Measure of Darkness

by Chris Jordan

  The message is succinct, and maddening, because she doesn’t wait for my reply.

  “I’ll make this quick,” she says. “Jack is on the way. He says don’t do anything foolish, wait for backup. And turn off your phone. If I can see you, they can, too.”

  Then she hangs up. What I want to do is throw the phone all the way back to Boston. Instead I turn it off and remove the battery for good measure. The idea that I might be a little green blip on somebody’s screen is unnerving to say the least.

  I’m thinking, come on, Jack. Hurry. I messed up bad. I can’t find Shane, hell, I can’t even find myself. Rescue me and I’ll let you call me “doll” anytime you like.

  That’s when a very large hand clamps over my mouth and drags me down into the bushes.

  Randall Shane, big as life. Bigger.

  “Who the hell are you?” he wants to know, his voice a husky whisper. And then he relaxes his grip. “Oh yeah, I remember you from the hospital.”

  I explain about Jack getting delayed and sending me ahead with a gun.

  “Have you got it?”

  “In my purse.”

  The big guy slips the Airweight and ammo out of my purse, but doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic.

  “You wanted a bigger gun?” I ask.

  “No. I wanted Jack Delancey.”

  “Sorry, it’s the best we could do.”

  He nods grimly and whispers, “Kathy? Come on out.”

  His accomplice emerges from the ferns, smeared with dirt and looking not at all happy to make my acquaintance. I barely recognize her as the woman on the bridge with Joey. She’s lost weight—she can’t be a hundred pounds soaking wet—and her eyes have sunk back in her skull. Haunted eyes that burn with a feverish intensity.

  “You trust her?” she hisses.

  Shane shrugs and says, “Yeah, I guess.”

  I’m tempted to make a wisecrack about the less-than-enthusiastic endorsement, but they both look so exhausted, so anxious and on edge that I can’t bring myself to say anything but, “How can I help?”

  “You know any first aid?” he wants to know. “Kathy has a bad burn that needs attending to.”

  “Forget it,” his scrawny little companion says. “Not until we find Joey.”

  The burn on her arm is festering. The pain must be unbearable—the top layer of skin has burned away from wrist to elbow—but she makes no complaint. When I mention that, knowing Jack, the Town Car might have a kit in the trunk, she adamantly refuses to accompany me back to the vehicle. “Not until we find Joey,” she insists, repeating her mantra.

  “She scratched her arm, made it worse,” Shane says.

  The remark seems to make her eyes shine even more brightly. “It worked, didn’t it?” she says. “That’s what counts.”

  He brings me up to speed. Explains how Kathy was made to think she was working with Shane, protecting the boy, and how she eventually figured out that she’d been duped and that Joey was in danger. She had risked her life attempting to escape with Joey and when it had all gone wrong she found Shane and begged him to help her find and save the boy.

  “She saw Taylor Gatling loading Joey into a van,” Shane says, in an admiring tone. “According to the plate number the van was leased by GSG, Gatling’s company, right here at the Tradeport. I don’t care how many Pentagon big shots he has on his side, or how invulnerable they’ve made him feel, when they understand the evidence against him they’ll throw him to the wolves. Kathy’s prepared to testify.”

  She nods, affirming, but insists, “Save Joey first.”

  “Absolutely,” Shane agrees.

  “You know why I know he’s alive?” she says, directing the question to me, or maybe to the world, such is her intensity. “Because when they brought him out of the house his little hands twitched. That was a sign to me, a gift from God. I know he’s alive because God told me so and we’re going to save him and give him back to his real mommy, and whatever happens after that, none of it matters.”

  “Okay…” I say.

  “They drugged him with something but he’s alive,” she insists. “If they wanted to kill him they’d have left him there and burned him up in the fire, but they didn’t, they didn’t, so I still have a chance, I can still do it, I can make it okay.”

