The Chain

by Adrian McKinty

  “I’ve searched you. You don’t have the key to the handcuffs, but she must. I want you to yell for her and tell her to bring the handcuff key.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll shoot you.”

  “Do you think you’re capable of doing that?”

  “Yes. I think so. My uncle Pete took me target shooting a few times. I know what to do.”

  “It’s a different thing, though, isn’t it, shooting a target, a piece of paper, and shooting a person?”

  “I’m going to shoot you in the leg first to show you that I’m serious.”

  “And then what?”

  “She’ll give me the handcuff key and I’ll go.”

  “Why would she let you go?”

  “Because otherwise I’ll kill you,” Kylie says. “But I know you didn’t mean to do all this and I’ll make you both a promise. After I get out of here, I’ll say to my mom that I can’t remember anything. I’ll wait twenty-four hours until I tell the cops where this place is. That will give you both a day to fly anywhere you want. Anywhere there isn’t a, um, one of those—”

  “Extradition treaties?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Kylie. It was a good effort, but you’ve miscalculated. Heather doesn’t really care about me. She’d let you shoot me. She’d let you plug as many bullets as you’d like into me.”

  “Of course she’ll care! Call her. Tell her to bring the key!”

  “No.” He sighs. “She hasn’t cared for years, if she ever really did. Jared’s her son from her first marriage. I was kind of a stopgap measure, I guess. A stopgap she got stuck with. I love her but I think the feeling’s never really been mutual.”

  Kylie makes a mental note of the two names he let slip in his dazed state, Heather and Jared. That information might be useful later but for now she has to get out.

  “I don’t care about any of that stuff, mister. I want to get out of here! I’m not bluffing.”

  “I don’t think you’re bluffing. You seem like a very determined young lady. You should pull the trigger.”

  “I will.”

  “Do it, then.”

  She stands up, aims the revolver at the man’s kneecap, and squeezes the trigger the way her uncle Pete taught her.

  The hammer falls down on the percussion cap. There’s a click, and then silence. She squeezes the trigger again. The chamber revolves; the hammer goes back and comes down on another percussion cap. Another click, then more silence. She pulls the trigger four more times until she has gone through the entire six bullets in the gun.

  “I don’t understand,” she says.

  The man reaches out and takes the gun from her. He clicks open the revolver and shows her the six gleaming empty brass cartridges that he put in the weapon.

  32

  Saturday, 7:35 a.m.

  There’s a noise upstairs in the kitchen.

  Has the cop come back?

  Rachel picks up the gun and points it at the top of the basement steps. “Who is it?” she asks.

  She sights the gun. Holds her breath.

  Pete comes running down the steps.

  “I got the EpiPen. It arrived at the drop box!” he says.

  “Thank God!”

  Rachel backs away as Pete injects Amelia in the leg. It works almost immediately. Like a goddamn miracle. Amelia gasps and begins to cough.

  She coughs and sucks air and coughs again.

  Pete gives her water and she drinks it and wheezes.

  He takes her wrist. “Pulse coming down to normal. And she’s breathing better.”

  Rachel nods, walks upstairs, finds the Appenzellers’ liquor cabinet, and pours herself a large tumbler of Scotch.

  She drinks it and refills the glass.

  Forty-five minutes later, Pete comes up to join her. “How is she?” Rachel asks.

  “Doing much better,” Pete says. “Fever’s way down.”

  “She was in a very bad way. I think her breathing stopped.”

  “It was my fault. I didn’t check the cereal.”

  “I would have let her die, Pete.”

  Pete shakes his head but he knows she would have and that he probably would have too.

  “I’ve become them,” Rachel whispers.

  They stare at each other for a beat or two. Their eyes tell the same story: shame, exhaustion, fear.

  “When you were out, some woman came to the door looking for Elaine Appenzeller. She went away but she called the cops,” Rachel says.

  “Did the cops come here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are we compromised?”

  “I don’t think so. I flirted with the cop and I think he thinks I’m some horny old lady who nuisance-calls the police just to get dates with them.”

  “You’re not old,” Pete says with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  I’m probably dying, Pete, Rachel thinks, how much older can you get? “So Amelia’s OK?”

  “She’s on the mend, yeah.”

  “I’ll go down and see her.”

  Amelia’s breathing and complexion don’t fully return to normal for another half an hour. If only a trace amount of nuts has done this to her, then a full-blown exposure would certainly have killed her.

  “Why do you always wear those masks on your face?” Amelia asks her.

  “It’s because when we give you back to your mommy, we don’t want you to be able to tell her what we look like,” Rachel says.

  “Doesn’t Mommy know what you look like?”

  “No.”

  “You should Friend her on Facebook and then she’ll know,” Amelia says definitively.

  “Maybe I’ll do that. Do you want a juice box?”

  “Is it apple juice?”

  “Yes,” Rachel says as she hands it to her.

  “I hate apple juice. Everybody knows I hate apple juice.” Amelia groans and throws away the apple juice and then she throws the Lego horse she’s playing with. It smashes into half a dozen pieces. “I hate it here and I hate you!” she yells.

