by Ben Miller
They had tracked the movements of Vicki’s phone signal along interstate 270 North, heading away from Washington, D.C. When they quickly consulted a map, the destination seemed clear: I-270 headed toward Frederick, Maryland, the site of Franklin’s first murder. In his brief phone conversation with Jack, Franklin emphasized going back to “the beginning,” which now made more sense. For reasons that still eluded Jack, Franklin planned on taking Jack’s captive wife and child to the scene of his first crime.
Jack, Reilly, and Harringer had boarded an FBI helicopter in Quantico and flown to Frederick, where they met local FBI agents and police support. They quickly drove down I-270 South to set up a road block on the northbound side of I-270, just south of the route 85 exit for the Francis Scott Key Mall. When they had received information from their IT agents back in Quantico that Vicki’s cell signal had come within a half mile of their location, the FBI and police team initiated the road block. Heavy traffic filled the causeway. Surely they had pissed off hundreds of commuters this evening, but Jack couldn’t care less about that right now.
Still, something felt off. Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, but this just didn’t feel… right. He thought that they had missed something, an important yet subtle clue, but he didn’t know what. He knew he should feel anxious, nervous, excited—something—because they would capture Franklin soon, and hopefully he would see his family well again. But instead he stood there empty, emotionless, his mind searching for that crucial piece of the puzzle that might still be missing.
From the haze of lights in front of Jack, Harringer emerged, walking back towards Jack. He stopped on the other side of the car and put his hands on the roof. Though only a few feet separated them, Harringer had to shout to Jack due to the din of the fast-moving traffic on the open southbound side of the highway. “Now that traffic has slowed, we’ve triangulated the signal more precisely.”
Jack gave a nod of understanding.
“It’s the bus.” Harringer turned to point to the top of a Greyhound Bus sticking out above the rest of the traffic. “We’re going in, but I need you to stay here.” Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Harringer cut him off. “Jack, you broke protocol— badly— back at your house. I need to control this scene. We will have civilians around, and I need to keep things under control.”
Jack exhaled, displeased, but still confused. “A bus?”
Harringer nodded, turning and pointing again. “That bus.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Jack said. “How is he getting them on a bus?”
Harringer ignored him. “Stay put, Jack, please. I will call you as soon as I have any news, OK? Just… stay here.” He put his hands out, palm down, pushing the air between them in Jack’s direction, like he just told his dog to “stay.” Harringer then spun around and jogged back toward the lights.
Jack looked after him, squinting into the lights. Nothing fit. He knew Vicki would never voluntarily get on a vehicle of public transportation without making some kind of scene, something to indicate wrong-doing. He just couldn’t imagine that Franklin held Vicki and Jonah on that bus. He must be on there by himself, and Vicki and Jonah remained captive somewhere else. But why a bus?
84
She could feel beads of sweat on her forehead, soaking into her bandana. Her cheeks felt moist too. She looked down at her lap, where her arms rested on top of her tattered backpack. She held the small cell phone with both hands tightly, though it became more and more slippery with each passing moment as the salty sweat poured out of her palms.
So stupid, Mary Weardon thought to herself. When something seems too good to be true, it’s because it is, you dumbass!
She looked back out the window of the bus, trying to peer past the line of cars beside and in front of the bus to the flashing police lights ahead. Movement below the window frightened her: a uniformed cop, walking along the bus toward the front. And a few other cops followed him, all cautiously creeping toward the door of the bus. They were coming onto the bus.
She tried to remain calm, but it didn’t work too well. Maybe this ain’t got nothin’ to do with me? she hoped. Maybe that guy was on the up-and-up.
She looked around her. Most of the other passengers had fallen asleep. The awake ones either listened to their MP3 players or played games on their portable gaming devices. No one else seemed to notice the road block or the policemen about to board their bus.
She looked down at the cell phone in her lap, lightening her grip on it. The man had paid her $3000 to get on this bus in Bethesda and get off in Frederick. All she had to do was take the cell with her—keeping the power on the entire time— and drop it off with some guy named Heath in Frederick, and Heath would pay her an additional $5000. Cash! The man, who introduced himself as Randall, seemed so nice. Of course she was skeptical at first, but when he whipped out that wad of cash, she put her skepticism aside. Easy money, he had told her. And nothing illegal, he reassured.
Bullshit, she thought to herself now.
She startled when the phone began to vibrate in her hands. She looked at it. “Jack” the display said. That’s it. Fuck this! She made a snap decision. She stood up and went to the back of the bus. Thankfully no one occupied the bathroom. She opened the door and walked inside, not taking the time to lock the door behind her. She tossed the phone into the toilet and hit the flush button. She opened the door and quickly returned to her seat. Sweat soaked her bandana around her forehead.
She looked around. No one glared back. Perhaps no one noticed. She looked to the front of the bus, where she could see the characteristic blue hat of the police officer rise on an angle as he ascended the stairs to board the bus.
85
Jack regarded the Blackberry in his hand. No one had answered Vicki’s phone when he called.
