Stolen

by Daniel Palmer

  The front door opened, and out stepped Dobson. He had the frantic look of someone who had panicked in the face of grave danger and had rushed to safety, leaving Ruby and me behind to die in an explosion. That look faded as soon as he saw me, replaced by one of total surprise.

  “It’s him,” I wheezed loudly enough for Clegg to hear. “It’s Dobson. . . . He’s the bomber . . . the Fiend. . . . He’s the Fiend.”

  Dobson gave me a wretched look. He glanced in all directions. Then he smiled a big, toothy grin. I saw him touch his fingers to his eyes. He walked toward me. Clegg didn’t budge. He kept me propped upright.

  “You need to see this,” Clegg said to me. “I owe you this.” Dobson came closer, his smile widening.

  “Show me what?” I said, my voice weakening. “Aren’t you going to arrest him or something?”

  “He’s not going down like that.”

  Dobson got closer.

  “How’s he going down?” I asked.

  Dobson reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife, still stained red with my blood. He sliced the air with the knife, smiling, coming closer.

  “This way,” Clegg said. Then he shouted, “Police. Drop your weapon!”

  Dobson was no more than ten feet from me, crazed, deranged beyond reason. He lunged forward, thrusting the knife out in front of him as though wielding a bayonet. He got to within an arm’s reach of me when Clegg, in a singular motion, took out his gun and fired a shot. The bullet just barely nicked Dobson’s ear as it zoomed past his head.

  Dobson staggered backward but managed to stay on his feet, weapon still in hand. Blood spewed out sideways and down from the wound in Dobson’s head.

  Clegg kept his gun trained on Dobson. Dobson broadcast his intent by raising his knife overhead. Suicide by cop, that was how he was going down.

  “I said drop your weapon!” Clegg shouted again.

  Dobson still advanced. Clegg fired again, this time skimming the side of Dobson’s mouth with his bullet. Dobson’s splintered teeth sprayed like ceramic snowflakes, falling in all directions, the knife clattering to the ground.

  As Dobson fell backward, blood sputtering from his shattered mouth in a thick river of red, Clegg fired a third time. The third bullet struck Dobson square in the right eye, sending blood, bone, and brains bursting from his body through a massive hole put in his skull.

  “Game over,” Clegg said.

  I blacked out.

  Epilogue

  “Okay, we’re live in five . . . four . . . three. . . .”

  The producer conveyed the countdown on his fingers as well. After what I’d been through, I didn’t think anything could scare me. But then I thought, Millions of people watch The Today Show. I pictured folks puttering about their homes, drinking coffee, getting ready for work, getting kids ready for school, with the TV on. I was about to enter many a household to share my story, and that thought put a lump in my throat and sweat on my palms.

  Matt Lauer sat at the news desk with The Today Show logo projected numerous times on the blue screen behind him. I had whispered to Ruby, “Okay, I can see the attraction,” when Lauer greeted us a few minutes before our Today Show exclusive interview was scheduled to air. The guy radiated magnetism, and his charm seemed homespun authentic. He made sure we had everything we needed—water, something to eat; all in all, he proved a very gracious host.

  I winced as I settled myself onto the studio couch. Stab wounds like those I suffered don’t heal completely in a month’s time. I had spent two weeks recovering in a hospital and another two weeks at home on bed rest. My mom came out for much of that recovery period. Bless her! Nothing beats a mom when you’re on the mend. I lost my spleen, and it took ten hours of surgery to stitch back all the inside parts Dobson—aka the Fiend—had punctured.

  Ruby and I had gone from obscure to world famous within an ambulance ride. Meanwhile, Winnie surprised us all by taking a break from the booze to become our protector, safeguarding our privacy like a reinforced steel door. I figured Clegg would do that job, but he was off climbing somewhere. Higgins took his badge and gun pending the outcome of the internal affairs investigations, so he had plenty of time to kill. When the interview requests came—and come they did—Winnie, at our behest, declined them all. But when The Today Show called, I told Ruby we needed to take that one. The circle wouldn’t be complete unless we did.

  “You should get a suit like Matt’s,” Ruby had said to me before the producer’s countdown began.

  “So now he’s Matt to you, is he?” I whispered.

  Ruby smiled. “Jealous?”

  I looked over at Lauer and shrugged. The light on top of camera one went red. We were live.

  “And now to the story of John Bodine and Ruby Dawes, the young couple at the epicenter of the SHS Killer story, which gripped the country just four weeks ago. John and Ruby are here in studio to share their story exclusively with The Today Show, but first Natalie Morales reports on their harrowing ordeal.”

  They cut to Natalie, who gave a brief introduction, then cut to the prerecorded segment. A lot of what was filmed would be used for a Dateline special about the SHS Killer. The producers at NBC had done some hefty editing and in less than ninety seconds recounted for viewers Ruby’s cancer, my desperate ploy to get her medication, Dobson’s first contact with me, and my subsequent life of crime, which ended with me tossing Ruby out a window and Clegg killing the SHS Killer in front of hundreds of witnesses. Lauer joined us on the couch before the taped segment ended. Production people swarmed about, all frantic and fiddling, but Lauer ignored the commotion. He was too focused on us, settling our nerves and boosting our confidence. As the taped segment came to an end, a different producer did another countdown and once again we were live on air.

  “John and Ruby are here in the studio now for an exclusive interview,” Lauer said. “Welcome, and first of all, how are you doing?”

  “Thanks, Matt,” Ruby said. “We’re doing much better now that John is out of the hospital.”

  Lauer looked at me.

  “You suffered some pretty serious stab wounds,” he said. “How is your recovery?”

  We talked about my injuries long enough for Lauer to get squeamish.

  Lauer said, “Tell me, did you have any idea that when you were helping Henry Dobson off the ledge that he was the person responsible for everything that happened to you?”

