He takes spare ammo for all the weapons and grabs a couple of flash-bang stun grenades he’d smuggled home. If this becomes a rescue mission, what else will he need? He gets his B-and-E equipment—lock-pick kit, sledgehammer, EM-alarm jammer, latex gloves, flashlight—and the bugging and anti-bugging gear he’d acquired for his post Corps corporate work.
He loads everything into the Dodge Ram and wonders, What else?
He takes the zip-lock bag containing his stash of heroin out of the glove compartment.
This would be the time to go cold turkey. To end it. Leave it here and drive away without it.
He has other priorities now.
Never going to get another opportunity like this one.
Torch it. Ride the pain. Get Kylie back.
Two roads. Yellow wood. All that shit.
He stands there.
Hesitating.
Thinking.
He shakes his head, puts the plastic bag in his jacket pocket, closes the locker, exits the storage yard, and heads for the highway.
21
Thursday, 8:30 p.m.
Rachel has researched the Dunleavy family until her eyes are tearing and her head is spinning. She knows them better than they know themselves.
She’s read every blog and Facebook feed and Instagram post. Every tweet and retweet. She knows that Toby took up archery because he was inspired by a Danish speed archer in a YouTube video, not his father’s bow-hunting proclivities. She knows that Amelia Dunleavy has a peanut allergy and that her elementary school has banned peanuts because of it.
She’s read all of Mike’s newish bow-hunting blog and his food blog all the way back to his very first post, in 2012, a recipe for a chocolate Bundt cake.
She knows that Helen wanted to return to work full-time but was worried she didn’t have the energy required to be a fifth-grade teacher. Tons of stuff like that. Some of it helpful to Rachel; most of it not.
She closes the files on her computer and looks at her notes. She’s printed out a map of Beverly and drawn the possible routes back from the archery club to the Dunleavy house. It’ll have to be researched on the ground. She has prepared a B target and a C target, but she knows little Toby Dunleavy is going to be the one.
Full dark now on the basin. The boats are in for the night.
Clothes are everywhere, the cat’s litter box is unemptied, the breakfast dishes are still there—the house is a goddamn Tracey Emin piece of modern art commemorating a more innocent time that is never coming back.
Rachel examines her left breast. It doesn’t feel any different, but the doctor is probably right to be concerned—there could well be something malignant growing in there again. If she does nothing, the malignant entity will kill her, erase her from existence. How pleasant that would be.
She stares through the window. The clarity of the light has faded and the agitated sky has turned dark blue and black.
The drizzle has become rain.
She hears what sounds like a pickup truck coming down the lane.
She sprints outside.
Pete gets out of the cab and she runs to him and he put his arms around her and they stand there in the downpour saying nothing for fifteen seconds. Pete helps her back inside and they sit at the living-room table.
“Tell me the whole story from the beginning,” Pete says.
Rachel tells Pete everything that happened since that first phone call, including everything she has done: paid the ransom, gotten the phones, gotten a gun, broken into the Appenzellers’ house, tried to figure out exactly whom to kidnap. She doesn’t tell him about the renewed concerns of her oncologist—that’s between her and death.
Pete listens but says nothing. He lets her talk.
He tries to take it all in.
It’s incredible.
He has seen evil up close in Afghanistan and Iraq, but he wasn’t expecting something this clinical and diabolical in America. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine a malevolent force like this coming near his family. This is some serious organized-crime or cartel shit.
“What do you think?” Rachel asks when she’s done.
“I think we have to go to the cops, Rachel,” he says soberly.
She’s been expecting this answer. She shows him the story about the Williams family on her laptop, and while he’s reading it, she tells him about the man outside the bank. She takes his hand. “You didn’t speak to them, Pete. I did. That woman holding Kylie is terrified for her son. If they tell her to kill Kylie, she will. I know she will. She’ll kill Kylie and select another victim to stay good with them. Keeping The Chain going is our only option.”
She knows she sounds like someone in a cult, but that pretty much sums it up. She’s all in now, she believes them, and she wants Pete to believe them too.
“So to get Kylie back, we’ll have to kidnap someone,” he says, shaking his head in horror.
“We have to, Pete. If we don’t, they kill her. If we go to the police, they kill her. If we ever talk about it, they kill her.”
Pete’s mind goes back to that class he had been forced to take on ethics at Quantico. The Israeli IDF guest lecturer had given them a presentation on why it was ethical to disobey an illegal order. Morality entered into the equation even in the military. And what Rachel is contemplating now is not only illegal but absolutely morally wrong. Morally wrong from every conceivable angle. The ethically right play would be to go to the FBI immediately. Find the nearest FBI field office and tell them the whole story.
But that will get Kylie killed. Rachel believes that, and he believes her. And Kylie’s safe return is the only thing Pete cares about.