  I look down at where she’s gripping my arm with both hands and she apologizes and lets go. Shane gives me a very sober look, as if to say he hopes she’s right but can’t be sure. He measures his words with care. “We’re working on the assumption that the kid survived. From Kathy’s description of the situation, Gatling is operating in something of a panic, making decisions on the fly. He has to take the boy somewhere, so it makes sense he’d come here, to a location where he believes he’s in complete control. Either to hold Joey in one of his secure facilities, or possibly to transport him to another, safer location.”

  “You think we should notify the local cops or the FBI?”

  He shakes his head, a firm no. “From what Monica told me, Gatling has ears everywhere. And even if he doesn’t get tipped off, the FBI won’t come in on tippy-toes, that’s not the way they roll. If he suspects they’re making a move he might do something drastic.”

  According to Shane, he and Kathy have been out here since well before dawn, surveilling the buildings, bunkers and hangars that make up Gatling’s kingdom, all readily visible across the wide expanse of runway. So far they haven’t seen the white van, or any activity that looks out of the ordinary.

  “I was hoping Jack could make a play from the other side, flush them out.”

  “He’s on his way.”

  Kathy crawls through the foliage for a better view and almost immediately calls out, her voice urgent.

  We both join her at the edge of the runway, where the early-morning light is already baking the acres of concrete.

  “Over there,” she says, pointing toward one of the GSG hangars. “Just drove up. Is that a fuel truck?”

  “It is,” Shane says, sounding impressed.

  “When they flew me to Hong Kong to pick up Joey, we stopped to refuel along the way. The trucks were like that. There’s a driver in the truck, see? He’s waiting. Means a plane will arrive soon.”

  “You’re good,” he says. “Anything else?”

  “I still don’t see a white van.”

  “Probably already destroyed, or at the very least being thoroughly cleaned and detailed. Gatling is very careful. That’s how he’s gotten away with it so far.”

  “He wasn’t being careful at the cottage,” she points out. “I’ve been going over it in my mind, everything that happened, and I don’t think it was part of the plan, him coming to fetch Joey. He was angry and upset.”

  “Because you’d messed things up by clobbering his lackey.”

  “That’s the other thing. Whatever he is, Kidder isn’t a lackey. He despises Taylor Gatling.”

  “And you’re thinking maybe we can use that?” he says, treating her as he might a colleague.

  “Maybe. Somehow.”

  That little exchange makes me understand why Shane allowed her to come along. He believes that she has earned the right to risk her life if that’s what she wants to do. Maybe he understands because, according to everything I’ve heard about him, he’s been indulging a save-the-child-at-all-costs impulse for years. Having a greater purpose is apparently what saved him from a suicidal madness of grief and loss, and he isn’t about to deny Kathy Mancero a similar opportunity to redeem herself.

  And me, normally not that much of a risk-taker, I’m along for the ride. A bit frightened—okay, I’m terrified, way out of my comfort zone—but nevertheless glad to be of help. Even if all I did was bring a man a gun.

  “Jet,” Shane says softly, pointing into the sun.

  We freeze in place until the midsize plane touches down. As the jet slows and taxis down the long runway, the driver gets out of the fuel truck wearing overalls, an orange vest and sound mufflers covering his ears. He uses a pair of orange wa
nds to guide the jet within range of the fuel truck, fifty feet or so from the hangar. The engines wind down.

  “Let’s do it,” Kathy says, obviously eager to be on the move.

  Shane touches her uninjured arm. “Hold position,” he says firmly. “Don’t move until we have a visual on Joey. If he’s there. If the jet is for him.”

  “He’s there.”

  She sounds so certain.

  “You see him?”

  She shakes her head, the light of a true believer blazing in her haunted eyes. “God led me to this place. Just as he led you.”

  And really, what can you say to that? We watch silently, intently, as the jet refuels. At no time does the aircraft open a hatch or lower stairs. Which I find strange. In my limited experience of flying on private jets, the pilots like to get out and kick the tires, go through their checklists and so on. And when, finally, the refueling has been completed, the man in the orange vest returns with a small tractor. He hooks up to the front wheel of the jet and begins the slow process of pulling it toward the hangar.

