by Simon Wood
She set the plate in front of him and watched him eat. “So he went after Scott Fleetwood. This is going to be messy.”
He put down his fork. “Yes. I’m frightened he’s going to kill that kid just because of what his father did.”
She shook her head. “He won’t even be able to hide in hell if he does.”
“No, he won’t.”
“How much is he asking?”
“Two million.”
“Do they have that kind of money?”
He shook his head. “They’re liquidating their lives as we speak.”
She looked around their home. “I can’t imagine what that would be like. They should make an appeal for donations. This city would give to stop this bastard.”
“Considering who Sammy’s father is, I can’t see many people donating.”
She frowned. “How are you with Scott?”
If he said fine, she’d call him a liar. She’d listened to his rants after Nicholas Rooker’s death. She knew how he felt about him. “I’m professional,” he answered.
“That’s good. That boy needs you. You’re the one who’s going to save him.”
He picked at his food and studied his plate, not wanting to look Angela in the eye. “I got a little rough with him tonight. I made it personal. I crossed a line.”
“Tom, you can’t do that. You can’t have one eye on the father when both should be on the Piper.”
“I know.”
He pushed his plate away. He didn’t want to get into a fight. He’d come home to be away from Scott and the Piper. There wouldn’t be many moments like this over the next few days, maybe even weeks, depending on how things went. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I just want to be home with you guys and sleep.”
She got up from her seat, went over to him, and kissed him. “Don’t let the Piper get to you. Just do your job, and you’ll nail him.”
He wished he had her faith. The need for sleep pressed him, but he had to draw a line between his work and rest. If he didn’t, he’d spend the night tossing and turning. He went into the living room and switched on the TV. Angela joined him.
“I tried calling Jen this afternoon, but she didn’t answer,” Sheils said.
“Oh, she forgot to charge her cell.”
“She forgot? What if it had been something important?”
“It’s okay. She just forgot to charge it. It’s no big thing.”
“I bought the damn thing for her protection. Is it on the charger now?”
“I don’t know.” Irritation crept into her tone.
“Where is it?” He jumped up from his seat. “I’ll do it.”
She grabbed his arm. “Tom, she’s asleep. Do it in the morning.”
He nodded and she released her hold. Instead of sitting, he went to the front door.
“What are you doing?”
“Locking up.”
He latched the security chain and snapped the dead bolt home, then went to the back door and did the same.
“Where’s Matt? I didn’t see his car outside.”
“San Jose. He was catching that concert with Julie.”
“Has he checked in?”
She came into the kitchen. He brushed past her to lock the connecting door to the garage.
“No. He’s eighteen. He doesn’t need to. I know where he is, and I trust him.”
He went into the living room and flipped the window locks. “He’s a good kid, but I like him to check in.”
She followed him into the living room. He went to sweep past her, but she blocked his path.
“Tom, it won’t happen.”
A flush of embarrassment swept over him. “What won’t?”
“The Piper won’t come after our kids.”
Could she be that sure? He knew he couldn’t.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Piper had hoped a midnight run along the beaches of Half Moon Bay would help him sleep. It didn’t. The day’s events had left him too excited to sleep.
Back home, he poured himself a drink and sat down in front of the TV. The kidnapping was still all over the news, even at this ungodly hour. It had been a long time since he’d heard his name. No, not his name. His persona. His neighbors saw someone completely different. They saw an easygoing guy who kept a nice home and attended barbecues every Fourth of July.
The TV pundits pretended they understood him. What pricks. He’d heard better theories scrawled on a men’s room wall.
Channel after channel dredged up the same ancient history. They all painted him as a monster, of course, all pouncing on the Nicholas Rooker angle. Poor kid. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he had no other option. The FBI had bought into Mike Redfern’s fantasy after he’d gone to that reporter. That had screwed up everything. The Piper kept his kidnappings to a timeline. They all followed a critical path. They had to. The cops and Feds weren’t dumb; they learned and adapted, so it was imperative he acted quickly. In the case of Nicholas Rooker, Redfern had burned up all his time, leaving him with only two choices: expose himself to discredit Redfern or cut his losses. He couldn’t risk exposure, so he had to cut his losses. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he had to send a message, didn’t he? He made it painless. He wasn’t a sadist, despite what the newsmen said.
Where other so-called criminal masterminds went wrong was they didn’t know when to quit. They got greedy. They stopped looking at the percentages and studying the probabilities. All crime was governed by simple mathematics, meaning all risk had to be justified. That was why he quit. Once he crossed that line with Nicholas Rooker, retirement was his only option.
The FBI could search for a hundred years and they would never find him. Profilers postulated that he was a thrill-seeker who would keep trophies from his victims. But they were comparing him to serial killers. He was nothing of the sort. He was a businessman, all about the money. Once he finished a job, he destroyed every shred of evidence. If the Feds busted down the door right now, they wouldn’t find anything linking him back to Nicholas Rooker. Not a thing.