The decision’s been made. If they have to kidnap someone to get her back, he’ll do it. If he has to kill someone to get her back, he’ll do it. If he gets her back and they stick him in a cage for fifty years, it will be easy time, easy because Kylie will be safe.
“This morning they sent me a photo of Kylie to show me that she’s safe,” Rachel says. Shaking, she gives Pete her phone.
Pete looks at the photo of little Kylie blindfolded and sitting on a mattress in a basement. There are few clues to her location that he can see. She’s been given Poland Spring water and she’s got graham crackers, but those you can get anywhere. Kylie does not seem to have been physically abused but of course she must be terrified beyond belief.
He goes to the kitchen and pours himself some coffee. He takes a moment to assess the situation. “We’re ruling out the police? Definitely?” he asks.
“The Chain voice and the woman holding Kylie were both very clear. They said that if I break any of the rules, they’ll have to kill Kylie and move on to another target.”
“How will they know if you’re breaking any of the rules?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have they bugged your house? Have you had a break-in recently or any unusual visitors?”
“No, nothing like that, but I think they hacked my phone earlier today. They knew a police car was behind me on the highway. And they know who I’m calling and what I’m talking about. They seem to know where I am at all times. I think they might have been looking through the phone’s camera. Can they do that?”
Pete nods, turns off Rachel’s iPhone, and puts it in a drawer. He closes her MacBook and places it with the phone. “Sure. You say you bought disposable phones?”
“Yes.”
“Use them for all outgoing calls from now on. And don’t use your computer again. I’ve brought mine. They’ve probably hijacked the camera on your phone and computer and disabled the camera light so that they can see you and you don’t even know it’s on. The stuff that goes on in intel black ops would blow your mind.”
“I covered the camera with a piece of tape.”
“That’s a good idea, but just be aware that they might be listening too. I’ll search the house for bugs. You say you haven’t had a break-in? What about an unscheduled TV-repair guy or plumber or anything like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Good. Could just be spyware. Now, what have you told Marty?”
“Nothing so far. He’s in Augusta, playing golf.”
“He’s my little brother and I love him, but Marty’s got a mouth, and if you’re worried about security or someone going to the FBI…”
“Nothing that will risk Kylie,” she says.
Pete takes her cold, trembling hand in his. “It’s going to be OK,” he says.
She nods and looks into his dark, steady eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. We’re going to get her back.”
“Why me, do you think? Why my family?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“She said she researched me online. She saw that Marty and I did that Peace Corps project in Guatemala. She saw Harvard and cancer survivor and all my jobs and she thought I seemed like someone who had her act together. I’m not. I’m a loser, Pete. I’m weak.”
“You’re not, you’re—”
“I’ve screwed up my whole life. I invested everything in Marty. I can’t even look after my own daughter!”
“Stop it, Rach.”
“I don’t own a gun. I had to buy one. Today.”
“Another smart move.”
“Today was the first time I’ve ever fired one.”
Pete now takes both of her hands in his. “Trust me, Rachel. You’re handling this. And now I’m here to help you.”
“In the Marines, I know you were an engineer, but did you ever, have you ever had occasion to…”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
She nods and takes a deep breath. “I drove up to New Hampshire to get the gun and the other supplies. I was nearly seen by someone on the island but I think I gave her the slip.”
“That’s good too.”
“How can anyone carry out any kind of criminal enterprise in New England when everybody knows everybody?”
Pete smiles. “We’ll figure it out, Rach. What else have you done?”
“Here are my targets,” she says, handing Pete the list of vulnerable kids who fit the criteria.
“You want stable parents who look as if they won’t go to the cops and who’ll carry out a kidnapping?” Pete asks.
“They can’t be broke, and they can’t have any connection to cops, journalists, or politicians. And they have to have kids of the right age. No kids with special needs. No diabetics or anything like that.”
“What about kidnapping a spouse instead of a child?” Pete asks.
“You can’t be sure of how someone will feel about a spouse. Look at us. Three divorces between us. But all parents love their kids, right?”
“Right. Well, this seems OK. Toby Dunleavy, that’s your number-one target?”
“Yup. I had a different number one, but the mom was dating a cop.”
“Have you been over to the Dunleavy house?”
“Nope. Gonna do that later tonight. But first I need your help with the mattress and the board at the Appenzellers’.”
“Where is this place?”
“Just across the basin. Come on, I’ll take you.”
They go outside in the rain and walk along the basin trail. “A lot of these big houses are vacant this time of year,” Rachel explains.
“You broke into one of these by yourself?” Pete asks.
“Yup. I knew the Appenzellers were gone. I was a little worried about an alarm but there wasn’t one.”
“You did well. I’ve done a few B-and-Es myself and it’s always scary.”
“We can go in through the back,” Rachel says when they reach the path next to the Appenzeller house.
“This place is a good choice, Rach. I like the brick,” Pete says. “How did you pick the lock?”
“I didn’t. I hit the mechanism with a chisel.”
