other walls made up the grandstands, teeming with ecstatic, cheering spectators. But the real action was straight ahead: two cars—actually beds with elaborate wooden bodywork bolted onto them, one blue, one red—were neck and neck, the missing twins behind the wheels, locked for eternity in fraternal rivalry.

  Devereaux pulled out his phone, ready to call Hale, but he hesitated before hitting the Call key. It was clear that the woman had been at work here. But he had no proof she was planning on coming back. She may have some other property they were yet to discover, and he didn’t want to divert any resources that might be needed to find Nicole by prematurely calling it a result. He went back downstairs, intending to look for a door to a basement in case that contained any clues as to the woman’s intentions, but then it occurred to him that there was a much more obvious place to try.

  —

  The inside door to the garage opened off the family room. Devereaux used the Porsche speaker’s magnet to circumvent its alarm sensor, picked its lock, and stepped through into a space that would originally have been large enough to hold three cars until a wall had been built all the way across it, halving its depth. A giant washer and drier had been installed against it, and there was a door set into the center, secured with three hefty bolts.

  Devereaux slid the bolts back and opened the door, revealing a kind of air lock between the other side of the wall and the main door to the driveway. He guessed it was to enable deliveries to be made safely while the woman was away. She could give the parcel guys a remote opener for the outer door, so they could leave their goods securely and out of sight, but without having access to the rest of the house.

  Devereaux switched on the light and saw that a large cardboard box had been left there. He checked the paperwork stuck to the outside. It had been an express delivery, scheduled for earlier that day. He opened it. Scooped out a generous layer of Styrofoam peanuts. And froze when he saw the contents.

  There were two dozen Barbie dolls. A pair of Barbie drapes. A Barbie light shade. And a Barbie comforter cover.

  Everything you’d need to make a Barbie-loving girl feel right at home.

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  The clerk thought it was stupid, coming to an Internet cafe and paying extra for a computer that couldn’t go online.

  The woman didn’t care what the clerk thought. It was the only way to make sure the devious brat she was saddled with couldn’t log onto email or IM or Twitter
or whatever seven-year-olds used to send messages these days. And she obviously couldn’t leave the girl unattended in the car. Not after what the kid had pulled at the hotel.

  The extra cost—and the extra time she’d spent getting to the place—proved to be more than worthwhile, however. The woman took the opportunity to relieve one of the raucous teenagers who frequented the place of his iPhone. The computer she rented for herself did, of course, have Web access. And through it, she made one last check on her webcams. A check that had revealed a very nasty surprise waiting at her house.

  Devereaux.

  How he’d found the place, goodness only knew. Her daughter hadn’t been aware of it, and there were no records tying her to the address. Not directly, anyway. And he wouldn’t have been able to navigate through the ones that did exist. But that was of no matter. The key takeaway was something that the woman had discovered at an early age. Something that had become the mantra she’d lived by ever since.

  Praemonitus, preamunitus.

  Forewarned is forearmed.

  Chapter One Hundred and Eight

  Wednesday. Evening.

  Nicole missing for twenty-eight hours

  There was no longer a doubt in Devereaux’s mind.

  He pulled out his phone, ready to call Hale and have her send in the cavalry. Then something he’d said to Loflin at the hospital the previous night resurfaced in his mind. The woman wasn’t an ordinary criminal. Her behavior was beyond Hale’s expertise. It was beyond Bruckner’s and Grandison’s, too. Beyond everyone’s.

  Except, perhaps, his.

  Devereaux canceled Hale’s number and called Loflin instead. He asked her for a simple favor. Next he called Page, and asked him for something a little more complicated. Then he put his phone away. He moved to the living room. Sat down on the couch’s uncomfortable synthetic-tweed cushions to wait. And welcomed the calm clarity as he felt it start to blossom in his chest.

  —

  Devereaux didn’t recognize the number that showed up on the screen twenty minutes later, but he answered his phone, anyway.

  “Cooper?” The woman sounded confident. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’m here to collect my daughter.” Devereaux kept his voice soft and even. “It turns out she doesn’t like water parks. Or airplane museums. Or psychopaths.”

  “Then she’d better be kept away from you, Cooper dear, as you and I are cut from the same cloth.”

  “Are we?”

  “You know we are.”

  “You’ll need to remember that, in a little while.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to talk about what we’re going to do. How we can fix things so that my daughter comes home with me, and no one else gets hurt.”

  “That’s a lofty goal, Cooper. I’m sorry to be the one to disappoint you.”

  “Bring my daughter to your house. Unharmed. Let her come home with me. And in return, I’ll let you walk away. That’s as good an offer as you’re going to get tonight.”

  “You know that can never happen, Cooper. Because even if I believed what you say, you know I can’t let you walk away. Not with what’s in your bloodstream. It wouldn’t be responsible.”

  “Then how about a trade? Me for my daughter.”

  “You see? We are alike. That’s what I was about to suggest.”

  “OK, then. How do we make it happen?”