  As the superwide hangar doors begin to lift, yawning open to the dimness within, Kathy Mancero suddenly gets to her feet. “That’s it,” she announces. “They want the plane under cover when they bring Joey out.”

  Shane takes issue. “Sorry, hey, but we still don’t know for sure the kid is there.”

  “You don’t,” Kathy says adamantly. “I do.”

  She breaks free of Shane’s restraining touch and runs. Heading along the edge of the woods, aiming for the hangar, as fast as she can go.

  We have no choice but to follow.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Everything She Has Ever Feared

  Kathy runs instinctively, choosing an angle that will make her approach unseen to anyone who happens to be inside the hangar. If there are other guards in place they’ve not made themselves known, and she sees the intentional lack of witnesses as yet another signal that something terrible is about to go down. The ground crew had been limited to one. The pilots have yet to exit the plane, as if to make sure they never register on surveillance tapes, or because they suspect their mission is somehow shameful. And now the refueled aircraft is being dragged into the darkness of the hangar, as if complicit in some terrible act best concealed from the world of light.

  All signs that the time for bad things has come.

  Shane and the other woman may not quite be able to see it, but the meaning is clear to Kathy. It has been revealed. Her belief that she’s being guided, that she has a purpose, a role to play, is absolute. The pain of her wound is as nothing. All that matters is Joey, who, in her desperate foolishness, she helped abduct in the first place. Now she’s being given a chance to put that right, to return balance and love to the world and, in her own mind, to confirm the existence of heaven.

  Kathy runs like the wind, feeling light and strong and filled with an exhilarating sense of joy. She has no fear because everything she has ever feared has already come to pass. Her heart is open, her eyes are clear. She knows absolutely that her blessed daughter, Stacy, watches and approves, rooting for her to help the little boy with the music in his hands.

  At some point, as if letting her feet find the way, she cuts across the wide expanse of the runway, heading for the north side of the hangar. A high wall of gray corrugated metal. It is there that she believes she will find Joey, there that he will be saved. She believes that in that same miraculous moment she, too, will be saved, and nothing on this earth will stop her from trying.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  When the Music Stops

  Randall Shane, doing his best to keep up—his long legs should easily be outrunning my own—seems to have come hard up against the limits of what his damaged body can deliver. We’re barely out of the woods when he doubles over, clutching his left knee, and wobbles to a halt. Through a grimace of pain he says, “Torn ligaments. Sorry. I can walk but apparently I can’t run.”

  He reaches into a trouser pocket, retrieves the snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson and places it in my hands. “Fully loaded,” he cautions. “Concealed hammer, double-action. Pull the trigger all the way and it fires.”

  I accept the weapon, feeling about as confident as a first-day medical student being dropped into the middle of brain surgery. That one time at the range I had managed to empty a five-shot cylinder without hitting the target.

  “I may be the worst shot in Boston,” I warn him.

  “Then consider yourself armed and dangerous. Go. I’ll try and catch up.”

  “The woman is crazy, you know.”

  Shane shakes his head. “She’s not afraid to die. That’s not the same thing as crazy. I’ll be right along. Please, just go, do what you can.”

  What the hell. Maybe this is the day I get to be a hero, or to help one out. I slip the little snubby in my waistband and bolt across the wide concrete runway, following the skinny gazelle with the crazy, wonderful light in her eyes.

  Probably no more than a few hundred yards, but it feels like miles. Not because the running is hard—I have adrenaline to spare—but because it’s so exposed. I feel like a big fly on a windowpane, waiting for the swatter to splat me. But if there’s anybody watching, they give no sign, no shouts or sirens, and I reach the hangar wall unimpeded.

  Pausing for just a moment to catch my breath, aware of the heat radiating from the corrugated steel. Kathy Mancero, poised at the far end of the hangar, beckons me forward. Eyes still so intense I can barely meet her gaze.

  “You’ve got the gun?”

  I reach to my waist, prepared to hand it over.

