Maybe she had actually slipped under their radar. Albertwood and his motley crew were expecting her to do the obvious. But the obvious would only get her killed. If they kept thinking inside the box, she just might pull this off. If she made it to Chicago, her likelihood of being out of harm’s way would vastly increase. Because for the time being, she and she alone knew what was on the tape. Take her out of the picture and destroy the tape, and suddenly their troubles would be eliminated.
She didn’t plan on letting that happen.
Joel sat on a barstool in a dank bar with music whining from unseen speakers in the walls. He stared at the bottle of beer in his hands. The music seemed far away. A chill slithered across his shoulders. He shivered and shrugged off the sensation.
Who was Price? Who was hereally?
More than anything, Joel would have preferred to just dismiss Price as a liar. But his better judgment wouldn’t allow that. Price had known too much, too many specifics. Regardless of the fiction Price had spun regarding Megan’s current circumstances, he’d been in contact with her, and that put Joel in a more frustrating position than he’d been in before. Could Price really be Megan’s fiancé? And was she being held somewhere against her will?
Either way, Joel had come to an impasse. At the end of these five days, one question and one questiononly had been answered: it had been Megan he’d seen at JFK. If only for the fleetest of moments, he’d seen her face. The snapshot of her was captured in his mind. Was that enough? After ten years of depression and misery, was it enough that he’d gotten to see her one more time? Perhaps at one time, he might have said yes. But it was no longer true. A part of him that had remained dormant had finally stirred.
It was astounding, really, how a single glimpse of a passing face in a crowd had turned his existence on its head. One glimpse. One moment. He’d found her. Whatever good that did him now was an altogether different subject. At the least, he could walk away with the knowledge that his Megan had grown into a woman. But was that all he wanted? Of course not. He wanted to be a part of his daughter’s life. To know her. To talk to her. To try to salvage whatever he could from the years together they’d missed. He wanted to know about Ariel. What had become of her? And what was the meaning of Price’s involvement in Megan’s life? Was he lying or was she truly in danger?
Joel pushed the bottle away, planting his elbows on the bar, and putting his face in his hands. It haunted him that he hadn’t pursued Price to JFK. True, he may not have caught him, but he could have tried. Instead, he’d simply let him get away.
A bolt of pain thundered through his arm. It probably needed a doctor’s attention. He was certain he’d torn something in there. It would be a bear in the morning after the mush inside his arm had had a night to stiffen up. He climbed off the barstool and walked into the rest room.
As he faced the urinal, he decided to forget the beer and forget Price. There was nothing to profit from lingering on the mistakes he’d made. He figured he’d made more mistakes in life than he could count. What good would it do to beat himself over the head with them? None. No good at all.
He heard the rest room door open, and then the door to one of the toilet stalls clattered shut. Joel jerked the lever and the urinal flushed. He turned and stood at the sink, running tepid water over his hands, lathering them with pink soap from a dispenser mounted to the wall. Then he rinsed. Then there was the barrel of a gun in his ear.
“Keep your hands in front of you, and keep your mouthshut!” a coarse voice said from behind. “One word and you’re dead before you hit the floor.”
R’mel grabbed Joel’s left arm and twisted it behind his back, giving the wrist a good crank. He led him toward the door, which Joel noticed the man had locked on his way in. Quickly, they were in the narrow paneled passage that to the left led back into the bar, and to the right ended at a fire exit. R’mel pushed him through the door, which gave into a narrow alley.
“Where do you people keep coming from?” Joel said, and immediately regretted his words. R’mel wrenched the arm at the elbow, nearly driving Joel to his knees.
“Keep on your feet!” R’mel ushered him along the gray wall. Then Joel saw a fancy yellow and black motorcycle parked in front of a Dodge pickup with a windowless camper shell on the back. A stoutly built man stepped from the Dodge and approached. The barrel of the gun was drilling into Joel’s ear.
Through gathering tears, he saw the man from the truck frown at him.
R’mel said, “This is him. This is the man I saw with Belfast.”
Joel had no idea what he was talking about.
Then Desmond raised his gloved fist and knocked him out cold with a single powerful blow to the jaw.
42
FIFTY MILES OUTSIDE OFSYRACUSE, THE WEATHER LET UP.The wall of snow seemed to part to either side, opening an easily navigable avenue. This seemed to relax the pilot. St. John glanced over at Yancey, who up until a few minutes earlier had acted less than confident regarding the weather conditions. Visibility had been near zero. But now the sky had opened wide, and with fewer than fifty miles between their present position and a safe landing, they each let out a mild sigh of relief.