  “You have to keep your voice down, sweetie,” Rachel says. They had done a good job with the soundproofing but still…

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, I guess we’ll have to put tape over your mouth to keep you quiet.”

  Amelia looks at her in amazement. “How would I breathe?”

  “You’d breathe through your nose.”

  “Would you really do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re mean.”

  Rachel nods. The little girl is right. She is mean. She’s so mean that she’d been willing to let her die down here.

  Rachel takes a burner phone out of her bag. “Would you like to speak to your mom?” she asks.

  “Yes!” Amelia says.

  Rachel dials Helen Dunleavy’s number.

  “Hello?” Helen says. She sounds frazzled, exhausted, afraid.

  “Would you like to speak to Amelia?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She puts the phone on speaker and hands it to the little girl.

  “Sweetie, are you there?” Helen asks.

  “Mommy, when can I come home?”

  “Soon, sweetie, real soon.”

  “I don’t like it here. It’s dark and scary. When is Daddy coming for me? I don’t feel well. I’m really bored.”

  “Soon, sweetie. He’ll come soon.”

  “Am I going to have to miss much school?”

  “I think so. I don’t know.”

  “I hate this chain on my hand. I hate it!”

  “I know.”

  “Say goodbye to your mommy,” Rachel says, reaching for the phone.

  “I have to go now,” Amelia says.

  “’Bye, honey! I love you!”

  Rachel takes the phone and begins walking up the stairs. “As you can see, she’s safe and well. For now. You need to get moving with parts one and two.”

  Rachel close
s the basement door behind her and walks into the kitchen.

  “I think we can transfer the money tonight,” Helen says.

  “Do it now! And then get scouting for a target. We’ll kill Amelia if we have to. I want my daughter back and you are in my goddamn way,” Rachel says and then she breaks the phone in half. She takes the back off it, removes the SIM card, and stamps on it repeatedly until it’s broken in two. She puts the remains in the garbage bag Pete keeps in the kitchen.

  She stands there, shaking with anger and frustration.

  Horizontal lines of dust levitate in the beams of sunlight coming through the shuttered windows. She can hear the sea breaking on the beach a hundred yards in front of her, and downstairs the little girl is humming to herself.

  She breathes in and out, in and out. Life is a cascade of nows falling on top of one another without meaning or purpose. Of all the philosophers, only Schopenhauer ever got that right.

  “I’m going back home,” she shouts to Pete and when the coast is clear, she slips out the back and walks over the dunes. She feels like crying, but she’s all cried out. She is stone. The Rock of Gibraltar. And again that thought—the Rachel of yesterday is gone. She Lady Macbethed the tears out eons ago, and she is a different person now.

  33

  Saturday, 7:41 a.m.

  The man is taking a few minutes to pull himself together.

  Kylie stares at him in disbelief.

  Her plan A is gone; her plan B is gone.

  There is no plan C.

  “I don’t understand—why didn’t you load the gun?” Kylie asks at last.

  “You think I would ever point a loaded gun at a child? Me? When all my professional life has been about…ooh, my head. And not after that incident with the…after what happened when we got you. Wow. It’s still throbbing. You hit me twice? That was really something. Now, be a good girl and give me the wrench.”

  Kylie hands him the wrench and he puts it on the breakfast tray.

  “I must say, Kylie, I really admire you. You’re resourceful and you’re determined and brave. If this were any other situation, I would be rooting for you to succeed.”

  “Then please let me—”

  “But I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover or that I’m not serious. I’m deadly serious. We’re so close to the end now. And we’ve been through so much. So I’m afraid that I’m going to have to punish you so you don’t do anything like this again.”

  “I won’t. I can’t.”

  “It’s a little too late for you to give your word on that.”

  He leans forward and slaps her so hard that the chain jerks taut and she twists and falls to the concrete floor.

  A ringing in her head.

  White spots before her eyes.

  Darkness.

  An ellipsis of time.

  White spots again.

  Pain.

  Blood pouring from her nostrils and her mouth.

  Where is she?

  Somewhere musty.

  An attic?

  A basement?

  A—

  Oh yeah.

  She’s been unconscious for how long? A minute? Two? A day?

  When she opens her eyes, the man is gone. He’s taken the wrench and the gun with him. The breakfast tray is still there.

  Her face is stinging. Her head is light.

  She sits up. If she tries to stand, she knows she’ll fall down again.

  Her eyes aren’t focusing too well either. The far wall of the basement is blurring into one long smear of color.

  Blood drips from her nose onto the sleeping bag.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Crimson blood pooling on the shiny nylon surface, making a shape like South America.

  She dips her finger in the milk of the cereal bowl. Still cold. She’s been unconscious for only a few minutes, then.

  She begins to cry. She’s so lonely and so afraid. Abandoned by the whole world with no ideas and no hope and no plan at all.

  34

  Saturday, 4:00 p.m.

  Rachel drives to the mall in New Hampshire and brings back a first-aid kit, dolls, DVDs, a princess dome tent, and games. Pure guilt. Pure guilt after the fact. Amelia is doing better now. She played Snakes and Ladders with Pete and ate a ham sandwich.