But that had all changed. Now there was Sammy Fleetwood. The Feds would bring their A game this time around. Before Nicholas Rooker, no one feared for their child in a Piper kidnapping. The threat was there, but he always returned the children—as long as he was paid. But Sammy Fleetwood was different. Sammy could die at any time, and all the players involved knew it.
The Piper looked around his home and gazed out one last time at the sweeping ocean view. He’d leave in the morning for the ranch. He hadn’t expected the media firestorm to ignite so quickly. If any suspicion fell upon him, there were too many people who knew him around here. The ranch would be perfect. There would be no one around to watch him up there.
Jerky images of FBI agents hustling Scott Fleetwood inside his home flashed across the TV screen. This guy had to be sweating bullets—.45 caliber and bigger. He knew he’d brought this shitstorm on himself.
The Piper lifted a glass of bourbon to his lips and drank, pausing the TV with a touch of the remote.
Well, if Scott Fleetwood thought he was suffering now, it was nothing compared to what was to come.
The Piper lifted his glass to a freeze-frame of Scott Fleetwood and toasted him. “To pain and suffering.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Scott awoke to his cell phone ringing. The previous day’s events failed to penetrate the fog of sleep. He rolled over and grabbed the phone. Only as he put the phone to his ear did Sammy’s kidnapping penetrate his skull.
“I need you to come in,” George Moran said. George was the Independent’s executive news editor and Scott’s boss.
“George, Jesus. What time is it? Come in—are you insane?”
Scott rolled out of bed and went to the window. He edged the drapes aside to view the media amassed outside his home. Many of the faces he knew. Under normal circumstances, he’d be among them. He let the drapes fall back, not wanting to be seen.
“You’re going to want to hear m
e out. We want to help with the ransom. I’ve got clearance to buy your story. We’ll pay big.”
He wanted to tell George to go to hell, but George was a good guy. And they needed the money. “How big?”
“Six figures. Can you come here now?”
“I’m on my way.”
He showered and dressed, then slipped from the room without waking Jane. It had been a long night. They’d spent the evening on the phone, hitting up family and friends for loans and donations, calling their banks’ twenty-four-hour lines to cancel certificates of deposit, and selling their stocks through the Internet. That had yielded a hundred thousand, which was a long way from the two million they needed. But it was business hours again. The next few hours would make the difference. They planned on trading in their cars today and meeting with the bank to see how much they could borrow.
As Scott padded down the stairs, Sheils let himself in. Scott had put on a sport jacket over a button-down shirt and a tie, a notch up from his usual office attire, but he had to look the part today. If he was selling his story to the paper, then they’d need pictures. He couldn’t look like a total wreck.
“Going somewhere?” Sheils asked.
“Yes. The Independent is going to contribute to the ransom in exchange for my story.”
“You’re selling your story?” Sheils asked scornfully.
“I need a ransom. They need a headline.”
Scott wasn’t about to get involved in a pissing match. He brushed by Sheils on his way to the garage. Sheils stopped him and called to Guerra.
“Agent Guerra is going with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Sheils flashed Scott a look that said privacy had ended at 2:35 p.m. yesterday. “I wasn’t giving you a choice. You don’t go anywhere without an escort. This isn’t just a kidnapping. It’s a grudge. Sammy’s abduction may only be the beginning of what he’s got in store for you.”
Guerra led Scott to one of the bureau cars parked in front of his house. The moment Scott ventured outside his door, the reporters started shouting questions, and cameras and microphones came from every angle. Sheils and the SFPD uniforms kept the reporters and cameramen in check.
Sheils pulled a couple of sawhorses aside, and Guerra drove through the gap. Scott’s colleagues from TV and newspaper swarmed Guerra’s car. They slapped microphones and digital recorders against the windows. Their collective voices exploded into an unrecognizable din. He recognized the hunger in their expressions.
Guerra accelerated away and fell in with the morning traffic. Congestion slowed their progress. On the radio, Sammy’s kidnapping was headline news. Scott switched it off.
“Sheils really doesn’t like you. You want to tell me about it?” Guerra said.
“Ask your boss.”
“I’m asking you.”
Scott guessed she was sizing him up to see what kind of man he was. At least she was objective. He needed people like Guerra on his side.
“Eight years ago, the Piper contacted me. He wanted his story told, and he wanted me to tell it, so I did. The Independent brought in the FBI. The Piper insisted I act as intermediary. I even delivered the ransom.”
“But you weren’t talking to the Piper. You were talking to Mike Redfern.”
Redfern’s face appeared in Scott’s mind. “Yeah, I’d been talking to a dumb wannabe.”
“You were duped. You all were. It was hardly your fault.”
If it were only that simple, he thought. “Your boss has just cause to detest me. When Redfern first contacted me, he told me not to involve the FBI and I agreed. I met with him in Golden Gate Park.” They stood across the park from each other, talking on cell phones. Redfern talked while Scott took notes. Scott had made a big deal of the park meeting in his article. The Piper had obviously read it. He placed Nicholas Rooker’s body at the center point between where they’d been standing. “I didn’t contact Sheils until after that meeting. Sheils believes if I’d brought him in at the beginning, they would have caught Redfern that night and the Piper wouldn’t have killed Nicholas.”