  “You found the way to the garage?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Go there. Roll up the outer door. No more than six inches. Slide your gun underneath. And any other weapons you have. Then sit on the ground, cross your legs, and put your hands under your butt. Understand?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now? That won’t work. I need—” Devereaux’s phone vibrated and he risked quickly removing it from his ear to check the incoming message. “Actually, scratch that. Of course now will work. I’m on my way. Give me thirty seconds.”

  Chapter One Hundred and Nine

  Wednesday. Evening.

  Nicole missing for twenty-eight and a quarter hours

  Devereaux ejected the bullets from his gun and dropped them into a Cardinals mug he took from a cupboard on the wall in the kitchen. He moved his switchblade to his back pocket. Then he went to the garage. Found the door opener. Cranked it up two inches. Shoved his gun out. And remained on his feet.

  Ten seconds later Devereaux heard a car door slam. Then footsteps, and the scrape of metal on asphalt as someone picked up his gun. After another twenty seconds there was a second slam. Then the garage door started to roll up the rest of the way. Devereaux instinctively moved to the side and ducked down to see what was happening outside.

  The Mercedes was parked sideways on the driveway, blocking the view of anyone passing by on the street. The woman was standing next to its passenger door. Nicole was with her, wrapped in a bulky, brightly colored beach towel. The woman’s hands were gripping Nicole’s shoulders while tears poured down the little girl’s face.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Devereaux took a step forward, then stopped dead. The woman had pulled away the towel, letting it fall to the ground. He could see that Nicole was clutching a well-loved cuddly rabbit under one arm. She was wearing a blue pinafore dress. And over it, an old-fashioned life preserver. It was made of tan leather, laced up in front, with a series of vertical cylindrical pockets, which would originally have held the floatation aids. Only now the pockets were linked together with a sheaf of red, white, and blue wires. The red wire extended to the side and connected to a switch that the woman held in her left hand.

  “It seems that neither of us was specific enough with our terms, Cooper. I didn’t stipulate that the bullets should still be in your gun. And you didn’t stipulate that your daughter should still be in one piece.”

  “You’re right.” Devereaux focused on the woman’s left hand. “We were both remiss. Maybe we should start the negotiation over. How about this: my daughter, alive and unharmed, in exchange for your daughter in the same condition.”

  “Nice try. But my daughter isn’t here. And she isn’t in danger.”

  “She’s not far from here. And she’s in mortal danger.”

  “She’s in the hospital. In Birmingham, Alabama. And she’s completely safe.”

  “She was. Until I signed her out on my way up here.”

  “You didn’t sign her out. She’s still in the hospital, tucked up in bed, fast asleep.”

  “I need to show you something now. Jan would want you to see it. It’s on my phone. I’m going to reach into my pocket and take it out, so don’t get twitchy with that panic button, OK?”

  Devereaux retrieved his phone, pulled up a photograph, then handed it to the woman.

  “Oh my God! What have you done?”

  “As you can see, your daughter’s buried up to her neck in sand. The mask she’s wearing is a professional diver’s model, which guarantees an absolutely airtight seal around the face. It’s connected to an oxygen tank with, let’s see…” Devereaux made a show of looking at his watch. “…thirty-four minutes’ supply. That’s a little less than planned, because you took longer to get here than I’d expected.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That’s the interesting part. She’s thirty minutes’ drive from here. That means if you got going right away, you’d have a little less than four minutes left to remove the mask before she suffocates. If you knew where to go. Which you don’t. I’m the only one who does. But I’ll be happy to tell you. Just as soon as you put down that switch and let my daughter go.”

  “You wouldn’t leave Jan to suffocate! That’s inhumane. You’re bluffing.”

  Devereaux stepped forward until he was directly in front of the woman.

  “Who’s my father, Madison?” He stared her straight in the eye. “If you were right about all those kids—if it was necessary to save them the way you did—then I’ll absolutely leave your daughter to suffocate. I’l
l do it in a heartbeat. And you know I will.”

  The woman stepped away. Her back pressed against the Mercedes. But she didn’t release the switch.

  “Think about it.” Devereaux spread his arms out wide. “You know all about me. You know all about my father. Can you see any scenario where you kill my daughter and I let yours live?”

  The woman dropped the switch. Devereaux took Nicole’s hand and started to slowly lead her toward the garage. They’d backed three feet away. Six. Then the woman flung herself forward, trying to retrieve the dangling red wire. Devereaux picked the girl up and spun her to the side. He kicked the woman as he turned, catching her in the shoulder and knocking her down. The woman stood straight back up and sprang at Devereaux, scratching and clawing at his face. He tried to fend her off with one hand but she was too wild. He had to put the girl down. The woman jumped on his back as he leaned forward. He straightened, spinning and slamming her into the side of the Mercedes. Her head cracked against its side window, starring the glass, and she slid to the ground, finally still, blood flowing freely from the back of her scalp.

  Devereaux turned, his eyes searching for his daughter. She was ten feet away. Her fingers were tugging at the laces securing the bomb vest. She almost had them undone. The vest was starting to slip from one shoulder.

  “No!” Devereaux threw himself at the girl, desperate to stop her.

  He was too late.

  He landed at her feet, right as the vest hit the ground.