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. In fact, there were a few times that I was with Dobson when the SHS Killer contacted me.”

  Lauer looked interested. “How is that possible? Can you tell us?” he asked.

  By “us” I knew Lauer meant millions of viewers and not just the people in the studio, but somehow he made me forget about all the TV cameras.

  “The first time Dobson showed up at our apartment, he was pretending to be an investigator from UniSol Health. He seemed official, and given what we’d done, Ruby and I weren’t about to contact UniSol to verify his employment. On his way out the door, the phone rang. It was the SHS Killer, telling me that I was going to rob a liquor store next.”

  “But if Dobson was in the room with you, how did he make the call?” Lauer asked.

  “It was a recorded voice,” I said. “Dobson took out his phone, pretending to check a message, but he was really initiating a computer program that dialed my number and played a prerecorded message. He wanted me to think it couldn’t be him. That was part of his game. He even sent me a text message while he was standing on the ledge. That was automated as well.”

  “So Henry Dobson was a computer expert?” Lauer asked. “Is that how he found out you stole the Uretskys’ identities?”

  “From what the police have told me, the real Henry Dobson was a Grade A computer hacker,” I said. “He didn’t work. He made his money scamming people online and spent most of his free time playing online games. Turns out the FBI was after him for a variety of cyber crimes, only they didn’t know it was Henry Dobson committing them. Dobson and Elli
ot Uretsky formed a friendship through a violent online game they both played, but Uretsky didn’t know that Dobson wanted to live out his violent fantasies. Dobson took over the Uretskys’ identities after he killed them. When I stole the Uretskys’ identities, UniSol sent an automatic e-mail to Uretsky’s e-mail account, which Dobson was monitoring. That was how he found out somebody else was using the Uretskys’ identities. He hacked his way into the computer systems of Post Boxes Unlimited and found out our real names and addresses.”

  We didn’t talk about Carl Swain or Edwin Valdez. I was glad Lauer didn’t ask about them. The police found their bodies cut up and stuffed into a large freezer in Dobson’s basement. They also found another listening device planted in our Harvard Avenue apartment. Forensic guys later determined it was activated on the day Dobson paid us a visit after we learned of the Uretskys’ murders. I had spoken to Clegg by phone about Swain and Valdez shortly after Dobson left, so that’s how he knew I thought they were involved. He killed them so the police wouldn’t be able to find them. He did it so that I would have more people to suspect. He did it because, in a way, they were connected to me.

  “You’ve been through so much,” Lauer said, “but I have to ask you—and I think a lot of our viewers who have been following your story have the same question—when you tossed Ruby out that fifth-story window, did you know the fire department had inflated safety mattresses? Or did you think, I’ll take my chances that she’ll somehow survive the fall?”

  Ruby fixed me with a pointed stare. The question had been gnawing at her as well. “Yeah, sweetie, did you see the mattresses?” she asked, smiling a little.

  “I had faith,” I said, “faith that somebody did their job. I just believed that she’d land safely. When all this started, I didn’t want to put my faith in anybody. Ruby wanted to come on The Today Show to plead our case, but I shot down the idea. Mountaineering taught me the virtue of self-sufficiency. But at that moment I had to put my trust, my faith, in the hands of somebody else. The biggest regret I have in all of this is that I didn’t reach out to others when I needed help the most.” My voice cracked a little. Ruby took hold of my hand and squeezed hard. “I’ll spend my life living with that regret, and I’ll do everything I can to help those who have been personally impacted by this ordeal.”

  Lauer gave me a moment to regain my composure.

  “And how are things now?” he asked.

  “Now,” Ruby said, “Atrium has decided to fully fund my course of treatment. There was a huge push online to get them to change the policy once people learned of our story. I’m scheduled to have surgery next month, so hopefully between the drugs and the surgery, I’ll be cancer free, and John and I can try and pick up the pieces of our lives and go from there. We want to start a family soon. We just want things to settle down first and get back to normal for us. We’re hoping that will happen soon.”

  “Well, you’re a remarkable couple with a bright future, and I wish you both the best of luck,” Lauer said.

  I looked over at Ruby and could tell by the look in her eyes what she was thinking.

  Which songs have the phrase “best of luck” in the lyrics?

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a tremendous amount of a gratitude to a number of people who contributed their time, expertise, and talents to the creation of this work. Dave Trudo patiently answered my questions regarding health insurance. I could not have written John and Ruby’s conundrum without his assistance. Lisa Adams not only lent her name to a character in this story, she also shared her very personal experiences that greatly influenced my portrayal of Ruby’s illness. In addition, Dr. Anthony Zietman assisted with all the medical aspects of Ruby’s cancer therapy. Any errors in depicting Ruby’s course of treatment are exclusively my own. Lieutenant Rich Mello once again answered all my questions about police procedures. While Christopher Sloane, from Boston’s Fire Investigation Unit, gave me insights I could not have gotten elsewhere.

  I’m lucky to have my father, Michael Palmer, as a sounding board for my ideas. I’m equally fortunate to have wonderful readers, Judy Palmer, Clair Lamb, Phil Redman, and the team from the Jane Rotrosen Agency. This book is better from their efforts. Speaking of the Rotrosen Agency, my deepest thanks goes to Meg Ruley, agent extraordinaire who makes all of this possible. I’d also like to thank the team at Kensington, John, Laurie, Adeola, Lesleigh, and Steve. I couldn’t ask for a better publisher. My friends Don and Erik deserve a shout out simply because they rock, for real.

  I’m most deeply grateful to the love and support of my wife Jessica and my two children. You make every day special.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2013 by Daniel Palmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013930815

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-4666-0

  ISBN-10: 0-7582-4666-8