Guerra was silent for the rest of the journey.
She grabbed a parking spot on the street, and they crossed Mission, then fell in with sidewalk traffic. Sammy, the ransom, and the Piper preoccupied Scott’s mind, and he banged into some guy, lost his footing, and collided with the woman next to him. He regained his footing, but the woman went down in a tangled heap. He apologized, and Guerra helped her up.
“Look where you’re going!” the woman tossed over her shoulder as she stormed off.
It was the best advice anyone had given him. He needed to focus. His thoughts were pinballing off each other. Two things mattered: Sammy and the two million. When he raised the two mil, he got Sammy. He couldn’t let what had happened to Nicholas Rooker distract him. It wouldn’t happen to Sammy. He’d promised Jane.
As he and Guerra passed through the Independent’s hallways and offices, his colleagues fixed him with sorrowful stares. Some offered their condolences and best wishes, and he accepted them with good grace. Their compassion did nothing to lift his spirits. It just reminded him of his hopeless situation. Guerra’s hip-holstered automatic kept well-wishers to a minimum.
George Moran emerged from his office to meet him. He put one hand on Scott’s shoulder and pumped his hand with the other. “Scott, I don’t have the words.”
George bundled Scott into his office. Guerra went to follow, but Scott put up a hand and shook his head. She frowned but didn’t argue. George closed the door and adjusted the blinds. He pointed to his conference table in the corner of his office. Papers were spread out across the table.
“Bodyguard?” George asked.
“From Sheils, with love.”
“Not surprising.” George slid the papers in front of Scott. “I’m not going to waste your time with details. It breaks down like this. The Independent will pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for exclusive rights to your story and the right to resell the story to other media outlets. The check’s cut already. I just need your signature.”
Scott didn’t bother checking the contract. He plucked the pen from George’s hand, then signed and initialed.
George handed him the check. “I got it made out to ‘cash.’”
“Thanks.”
“Now for the hard part. Showtime.”
They photographed him at his desk as well as shooting more traditional portrait shots. Then he sat down with two senior staff writers, who quizzed him about the story thus far and the history of the Piper, Redfern, and Nicholas Rooker. All this was conducted under Guerra’s watchful eye.
It was strange being on the other end of the story. The reporter in him wanted to report on what was happening, but the father in him was only focused on saving his son.
When it was over, George whisked Scott back to his office. “I won’t keep you long, but I wanted you to know that, for story balance, I’ve sent someone over to Charles Rooker for a comment. His wife died last year. Cervical cancer.”
“I didn’t know.”
“So, the Feds are saying that the Piper wants two million.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a lot of money, Scott. Can you raise it?”
“I don’t know. The FBI called to say they have a bank to underwrite the ransom, but we need to put up collateral. The house will cover most of it, but we’re still a half a million short.”
“The Piper must know you don’t have that kind of money—not like Charles Rooker and the others.”
“This isn’t just about the money. He wants to see me sweat. He knows two million is out of my reach and that I’ll have to spend the rest of my life working off the debt.”
“Indentured servitude.” George pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels from his desk. He offered to pour Scott a glass. Scott declined and George put the bottle away. “How’s the FBI?”
“Tom Sheils still hates me.”
George nodded. “I’m going to
say something incredibly stupid, but I believe it has to be said. Stop blaming yourself for Nicholas Rooker. You share responsibility—it’s not yours alone. When Redfern sold us his dog and pony show, I told you to go for it. In hindsight, we should have called the Feds right away. We’ve all got a little shit on our shoes.”
Scott owed George a lot. When the FBI had found Nicholas’s staged corpse, Scott became a pariah. The corporate level wanted him fired, but George fought for him. He argued that the Independent had elected to cover the story the way it did, not just Scott. Everyone bore responsibility. It was a fine argument, but fine arguments aren’t worth shit when a scapegoat is needed. Thankfully, George had a strong reputation in the business, and it carried enough weight for Scott to keep his job.
“I accepted my part in Nicholas’s death a long time ago. I’d even begun to forget about him. I could walk through Golden Gate Park and not base my position on where the FBI found his body. What is eating me up is knowing that my mistake has put Sammy in danger.”
“I just hope they catch the bastard this time.”
Scott’s cell vibrated in his jacket pocket. Instinctively, he reached for it but knew something was wrong. His cell was clipped to his belt. The phone he pulled from his pocket didn’t belong to him.
CHAPTER NINE
“Are you alone?”
The Piper’s voice slammed like a fist in Scott’s ear, leaving him dazed. The Piper asked his question again.
“No, I’m not,” Scott answered.
“Then change that.”
“Are you okay?” George asked.
“I need the men’s room.”
Scott burst from George’s office, with George in tow. Guerra sprang up from her seat. They pursued him across the newsroom. When he reached the men’s room, they tried to follow him. Scott stopped them.
“I’m okay,” he said. “I just need a minute alone. I feel nauseous.”
They backed off. Scott closed the door and locked himself in. He collapsed into a stall, the phone hot in his hand.