The Chain

by Adrian McKinty

  Really, these kids are too much, Rachel thinks, disengaging her hand. I mean, you can hide anything behind a smile.

  Anything at—

  Something occurs to her.

  Something terrible.

  Something diabolical.

  “That’s a lovely necklace you’ve got there,” she says to Tammy. “I’ve been thinking of getting a chain. What do you think?”

  Tammy looks up from her phone. “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking of getting a chain. Like yours. It’s not about the money, is it? It’s about the chain.”

  “You can have this if you want, sweetie. I got it at Filene’s. On sale.”

  Not a flicker. The Chain has nothing whatsoever to do with her. It couldn’t. The selection process is almost entirely random. That’s the genius of it. Rachel turns to her ex-husband. “Marty, look, I’m really embarrassed about this. I screwed up. I should have called you. Kylie’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “It’s all my fault, you two driving up here. I completely forgot you were coming today. I’m so stressed about teaching after all these years and about the roof and I was trying to write my lectures, and I just forgot,” Rachel says.

  “Where is Kylie?”

  “She went to New York,” Rachel says.

  “New York?” Marty asks, puzzled.

  “Yes, she’s been working on this school project about King Tut and they have that mini-exhibition there at the Met and she did so well in school this term, I let her go see it.”

  “In New York?”

  “Yup, I saw her onto the bus and her grandma picked her up at Port Authority and took her to the apartment in Brooklyn. She’s staying there for a couple of days and getting all the Egypt she’ll ever want,” Rachel says.

  Marty’s brow furrows. “It’s November. Isn’t your mother down in Florida?”

  “No, not this year. She’s staying in New York a little longer because the weather’s been so warm.”

  “When is Kylie coming back?”

  “In a couple of days. They might take in a show. Um, Mom has a line on some Hamilton tickets.”

  “Oh, I gotta ask Kylie about that. What night is she actually going? I’ll text her,” Tammy says.

  “Do you have Kylie’s number?” Rachel asks, horrified.

  “Of course. And we follow each other on Instagram. Don’t think she’s posted anything about New York, though.”

  “No, um—”

  “This is weird,” Tammy says, staring at her phone. “Kylie hasn’t posted anything on Instagram since yesterday morning. Normally she posts two or three times a day.”

  “Are you sure she’s OK?” Marty asks with concern.

  “Yes, she’s completely fine,” Rachel insists. “Her grandmother probably confiscated her iPhone. She’s always going on about looking at the real world instead of burying your head in a screen a few inches from your nose.”

  Marty nods. “That sounds like Judith,” he says. “But I mean, hell, Rachel, why couldn’t you have just called us? A simple text, you know? Save us all a lot of hassle.”

  Rachel’s hackles rise. How dare he? He’s the man who was golfing in Augusta while his daughter was kidnapped. He’s the man who left his wife, who was recovering from cancer, for a younger woman. He’s the man—

  No.

  This is not the time for a war. She has to be super-contrite and end this. “I’m really sorry, Marty. I messed up. I’m a total schmuck. I’m under a lot of pressure, you know? New job. Teaching. The roof. I’m sorry.”

  Marty is taken aback by Rachel’s self-reproach. “Oh, right, yeah. Look, that’s OK, sweetie, these things happen.”

  Get them out now! a voice is bellowing in Rachel’s head.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” she asks, taking a gamble. “It seems a shame for you to come all the way up here and have to go straight back. I could make”—she tries to think of Marty’s least-favorite food. Mussels? Yeah. He’s always hated mussels in garlic—“a big salad and they’ve got some amazing mussels in at the fish market.”

  Marty shakes his head. “No, no, we’d better go if we’re going to beat the traffic back.”

  “Traffic?” Tammy says, puzzled. “The traffic will be going the other way.”

  “There will be traffic,” Marty insists.

  “I’m so sorry I screwed up,” Rachel says.

  Marty gives her a sympathetic nod. “It’s OK. Shall we say next weekend?”