  They put up the dome tent and stick Frozen in the portable DVD player. They watch Amelia watch the movie for an hour until the Wickr app chimes on Rachel’s phone. She goes upstairs to read it.

  A message from 2348383hudykdy2.

  The Dunleavy ransom has been paid, the message says simply.

  Rachel takes one of the powered-up burner phones and dials the Dunleavys.

  “Hello?” Helen says.

  “The ransom has been paid. You know what to do now.”

  “How can we do that? It’s madness. It’s impossible,” Helen says.

  There’s a brief scuffle and then someone says, “No.”

  Mike Dunleavy comes on the line. “Now, look here—” he begins but Rachel cuts him off immediately.

  “Put your wife back on the phone now or your daughter’s dead,” Rachel says.

  “I want to know who—”

  “Put your wife on the phone now, asshole! I’ve got a gun pointed at Amelia’s head!” she yells.

  A second later Helen comes back on. “I’m sorry—”

  “You will be sorry, you stupid bitch. Do what you’re supposed to or you’ll never see Amelia again. Once you have a list of targets, send it to the contact on Wickr for final approval,” Rachel snarls, and she hangs up.

  She removes the SIM card and smashes it and the phone on the kitchen floor. She puts the broken phone in the garbage bag.

  A few minutes later, she mirrors the Dunleavys’ home computer on Pete’s laptop and sees, sure enough, that they are trawling through Facebook feeds and Instagram accounts. Yup, that’s how you do it in this day and age.

  Pete comes upstairs. “News?”

  “They paid the ransom.”

  “They could afford it. It’s the second part…”

  “Yeah. How’s our girl?”

  “She’s OK. Still watching Disney movies. I promised to play Operation with her later.”

  Rachel nods absently.

  “Look, Rach, you can go home, I’ll be OK here,” Pete says.

  “No, I’m staying the night with Amelia,” Rachel insists.

  “She asked me to stay tonight, not you,” he says gently.

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s scared of you.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s better if I stay. I’m used to roughing it. Sleeping bag on the floor is no problem.”

  Rachel nods. “I guess that’s the way it is, then.”

  “I guess.”

  They stare at each other and say nothing. Rachel observes him. She knows that something is amiss but cannot put her finger on it. Something to do with that bag of what might have been drugs?

  “You’re OK, aren’t you, Pete?” Rachel asks.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “I’m really relying on you,” she says.

  “I’m fine. Trust me,” he says.

  Pete knows that she knows. It’s time for him to cook up again. He needs it. His body craves it. He had thought he might use this experience as a way to force himself to quit, but it isn’t that simple. There’s a reason it’s called a fix.

  Finally Rachel stands. “Call me,” she says.

  “I will.”

  She gives him a sad little wave goodbye and goes out.

  The sea lashes the dunes, and a freezing, bitter wind is coming at Rachel from the north. A slantwise rain is falling, and lightning stabs at the Dry Salvages off Cape Ann.

  Rachel goes home and takes a Sam Adams out of the fridge. The beer isn’t cutting it. She pours herself half a glass of vodka and tops it up with tonic. She thinks about the first unknown caller. That voice on the phone. That thing they said about the living being only a species of the dead.
It was the kind of thing she’d said to her friends when she was a freshman. A young person’s idea of depth. As if whoever was behind The Chain was pretending to be a wise fifty-year-old but was really about her own age or younger.

  Rachel would have thought it would take someone a lifetime to get this evil, but no. And what about you yourself, Rachel? A kidnapper, a torturer of children, an incompetent mom. All of the above. And you know in your heart that you would have let Amelia die. The intent was there and that’s what counts in moral philosophy, in law, and in life.

  Your fall has been vertiginous and swift. You’re in the cage plummeting to hell. And it’s going to get worse. It always gets worse. First comes the cancer, then the divorce, then your daughter gets kidnapped, then you become the monster.

  35

  Sunday, 2:17 a.m.

  Mike and Helen Dunleavy were everything Rachel hoped they would be. For all their procrastination and panic on Saturday morning, by Saturday afternoon they had really gotten their shit together.

  They chose a kid from East Providence named Henry Hogg, a boy in a wheelchair whose father was a junior vice president of an oil company, so he could pay $150,000 without sneezing. On Saturday night, Henry’s father attended a Rotary Club dinner in Boston, and at nine o’clock, Henry’s stepmother picked Henry up from his friend’s house, three blocks away from theirs. She started wheeling him home alone through the streets of Providence.

  The Dunleavys made sure he never got home.

  Kylie doesn’t know about any of this, but a few hours after midnight on Sunday, the basement door opens and the woman—Heather—tells Kylie to get up.

  Rachel doesn’t know about this until her phone rings at 2:17 on Sunday morning.

  She’s at home, curled up on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep. She’s a mess. She’s stopped eating, stopped showering. She can’t sleep for more than a few minutes.

  Her head throbs constantly. Her left breast hurts.

  The I Ching is open next to her at the hexagram hsieh—deliverance. Her fingers linger by the line You kill three foxes in the field and receive a yellow arrow. Will the yellow arrow be a sign that her daughter is safe?

  The phone call startles her out of her torpor and she grabs the phone like it’s a life vest.