The operator said, “Where are you now, sir?” and Peter said, “I don’t know the name of the street, but we’re right behind the guy. He’s driving a white van—”
Roger said, “We got him,” and pointed up the street. The van had come to an angled stop behind a pair of city buses, a big yellow street sweeper blocking the opposite lane, the van’s brake lights printing a bright red stain on the blacktop. The road at the intersection ahead was the one Peter and Roger had come in on. If the kidnapper made it onto that, he’d have ready access to at least a half dozen routes out of the area, including two major highways.
Roger said, “I’ll box the fucker in,” and floored it, but now the van’s back-up lights were on and Peter saw smoke roiling off the rear tires, the van reversing in a swerving S-shape, then braking again before turning right into the parking lot of a KFC.
Roger shouted, “Sonofabitch,” and wheeled into the same parking lot, right on top of them now, coming close enough for Peter to read off the license number to the 911 operator.
Then the van burst out of the L-shaped lot onto the main road, an eighteen wheeler braking hard to miss it, cutting Roger off as it hissed and juddered to a stop. Roger reversed in a tight curve, the rear bumper plowing into the side of a yellow Hummer, then dropped the shifter into DRIVE and roared across the sidewalk, going airborne briefly as the car left the curb. Roger accelerated around the transport and Peter lost his grip on the phone, the silver Samsung snapping shut and bouncing off his knee into the dark of the foot well.
Peter looked up and the van was gone.
Then Roger said, “I see him,” and pointed across a field to their left.
There, blowing past a ragged tree line about a quarter mile away, was the van, its high beams playing off the trunks of the moonlit trees.
As Roger approached the turnoff, Peter bent to feel for his phone and said, “Maybe we should take it easy, Roger. Just try to keep him in sight. I’ll get the 911 operator again and we can lead the cops right to him.”
Roger took the turn too fast and Peter felt the phone bump his heel. He picked it up and said, “Roger?” and Roger glanced at him, his eyes like stab wounds in the glow of the dash lights. “Did you hear what I said?”
Roger returned his gaze to the road without responding, and Peter felt the car lunge ahead, its small engine shrieking in protest. In Roger’s grim expression Peter read a desperate stubbornness, and understood that unless he could break through here, make the man see reason, they were both going to wind up dead.
He said, “Roger, listen. We’ve almost got him, but there’s no way we can stop him with this car. If we try, we not only put ourselves at risk, we do the same to that little boy.” Roger glanced at him, the tight set of his jaw beginning to slacken. “And if there’s any hope at all of finding Jason alive,” Peter said, “it resides with the man at the wheel of that van. At all costs, we need him alive. Let the cops do this, Roger. Please. Back off and let me tell them where we are.”
Almost imperceptibly, Roger eased up on the accelerator. The van was still visible, still about a quarter mile ahead on this stretch of hilly road, its taillights appearing then disappearing. Roger said, “Okay, okay. Where are we now?”
“Radar Road,” Peter said, flipping the phone open. “There was a sign at the turnoff.” He looked at the dead keyboard and said, “Shit, I think it’s broken.”
“Check the battery, see if it got dislodged in the fall.”
Peter ran a finger along the back of the phone and said, “Good call.” The battery had popped loose but hadn’t fallen off. He pressed it with his thumb, heard it click into place, then hit the POWER button.
While he waited for the phone to turn on, Peter scanned the night for those taillights again, feeling a momentary start when he saw only darkness—but there they were now, cresting another of these low hills, still about a quarter mile ahead. He looked next to his right, at the bush that had sprung up without his noticing, a solid bank of trees cut only occasionally by a driveway or a dirt side road. Somehow, in under five minutes, they’d ended up in open countryside. He realized then that they’d come into the Oakville area from the opposite direction, and that the Cades lived on the very outskirts of town. In their haste to get down here, neither of them had thought to buy a map. They’d just have to hope these back roads had signs
The cell phone was on now, but Peter got an idea. He flipped open the glove box and started rooting around inside.