  “No, no, keep it. I’d be afraid of hitting Joey. Just cover me.”

  Great. I’m hoping Shane gets here fast. I’m keenly aware that without the necessary skill, and the willingness to use it, a handgun isn’t much more than a prop. I make a silent vow to sign up for more firing-range lessons, as many as it takes. Hoping that it won’t be too little, too late.

  From inside the hangar we hear the creak and moan of the huge doors lifting, steel on steel, bucking and grinding. A noise that will surely cover our footsteps as we edge along and find the outside corner of the massive building.

  “Inside,” Kathy whispers, her breath strangely cool as it brushes my ear.

  Before I quite understand, she ducks into the shadows just inside the hangar.

  There’s nothing for me to do but follow. My heart slams like a two-year-old in full tantrum. I’m aware of a mass of cooler air, the chill of shadows hushed within the hangar. Crouching, I attempt to make myself small as the jet passes into the interior, the end of the wing only yards away, being smoothly pulled by the little tractor. My eyes gradually adjust—the interior illumination does little to pierce the vast dimness of the hangar—and realize, with great relief, that I haven’t been spotted because there’s nobody to see me, or, for that matter, Kathy, who continues to slip along against the wall, finding cover as she goes. There are no security guards, no ground crew or mechanics, no one but the gleaming jet and the man on the tractor, whose back is toward us.

  When the jet is fully inside the hangar, the man on the tractor climbs off and removes his noise-muffling headgear, revealing a wool cap pulled down to his ears.

  Him. The guy from the closet. The home invader who put a gun to my head.

  Kathy recognizes him, as well. She slips back to me, close enough to grip my arm and whisper in my ear. “That’s Kidder. Joey can’t be far away.”

  She seems exhilarated by the thought, almost giddy with purpose. I’m about to suggest that maybe we should make a plan, coordinate our efforts, but my eager companion has already moved on.

  I slip behind a waist-high chest of mechanic tools and peek around the corner. This Kidder dude has his back to us. He seems to be talking to himself, shaking his head, as if in an argument with himself. Then I spot the slim microphone wand extending from beneath the wool cap and realize he’s equipped with a Bluetooth headset. He’s talking to someone, taking orders
or arguing, or both. Whatever, he seems frustrated, not in complete control, and that gives me a little more confidence. Maybe we can pull this off, after all. Assuming the boy is nearby—though I’ve seen no sign of him yet.

  As Kidder turns in my direction I pull back behind the tool chest. Trusting the dimness to hide me. Not that Kidder has given any sign of awareness that he’s under observation. He seems to be concentrating on his headset.

  “What?” he says, his voice echoing in the vast interior. “Repeat? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  His posture tense and angry, he reaches up to thump on the tail section of the jet. A moment later a hatch opens and a stairway begins to unfold. I expect someone to descend—a pilot or possibly a flight attendant—but no one emerges. Apparently there’s no one in the passenger compartment, or if there is they’re not revealing themselves to Kidder, who stands below the stairway, shaking his head in frustration.

  “Idiots,” he mutters. “Do I have to do everything myself?” Then, louder, into the headset, “Are you ready for the package or not? Okay, fine. Whatever you want. It’s just us chickens out here, so have a little patience.”

  The man with the wool cap and the deeply aggrieved attitude climbs back on the tractor and retreats into the gloom. The only sound in the vast hangar is the electric whine of the tractor motor, and the small hard wheels spinning along the concrete floor.

  Part of me wants to leave the protection of the tool chest and run after him, waving the gun and demanding Joey, but my best instincts tell me that would be futile. That would be giving up my best weapon: the element of surprise. Have patience, wait until you know where the boy is and that you can make him safe. So I remain in place, watching as the little tractor closes in on a white panel van parked deep in the shadows at the rear of the hangar.

  Kathy, appearing out of nowhere with a suddenness that nearly stops my heart, hisses, “That’s it. The same van that came to fetch Joey, there’s no doubt.”

  “We should wait,” I say. “Let him bring the boy to us. Then we get the jump.”