  “Yes, and I’ll bring her down to Boston so you don’t have to come up again. Least I can do,” Rachel says, wondering if Kylie will be back next weekend. If she is and if she’s safe, nothing else will matter. Marty can take her to the damn aquarium every weekend until the end of time.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he says, giving her a parting hug. Tammy gives her a kiss on the cheek. In five minutes they are back outside and climbing into their car.

  Pete and Rachel wave goodbye from the doorstep, go inside, and close the door.

  Five twenty now. So much time wasted. Archery begins at six, and Toby Dunleavy’s walk home begins at seven o’clock.

  “They want another twenty-five thousand by midnight or they’ll kill Kylie,” Rachel says, trying to ward off panic.

  “I’m already on that,” Pete replies, and she watches as he logs on to a Bitcoin buying site on the dark web.

  “What are you going to do?” Rachel asks.

  “Fifteen-thousand credit limit on one card, ten-thousand limit on the other, no problem,” Pete says.

  “Do you have money in the bank to cover that?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? Getting Kylie home is all that matters.”

  Rachel kisses him on the back of the neck and helps him set up an account and transfer the funds.

  “Are you watching the clock?” she asks him.

  “Nearly done,” he says. “Get the Dodge warmed up. Make sure the masks and gloves are packed.”

  She runs outside, loads the vehicle, puts the key in the ignition, and starts the engine.

  It’s five minutes to six now.

  “Done,” Pete says when she comes back in. He looks at Helen Dunleavy’s Facebook feed. “She’s on her way to the archery club. We better go too. I’ll get the gun.”

  “I don’t want this boy hurt,” Rachel says.

  “I don’t think we’ll need to hurt anyone, but we might need to fire a shot in the air to scare off any Good Samaritans. I’ve got a loud Colt .45 that’ll do that,” Pete assures her.

  Rachel nods. She thinks of those words, I don’t want this boy hurt. This boy. This boy has a name: Toby. He’s Toby Dunleavy. But it will be easier to think of him as this boy. An abstract thing. Not a human being. Not a human child. They might need to threaten this boy. They might, in fact, need to carry out the threat.

  She shudders. Pete stares at her.

  “All right. Let’s go,” she says.

  They get in the Dodge and drive down Route 1 toward Beverly. Traffic is heavier than normal, but they aren’t worried. It’s only a twenty-minute run and they have an hour before archery gets out.

  Pete takes her hand and gives it a little squeeze. “Maybe you better call your mother and prep her in case Marty calls looking for Kylie.”

  “Good idea,” she says and dials her mother in Florida.

  “I’m about to play bridge, what is it?” Judith answers.

  “Mom, listen, I just told Marty that Kylie is staying with you in New York.”

  “What? Why did you do that?”

  “He came over today and it’s one of his weekends but Kylie hates Marty’s new girlfriend and didn’t want to go stay with him, so I just sort of panicked and said that she was with you for a couple of days in New York.”

  “But I’m in Florida.”

  “Mom, I know you’re in Florida, but if Marty calls, you have to tell him that you’re in Brooklyn and Kylie’s with you.”

  “What are we doing in New York?”
/>   “Kylie wants to see all the Egypt stuff at the Met.”

  “She would like that.”

  “And you guys got tickets to see Hamilton.”

  “How did we manage to do that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you know some old lady who isn’t using her tickets.”

  There’s a long silence on the line while Judith thinks about it. “This is quite the web of lies you’ve hooked me into, Rachel. Now I’m going to have to pretend I’ve seen Hamilton if my ex-son-in-law calls. What am I going to say?”

  “Hell, Mom, can you not think on your feet? Oh, and you’ve confiscated Kylie’s phone,” Rachel snaps as they pass a sign that reads BEVERLY, NEXT EXIT.

  “Why would I take my thirteen-year-old granddaughter’s phone?”

  “Because you’re sick of her coming all the way to New York City and then just staring at a piece of glass six inches from her face the whole time she’s there.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Judith says.

  “OK, Mom, thanks a lot, you’re a lifesaver. I better go,” Rachel says as they arrive in Beverly.