Roger said, “What are you doing?”
Peter came out with a felt-tip pen and a plain white pad. Leaning the pad toward the dash lights, he jotted left on radar road and said, “In case we get lost.”
“Smart.”
Now Peter tucked the pad and pen under his thigh and keyed 911 into the cell phone. The signal indicator was down to only two vertical bars, but it was ringing.
The operator picked up and said, “911 emergency,” and Peter could barely hear her through the crackle of static. He said, “This is Peter Croft. Are you the operator I was just speaking to?” The woman said no, but told him she knew who he was and asked him to hold, she was going to connect him directly to the officer in charge.
* * *
By the time Vickie Taylor got to the scene, S.W.A.T. had already cleared the dwelling. Both plainclothes officers were deceased, and Vickie felt numb watching Forensics prep their bodies for removal. The Cades had been more fortunate, though in Christopher Cade’s case, only marginally so. EMS had just wheeled him out, intubated and unconscious, an IV going in each arm. Mrs. Cade had been the luckiest, the single shot she’d taken shattering her clavicle but missing anything vital. She was conscious and exceedingly distraught, her fury aimed briefly at Vickie as the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance. “You,” she spat, her head coming up off the pillow, the cords in her neck straining against the skin. “You said it was random. You said we didn’t need to worry and now my boy is gone.”
Vickie felt sick to her stomach.
A few minutes later she was trying to piece together a statement from one of the neighbors when her cell phone rang. It was the 911 operator, telling her she had someone on the line who claimed not only to have witnessed the crime, but to be currently in pursuit of the getaway vehicle.
Feeling a cold excitement, Vickie waved an officer over and told him to finish questioning the neighbor. Then she saw Staff Sergeant Laking arriving on the scene and hurried over to greet him, the phone still pressed to her ear. She was about to fill him in when the operator came back on and apologized, saying she’d lost the call.
“Alright,” Vickie said. “Get back to me immediately if they call again.”
The operator said, “I will, Ma’am,” and broke the connection.
* * *
Graham was going to be sick. Not right away, but he knew it was coming. He always got car sick, sometimes even when his mom gave him Gravol first, and it was always worse if he closed his eyes. And his eyes were still closed, as tight as he could make them; his head was starting to ache from doing it.
The bad man had put him in this smelly van, then done up his seat belt and said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” in a different voice, a nice voice, “we’ll be home soon,” and Graham kept thinking about that, about being home soon. He thought about it while they were driving fast and he was bouncing around in his seat and he never once opened his eyes because if he did the dream might not be over yet and the bad man would see him. If he kept his eyes closed, nothing could hurt him.
He hoped his dad would wake up soon and come get him. They were still driving fast, but not so crazy now. The bad man hadn’t said anything else to him yet, just made a few grunts and said some bad words when they were driving really fast. Graham could hear him doing things now though, shuffling stuff around, opening something that sounded like a cardboard box, and now a bright light came on in the vehicle, making Graham flinch.
Curious, he turned his head very slowly and let his eyes open just a crack.
..and through the fuzz of his eyelashes saw a big woman with long, jet black hair driving with one hand and putting lipstick on with the other, leaning forward to watch herself in the mirror. Graham was so surprised he let his eyes come all the way open, and the woman looked at him and smiled.
“There you are, honey,” she said in that nice voice and dropped the lipstick into a big floppy purse. “I’m so glad you decided to join me.”
She reached over to touch his face and Graham let her, his young mind stalled for a beat, trying to fit this new information into what had just happened at home. The woman was wearing a nice frilly blouse with black pants, but there was still that musty smell around her and Graham saw that heavy coat scrunched into the seat behind her. It made him feel confused, but a little less afraid. She didn’t seem so bad. Her voice was deep, but not as deep as the bad man’s. Not as scary.
Very quietly, Graham said, “Where’s the bad man?”