Why had her phone signal gone silent for two hours, then miraculously come back on? Randall knew they would track the phone signal. Suddenly, Jack felt so stupid. Randall had sent them on a wild goose chase. He had never intended to go on that bus. When the police searched that bus, they would find Vicki’s phone and nothing else.
So where had Randall gone? Jack felt sure that Randall’s reference to “the beginning” had some meaning. Randall rambled a bit during their phone conversation, but he spoke so clearly and carefully when he talked of “the beginning.” “Back where we started,” he had said.
We.
What did that mean? Did Randall have someone working with him? Had this been a partnership from the beginning? If so, with whom?
Again, it didn’t make sense, didn’t fit with any of their thinking about this case. Jack’s sea of confusion that he swam in suddenly seemed deeper, murkier. It engulfed him. He put his head down on his forearms on top of the car. He refused to admit defeat, but he just felt so… hopeless.
In his mind he heard Vicki’s voice—a beacon, an arm reaching into the abyss to rescue him from his bewilderment. “This is about you,” she had said last night in their kitchen, after he had told her about the details of the case. What if she were right? What if the “we” meant him—Jack? Jack and Randall?
Pieces fell into place quickly in Jack’s mind, as if someone had opened the box of the jigsaw puzzle, dumped the pieces onto the floor, and they fell in a miraculously organized fashion into their designated spots to form the intended picture. For the first time today—perhaps the first time in a very long time—Jack could see clearly.
He opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. The keys swung from the ignition. He glanced at the phone in his hand and quickly decided that he would call Harringer and Reilly later, en route. He needed to get going. He turned the keys in the ignition, put the car in drive, and drove off I-270 North. He ran the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp after quickly looking both ways, went under the overpass, and drove onto the on ramp for I-270 South. He had to get to Chevy Chase. Back where he and Randall had started.
86
Caleb Goodnight sat in the cushioned armch
air in his dressing room. Even though he had spent the last hour in a production meeting for tonight’s show—an interview with legendary TV producer Lorne Michaels—he still basked in the glow of his phenomenal show with George Lucas last night. He had garnered some of his highest ratings ever and walked away with the personal satisfaction of a very successful, informative, and entertaining interview with one of his childhood idols. Sitting here now, he felt sure that last night’s show would go down as one of his best ever.
His cell phone rang, shattering his daydream. He looked down at the display: Unknown caller. He looked at the time on his phone: 9:18 pm. Same time as the call the last several nights. Intrigue overcame him— he had to know who was on the other end. He answered.
“Hello,” Caleb said cautiously into the phone.
“Hello. Caleb Goodnight?”
“Yes,” Caleb confirmed.
“Hello, Caleb. My name is Randall Franklin. You don’t know me, but you will soon.”
“OK,” Caleb replied. He really had no idea what to say. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt a chill of fright.
“I have some instructions for you. If you follow them, you will have a highly successful show tonight.”
Caleb relaxed. Just another crack pot with some shitty advice or scheme to “help” him with his career. He received notes or calls like this a lot when he first started out. Sufficed to say, none had ever been all that helpful.
“OK,” Caleb responded with condescension. “Sure, buddy. Can I refer you to my fan line?”
“No,” Randall said imperatively. “Because you haven’t heard the other end of the deal yet, Caleb.” He paused. Something in his voice made that chill come back to Caleb’s spine. “Do exactly as I say, and you will have an exclusive on one of the biggest news stories of the year, maybe the decade. Deviate from them, and I kill your friend Jackson Byrne and his entire family.”
87
Jack stared at the rock near his feet. He nearly couldn’t believe it was the same one. The large black smear of long-ago dried paint gave it away; he knew it had to be the same stone from two decades ago.
The Rock had earned its simple but infamous moniker about five years before Jack entered high school. Two swim team members had used the stone to prop open the back door to the boys’ locker room, thus providing access to the school late at night, after security guards had locked up all the other doors to the building. These highly motivated athletes wanted to come get in an extra swim a couple of nights per week; both went on to win state championships in their events. Within a couple of years, however, other members of the swim team would plant The Rock in its place with less ambitious goals: to get high, get drunk, and have a pool party. “Party at The Rock Tonight” became a popular slogan among the in-crowd at Chevy Chase High School. Amazingly, no school official ever discovered their clandestine pool parties, as the participants kept meticulous care of their refuse. These were a rather rare breed of rambunctious but responsible teenagers.
In his high school career, Jack took part in both types of activities: he swam an extra session several times throughout the season and regularly in the off-season, and he drank his share of shitty beer while frolicking with some coeds.
Now, looking at the old stone on the ground, propping open the familiar locker room door, Jack racked his brain to try to remember if he had even seen J.R. Franklin at those parties. He thought not.
Regardless, J.R.—now Randall—had led him here. Back where they began, where he and Jack had first met.