  “Take care of yourself, honey, I worry about you.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

  She hangs up. It’s drizzling and a chill wind is blowing in from the water. “Don’t like this weather,” Pete says. “Helen might change her mind and pick up Toby instead of letting him walk. I better check.”

  There’s nothing on Facebook, but using the worm on the home PC, they find Helen writing a text to her sister to say that, per her recommendation, she is watching Atomic Blonde with Mike.

  They have their window.

  They park on Revenue Street at six thirty, but for some reason a line of kids and adults are coming out of the Old Customs Hall.

  “What the hell? Who are those kids? Jesus, I think that’s the archery club!” Pete cries.

  “Look at all those bows and stuff. It is them! We’ve screwed it up already!” Rachel exclaims.

  “Go! Run the route!” Pete says, and Rachel puts the car in gear.

  “I’m going.”

  “I don’t understand it. They’re supposed to get out at seven o’clock. Why would they leave early? And half an hour early! It makes no sense,” Pete says.

  “Oh God, oh God,” Rachel is saying over and over.

  “It’s all right,” Pete says evenly. “They’re only just getting out. We’ll be OK.”

  Rachel drives quickly up Revenue Street. She turns on Standore Street, and there, about a hundred yards up the road, is a kid in a parka carrying a sports bag with what looks to be a composite bow sticking out of it. The kid has his hood up and is walking in the direction of the Dunleavys’ house.

  “Is that him?” Rachel asks.

  “No idea, but that sure looks like the end of a bow in his bag. And there’s nobody on either side of the street. For the moment.”

  “Ski masks on,” Rachel says, desperately trying to keep the blind panic out of her voice.

  “Coast is clear,” Pete says. In the end they hadn’t needed the trees or the dark to hide them because the rain deterred any potential witnesses. Rachel puts the wipers on, kills the lights, drives the car up the street, and stops in front of the child.

  “No one around,” Pete says, scanning both sides of the road.

  “Go, then!” Rachel says.

  Pete jumps out the passenger-side door with the .45. Rachel sees him talk to the kid. He turns and shakes his head at her.

  Something’s wrong. Pete comes back to the car without the boy.

  What the hell is happening?

  “What’s the problem?” she demands.

  “It’s a girl,” Pete says.

  Rachel pulls her ski mask down and gets out. And sure enough, it’s a little, skinny, brown-haired girl about eight or nine years old. She’s carrying a gym bag that looks far too big for her.

  “Did you just come from the archery club?” Rachel asks her.

  “Yes,” the girl replies.

  “Why did they get out early?” Pete asks.

  “The heating was broken so we had to come home. Why are you wearing those things on your faces?”

  “What’s your name?” Rachel asks.

  “Amelia Dunleavy.”

  “Where’s your brother, Toby?”

  “He went to Liam’s house. He told me to take his bag home.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Pete asks Rachel.

  “We’re taking her,” Rachel says grimly.

  “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “It’s the plan now,” Rachel tells him. She knows she’ll never be able to go through this again. And if she can’t go through with it, Kylie’s dead.

  “Come on, Amelia,” Pete says. “We’re giving you a ride home.”

  He puts her in the car, clasps her seat belt, sits beside her, and locks the door. Rachel makes a U-turn and drives toward the Route 1A exit.

  “Are we really doing this? What about her health issues?” Pete asks.

  “We’ll deal with them. No peanuts or peanut products. We’ll get an EpiPen…shit!” Rachel exclaims and punches the dashboard.

  “You shouldn’t use that word,” Amelia says.

  “You’re right,” Rachel replies. “Sorry, sweetie. How old are you, honey?”

  “I’m eight,” Amelia says. “I’ll be nine in December.”

  “Who lets an eight-year-old walk home by herself at night in this day and age? In the rain? Who does that?” Rachel mutters.

  “Toby was supposed to be here. It was my very first time at archery tonight. I can use the junior bow now. And he was supposed to walk me home, but he went to Liam’s because we got out early.”

  “And Toby let you go home by yourself?”