The woman smiled and said, “He’s gone, sweetie. I made him go away. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“Are you going to take me home now?”
“You bet I am. You just sit tight.” She reached behind his seat and brought out a big fluffy pillow. Resting it on Graham’s lap, she said, “It’s a pretty long drive, though, so you might want to catch a few winks.”
Graham hugged the pillow to his face. It smelled good, clean and fresh, like when his mom did the laundry. He was glad to hear they were going home, but he didn’t think it was that far away. He looked at the woman and said, “Your hair’s crooked,” then saw her do the strangest thing. She reached up and moved her hair, then smiled at him and said, “Better?”
Graham said, “I’m gonna—”
But that was all he got out, his body jackknifing as his dinner and the bottle of apple juice he’d had watching AFV came sluicing up his throat, gobs of it hitting the dashboard, the floor and his tiny bare feet. It felt warm on his skin and smelled really bad.
He took a deep breath, let out a moan and threw up again, the smell of it reaching down his throat and squeezing his tummy hard. He was afraid the woman would be mad, but she said, “Oh, you poor thing,” and tore some paper towels off a roll she had beside her seat and wiped his face with them, then got some more and did his feet. Leaning closer, she gave the dash a quick rub, then threw the dirty paper towels over the mess on the floor. She said, “Just open your window a crack, sweetie.” Saying, “Like this, see?” then grabbing the handle on her door and opening her own window a bit.
Graham did as he was told and felt the night breeze cool on his forehead, whisking some of that smell away. Shivering, he said, “Can I have one of those?” and pointed at the paper towels. The woman told him to help himself, and Graham leaned over to pick up the roll. He tore one off and wiped his mouth with it, trying to get rid of that awful taste.
The woman said, “Yucky, huh.”
Graham made a face and nodded.
Now she said, “I’ve got just the thing,” and opened the lid of a small cooler that was tucked in the space between the seats. “I’ve got raspberry juice, bottled water, Coke, ginger ale, and cherry Gator Aid.”
Graham said, “Coke, please,” because he loved Coke and wasn’t allowed to drink it at home.
The woman pulled one out for him and Graham heard the chatter of ice in the cooler, a sound that reminded him of the camping trips his family sometimes took in the summer; a comforting sound. She reached over with the can, but instead of giving it to him, held it to his forehead, saying, “Feels good, huh?” and it did. Then she put it in his hand and he pulled the tab, liking the sound it made. He took a long swallow, rinsing that taste out of his mouth, then he burped and the woman laughed, saying, “Good one,” and Graham laughed a bit too.
They made a lot of turns while Graham was drinking his pop, and the woman kept looking at something on the dash, something Graham couldn’t quite see. All he knew was that it looked like his dad’s pocket computer with the screen lit up, casting its pale blue glow. He pointed at it and said, “What’s that?”
The woman said, “This?” and turned it toward him. “This is a GPS system.” She pointed at a little blue arrow that was moving along a curvy red line.
“Oh, yeah,” Graham said, “my uncle Jim’s got one of those on his boat.”
The woman looked at him funny and Graham thought she was going to be angry; but she pointed at the screen and said, “The little arrow tells me where I am, and the words on top tell me where to go next. I got it all mapped out, lots of twists and turns to make the drive more fun.”
Graham scooched over for a closer look and saw his father’s gun lying on the dash. The woman saw him looking and picked the gun up by the barrel.
“I hate these things,” she said. “You too, huh?”
Graham nodded. The bad man had used that gun to hurt his mommy and daddy.
“Tell you what,” the woman said. She rolled her window all the way down, the wind getting in to stir things up in the van, and tossed the gun out into the dark. “There,” she said, smiling. “Better?”
Graham said, “Yes.”
Then she looked in the rearview and said, “Looks like we still got company,” and Graham heard the engine roar, the sudden lurch of the vehicle making his tummy feel icky again.