Jack pulled his Magnum from its holster on his hip and grabbed the edge of the door. No light emanated through the thin slit between the door and the outside wall of the school, so when he pulled back the door, he expected to stare into the darkness of the locker room. As long as no one had done any significant remodeling, he thought he could find his way around in there well enough, given the amount of time he had spent there in his youth. His main concern was trying to figure out how Randall planned to ambush him.
He yanked on the door quickly and planted his feet wide, holding his gun with both hands in front of him at eye level, his elbows bent slightly to brace for any recoil should he need to fire. The street light from the school driveway behind him threw illumination into the hallway in front of him, save his long shadow cast along the back of the locker room. He could not see anyone or any movement. Without taking his eyes from the hallway in front of him, he used his feet to shuffle The Rock to his right, leaning against the door to keep it fully open, hoping to pour as much light into the locker room as possible.
He walked slowly into the back hallway, his gun remaining at the ready. “Randall,” he yelled out. His own voice echoed off the myriad reverberating lockers in the cavernous room. When he reached the end of the short hallway and entered the locker room proper, he strafed further along, keeping his back sliding along the wall behind him. “Randall,” he called out again, and again he got no reply. He held his breath for a moment, trying to hear another’s breathing within the room. He heard nothing.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the large room, he could discern some light entering from the middle of the room along the far wall. He immediately knew its source: the light came from the door that connected the locker room to the swimming pool. Jack assumed that Randall wanted to direct Jack’s attention to that light, so he tried to ignore it. He knew he needed to clear the rest of the locker room first, lest he get ambushed as he entered the swimming pool.
Luckily each locker didn’t have the width necessary to fit a grown person, so Jack felt certain that he did not have to open each one of them. Of course, Jonah was small enough to fit in one. Jack considered this momentarily, but then he decided that Randall would most likely keep both of his hostages together rather than split them up.
They are hostages, Jack reassured himself before moving on. He would not entertain any thoughts that those hostages had already become victims.
He checked the bank of lockers to his right and found nothing. He worked his way past the next bank, crouching to look under the wooden bench bolted to the floor in the middle. He quickly slid past the banks that provided the walkway to the door into the pool. His rapid flash into the pool revealed nothing as well. He cleared the last three banks of lockers in the same fashion, without any sign of Randall, Vicki, or Jonah.
The pool.
He doubled back to the middle set of lockers and turned to face the open doorway. With this full, head-on view, he had to squint to let his eyes adjust. Every light around the swimming pool had been turned on. “Randall,” he yelled one last time, his voice revealing a hint of frustration and fear. He slowly advanced forward. As he neared the door, more and more of the room beyond came into his field of view. His eyes scanned back and forth, looking for any clue, any hint of where his potential attacker lay.
As he got within a few yards of the door, he could begin to see the diving boards on the far end of the pool. At first he could just see the middle two, then the next two. When he got within arm’s reach of the door, his heart racing, knowing with complete certainty that Randall waited for him somewhere on the other side, he could see the final two, outward-most diving boards. Each had a form on top of it, the weight of which made each board sag closer to the water than their empty counterparts. Jack thought that the one on the far left sagged a little lower than the one on the far right. Jack squinted again, trying to make out more details of those lumps on the diving boards. They didn’t move.
He arrived at the threshold, the toes of his left shoe bumping up against the tiled step that separated the locker room from the swimming pool. Nothing but tiled floor existed to his left once he would enter the pool area. Therefore, he assumed that Randall would be somewhere to his right, somewhere on, near, or under the six rows of bleachers. But what about those figures on the diving boards?
With his gun still raised, preceding him into the room, he stepped up onto the threshold. He planned on turning to his right as soon as he
entered to scan the bleachers, but, with the six inches of height the step added to his vantage point, he could now recognize with certainty the forms on top of the diving boards: people, one on each board. Surely that was Vicki on the left and Jonah on the far right.
In retrospect, Jack would later say that one of the greatest challenges in his career was fighting the urge to sprint to the other end of the pool. He recalled Harringer chastising him for breaking protocol to rush into his own home earlier that day. He let his tensed arms sag only a little and only briefly before regaining his resolve. He burst into the room and turned to his right.
“Hello, Jack.” Randall sat on the front row of the bleachers about a quarter of the way down the room, less than twenty yards away from Jack.
“Freeze, Randall!” Jack screamed, extending his arms almost completely to fix the small sight of his Magnum on Randall’s chest.
Randall, relaxed and acquiescent, shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Jack. You can relax.”
Jack began sidestepping to his left, closer to the pool, but he didn’t let his eyes leave Randall. “Vicki!”
“She can’t hear you,” Randall informed him.
Jack ignored him. He continued walking sideways to the left side of the pool, opposite Randall and the bleachers. A four-foot strip of tiled floor ran the length of the pool. He started to shuffle down it, his back to the wall, facing Randall. “Vicki! Jonah!” He briefly looked out of the corner of his eye. Neither form on top of the diving boards moved.
“Jack, stop!” Randall raised his voice now showing urgency.
Jack looked back at Randall. “Fuck you! Don’t fucking move!”