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“Google.”
They go inside and up on the first floor they grab a mattress and bedding from the spare bedroom. They manhandle it down to the basement. Rachel has already brought over the board to cover the window. “We’ll put it up with Marty’s old electric drill. I think that will make less noise than a hammer,” Pete says.
They put up the board and try to make the basement as pleasant as possible with sheets and blankets and a few toys and games Rachel brought over earlier. It’s devastating to think that if this actually works and they don’t get killed or arrested, a scared little boy will be down here soon. Rachel has attached a heavy chain to a concrete pillar near the mattress, and this sends a shiver down Pete’s spine.
They close the back door of the Appenzellers’ and return to Rachel’s house.
“Now what?” Pete wonders.
“Search my house for bugs. I hate the idea that they’re watching everything I do.”
Pete nods. “I can do that.”
He takes the wireless detector out of his bag. In the old days of analog-bugging equipment, you needed a radio receiver and complex equipment, but now a fifty-buck wireless detector can do the job. He goes through the house and then he gets to work on the phone and the computer.
“It’s largely a negative,” he says at last. “I did a thorough scan of the entire house from top to bottom. I looked in the basement and I even looked in the crawl space above the kitchen.”
“Did you say largely negative?”
“I did. You don’t have any bugs in the house. However, as I suspected, your Mac has been completely compromised.”
“How?”
“There’s a spyware bot on your Mac that, when connected to the wireless network, slaves the camera and also shows a live screenshot of whatever is on your home screen. It was fairly easy to capture your passwords after that. The bot has a randomly generated name that doesn’t mean anything. Its destination is also encrypted.”
“How do you know how to do all this?” Rachel asks, impressed.
“Well, you know me, I’ve been tinkering with computers since the Stone Age days of the internet. Trying to get back into it more seriously. Private security is a big growth sector for former servicemen.”
“Can you remove the bot thing?”
“That’s a fairly easy task. But if I do, its absence will be noticed immediately.”
“Whoever it is that’s hacking me will know that I’m onto them?”
“Exactly. And if they know that you’re onto them, they will undoubtedly deploy further countermeasures. Just don’t use your Mac and phone until Kylie is back. Then I’ll kill the bot and wipe your machines.”
“They’re going to be calling me on my iPhone. I need it.”
“Just be aware, then, that they’ll be listening in on you, and your phone, of course, is also a GPS transmitter.”
“Could they be physically watching the house?” Rachel asks.
“They could,” Pete says. “They could be watching us right now. My guess is they’re not.”
Rachel shudders. “I keep seeing Kylie in that basement. She must be terrified.”
“She’s a resilient kid. She’s a tough little cookie.” Maybe too tough, Pete thinks. I hope she doesn’t try anything stupid.
22
Friday, 1:11 a.m.
Kylie waits until she thinks it’s very late, but naturally she has no way of telling the time. No iPhone, no iPad, no Mac. No watch, of course, but who wears a watch these days?
As she lies on the mattress, she can hear traffic on a distant road, and she can occasionally hear planes change the thrust of their engines as they descend toward Logan. Very distant planes going to a very distant Logan Airport.
She sits on the mattress with her back to the eye of the camera and nibbles at a graham cracker. Her first plan has failed. The toothpaste tube cannot be used to open the handcuffs. She tried for hours, but it was a total bust. Her second plan, however, might work a little better.
Just after dark, the man had brought her a hot
dog and a glass of milk. He set the tray on the floor next to her. The gun was in a pocket in his sweatshirt. The woman had come down to take the tray away with the gun in her right hand. They’re always armed. She’s a thirteen-year-old chained to a two-hundred-pound stove but they aren’t taking any chances. They always come down here with a gun.
And that, Kylie realized, was what was going to help her.
She had spotted it earlier this afternoon. As the sun moved slowly across the sky, she had seen a glint in a corner of the basement. Moving as close as she could, she saw that the glint was a wrench just barely visible against the wall under the boiler. A wrench that had been dropped there and forgotten about, maybe years earlier. They had obviously prepped this basement, but to see the wrench you’d have to be lying on the floor looking directly at the boiler as the sun streamed through the window in the afternoon.
The wrench is the key.
She waits. And waits.
In what are, perhaps, the wee hours, the traffic seems to slow on the road and the planes grow less frequent.
She keeps thinking about that state trooper. Had they killed him? They must have killed him. That means she is being held by two murderers. They don’t seem like murderers, but they are. She tries to fight the terror of that thought but wherever she goes in her mind, it’s lurking there…
She thinks about her mom.
Her mom will be worried sick. She’ll go to pieces. She isn’t as strong as she pretends to be. It hasn’t even been a year since she finished her chemo. And her dad—her dad’s awesome but maybe not the most dependable guy in the world.
She looks at the camera by the stairs again. How late is it now? Will they sleep at all tonight? They have to get some sleep.
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