He said, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the bad man, honey,” the woman said, the light from the mirror printing a silver Zorro mask across her eyes. “But don’t worry your sweet little head. There’s no way he’s ever gonna catch us.”
* * *
Peter said, “Roger, we need to back off,” but it was too late. The van was picking up speed now, widening the distance between them at an alarming rate. They’d lost sight of it for a solid minute on this fresh stretch of road, each new curve and switchback blinding them, creating the very real worry that the kidnapper would slip unnoticed down some unmarked side road and disappear for good. It made Peter wonder if the guy was from around here—it would explain why he seemed to know these roads so well—or if he was simply tearing around at random, attempting to throw off pursuit.
Either way, it looked like Roger was losing it again. That crazed gleam was back in his eyes, and he was pushing the car dangerously hard on this loose gravel surface. To make matters worse, the cell phone had lost its signal while the 911 operator had Peter on hold and he hadn’t been able to get her back yet. On the upside, he’d managed to record all of the turns they’d made and knew the road they were on now was called Uplands.
Bracing himself with his feet, Peter dialed 911 and this time got through to the operator. He identified himself and the woman said, “I’ve got Sergeant Taylor holding for you, Mr. Croft,” then set him adrift on dead air again.
* * *
“Is your seatbelt on good and tight, sweetie?”
Graham checked it and said that it was.
“That’s good, because we’re going to go really fast again for a minute, then you’re going to see some things that might scare you.” Driving with one hand now, she dragged the smelly coat over her shoulders and pulled it on, first one arm, then the other. Doing up the buttons, she said, “But I want you to remember that I am not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”
Graham looked out the windshield and saw that the road they were on was about to end, a big yellow sign up there showing a black arrow with a point on either end. The woman slammed on the brakes and Graham felt his seatbelt dig into his shoulder; then they were turning, bouncing off this rough road onto smooth pavement. Graham saw the headlights of another car coming toward them and thought of driving home from his Grandma’s place late at night.
The woman said, “Okay, baby, here comes the fast part I told you about,” and Graham heard the engine roar, its vibration making things rattle inside the van. She said, “We’re going to go like crazy for a bit, then we’re going to play a trick on the bad man. Ready?”
Graham nodded.
Then the woman took her
hair off and dropped it into the space between the seats. It landed upside down and Graham stared at it in horror. When he looked up he saw the bad man sitting where the woman had been, rubbing red lipstick off his mouth with a paper towel. Graham felt something tighten inside him and he closed his eyes again, closed them hard.
“Here we go,” the bad man said in the woman’s voice, and now Graham covered his ears, too.
* * *
“This is Sergeant Taylor.” A woman’s voice, cool, official. Peter said, “My name is Peter Croft,” and braced himself against the door jamb, Roger correcting for a skid that brought them perilously close to the gravel embankment. “I’m with a friend by the name of Roger Mullen. We witnessed some of the events at the Cade home and we are now following the kidnapper’s van. I gave the operator the license number a while ago—”
“Yes, I know,” Sergeant Taylor said, “the plates were stolen. Where are you now?”
“On a road called Uplands, maybe twenty minutes from town.” Peter heard her repeat the name to someone on her end, then heard her say, “Okay, listen. I do not want you to engage this man in any way. Don’t challenge him, don’t try to cut him off, don’t even let him know you’re there.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
“Alright, then just try to keep him in sight and stay on the line. We’re going to send some units into the area and try to seal it off. In the meantime—”
Peter said, “Hold on.”
They’d just crested a steep hill and Peter saw that the road was about to end—but there was no sign of the van.
Roger said, “Fuck,” and slammed on the brakes, the vehicle skidding and twisting toward the intersecting blacktop. He said, “Which way?” and Peter said, “Go left,” pointing at the fresh-looking skid marks that veered off in that direction. Roger tramped on the gas and had to brake again for a staggered line of cars approaching from the left. Barely avoiding a collision, he shouted something unintelligible and yanked so furiously on the wheel Peter thought it was going to come off in his hands.
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