  “He said I was a big girl. He let me carry his bag,” Amelia says.

  “Well, you have to come with us now. Your mom said it was OK. It’s an adventure,” Rachel tells her.

  She sees Amelia shake her head in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home,” she says.

  “You can’t go home. You have to come with us,” Rachel insists.

  “I want to go home!” Amelia says and begins to wail.

  Rachel gags as Amelia begins to thrash and claw at the seat belt.

  “I want to go home!” Amelia yells and Pete holds the struggling little girl with his big hands.

  When she’s out of town, Rachel skids the Dodge to the side of the road on an isolated bit of Route 1A somewhere in the marshy woods between Beverly and Wenham. She climbs out of the cab, takes off the ski mask, and vomits.

  She spits and vomits again. Her mouth is acrid and her throat burns. Tears are pouring down her cheeks.

  She vomits until she’s only dry-heaving.

  Pete opens the car door and throws out Amelia’s shoes and the gym bag. “Better sink those in the swamp,” he says. “Just to be on the safe side. Might be a GPS transmitter in them.”

  Rachel puts the shoes in the gym bag, partially zips it, and throws it in the marsh, where it floats. She doesn’t have time for a Norman Bates–style car-sinking scene, so she wades into the swamp and sinks the bastard with her foot. Then she puts the ski mask back on.

  “Do you want me to drive?” Pete asks as Rachel climbs back into the pickup. She shakes her head and turns to Amelia, who has tears streaming down her little face. Her eyes are wide and she’s clearly terrified.

  “It’s going to be OK, darling,” Rachel says. “We’re just taking you for a couple of days. It’s a game we’re playing. Your mommy and daddy know all about it.”

  “Are they playing the game too?” Amelia asks, surprised.

  “Yes, they are. It’s going to be OK. I promise,” Rachel says and puts the car in gear and drives again.

  “You’re going to have to wear this blindfold now, honey,” Pete says. “It’s part of the game.”

  “Like blindman’s buff?” Amelia asks.

  “Sure,”
Pete says.

  “I’ve played that one before.”

  She puts the blindfold on, and Pete and Rachel take their ski masks off.

  They are just outside of Newbury when Rachel sees the state police car in her rearview mirror. “Cops,” she says calmly.

  Pete looks back. “We haven’t done anything wrong. Just keep driving, don’t speed, don’t go slow,” he says.

  “I know,” she snarls at him. “But give me a gun. If they stop us, there will be no talking our way out of this.”

  “Rachel—”

  “Give it to me!”

  Pete hands her the .45 and she puts it in her lap. “You know how to use it?” he asks.

  “Yes. We’re agreed on what we’re going to do if we’re stopped?”

  “Yes,” he says and holds his breath.

  27

  Friday, 6:57 p.m.

  The cops tailgate them for thirty seconds, slowly come alongside, and then zoom by in the passing lane.

  Of course they do.

  Rachel has done nothing wrong.

  She drives straight to the Appenzellers’.

  Amelia is either dazed or terrified. It doesn’t matter which—she’s compliant, and that’s what counts. “You get her inside and I’ll make the phone calls,” Rachel tells Pete.

  When the street is deserted Pete takes Amelia out of the Dodge and down into the basement.

  Rachel stays in the cab and pulls up the Wickr app on her phone. It’s done, she types to her contact.

  What’s done? a message comes back.

  I’ve kidnapped Amelia Dunleavy. I’m holding her right now.

  Rachel’s phone rings. “Good. Very good,” the distorted voice says. “I will call her family now. You will then call and ask for a hundred thousand dollars, payable in Bitcoin to the same account as before.”

  “A hundred thousand! That seems—”

  “That represents only half the amount they have in their savings account. They can pay that easily. It’s not about the money, Rachel.”

  “I know. It’s about The Chain.”

  “That’s right. I will call them and tell them to get a pen and paper. You will talk to them five minutes from now on a burner phone. They will be waiting by the telephone for your call.”

  The line goes dead.

  Rachel calls Pete on a burner phone.