The Cessna touched down at Syracuse-Hancock International Airport without difficulty. The wind sock on the runway was flapping wildly, but Yancey guided the bird in for a smooth landing. St. John had paid in advance for the one-way flight. He’d paid for one-way only, mainly because he didn’t want to be pressured on time. There were other reasons, as well, but none as up-front and critical as the time issue. He thanked Yancey for his services and then walked hurriedly into the terminal.
For much of the flight, he’d pondered how to best handle the girl with the tape. He’d foolishly given up his Glock to the man from room 1018. Perhaps he could take care of the job without a gun. The idea did not sit well with him. Even if he didn’t use it, a gun was the most efficient way to cover his back, especially if a situation started going south in a hurry. Going in unarmed was akin to going in naked. But if he approached with caution, he should be able to take care of the girl by more primitive means, and without incident.
It would be dark in a couple of hours, and he would need that time to prepare. His target lived in a residential area, making it imperative to move only after the sun had gone down. St. John stopped at the Avis counter and paid for a Mazda hatchback. The young woman behind the counter handed him his key to the rental car, and pointed him in the direction of the parking lot. He thanked her and turned in the direction she’d instructed.
The car was cream-colored. He unlocked the door and slipped in behind the wheel. It smelled like a hundred-year-old ashtray. The smell gave him the sudden urge to brush his teeth. He wrinkled his upper lip in disgust as he inserted the key in the ignition and started the engine.
Hungry after his afternoon flight, St. John pulled through the drive-thru window at a fast-food joint in town. At a gas station, he bought a road map of the area and scanned it in the car while he dined on his Mexican feast. Birchlawn Drive was northwest of town. It looked easy enough to get to. He’d simply follow the main drag through the city, then turn north. Piece of cake. He put the car in drive and pulled out onto the highway, which dissected the city of Syracuse. In twenty minutes he’d jumped onto Interstate 81, heading north. As he drove, he noticed the sky rapidly darkening, and it began snowing harder. He switched on the wipers.
From the interstate he had a good view of the city. It took another ten minutes to find his exit. He referred to the map, his finger following the progression of street names until he found Birchlawn.Birchlawn, he said to himself so he wouldn’t forget.
He found the turnoff that should lead to Birchlawn Drive, and then 87 Birchlawn Drive, and finally to Brooke Weaver. By the end of the night, there would be at least one body in that home, he thought to himself, and if anyone else was there and they complicated matters, they would die also.
Having been crippled for three decades, living life from a motorize
d wheelchair, Albertwood burned very little energy, and thus required very little fuel. He took one decent meal around midday, plus a small serving of fruit, both in the morning and an hour or so before bed. Today was broiled chicken and scalloped potatoes.
He ate at an oval table, watching the market recap on the massive television given him by the chairman of Sony. At the closing bell, the market was down for the day, no doubt a result of yesterday’s revelation from the White House. The stock market wasn’t a major concern to Albertwood. Such a response from the financial world was to be expected.
He’d spoken to Stott earlier in the day, updating him on the state of their affairs: Belfast was en route by plane to the girl’s home. Megan Durant was safely in their keep, and the Weaver girl hadn’t been spotted outside the house in Syracuse.
Conversations with Stott were always brief and directly to the point. He didn’t spook Albertwood the way he once had, but Albertwood still bowed to the multibillionaire because, quite frankly, it didn’t make good financial sense to piss off the golden goose. The conversations were abbreviated for a very practical purpose: very likely someone might be listening in. What was said was spoken in a sort of shorthand. On paper it would look like rubbish. The call was bounced through a million separate filters, and linked and relinked by a dozen satellites. Tracing one end of the call to the other through such a sophisticated communications web would take no less than the Pentagon’s computer system, and Stott essentiallyowned the Pentagon.
At 5P .M., with the sun going down and all systems fully operational, Albertwood was feeling quite optimistic. He didn’t require a full night’s sleep. He simply nodded off for ten or fifteen minutes at a time whenever he found there was a lull. A few minutes past five, his chin touched his chest, and he began to snore.
There was a sudden ping of activity from another room in the penthouse, and Albertwood raised his head, momentarily groggy. A cell phone had rung, and Porter answered. Albertwood could hear his voice but nothing of what was being said. The clack of boots on the polished floor announced Porter as he strode in, being careful not to block his boss’s view of the television.
“That was Newbury,” Porter said. “Nobody’s come or gone. The house is pretty quiet.”
“Have they seen the girl?”
Porter shook his head. “They are listening. There’s some chatter going on in the house, but nothing of use. A man, they’re assuming it’s Dean Weaver, the father, periodically looks out the window. But that’s the only face they’ve seen.”
“Cars?”
“There’s a garage, but they say it’s too risky to approach in daylight. There are tracks in the street in front of the house, but cars have come and gone in the neighborhood since they arrived.”
“Do we have an inventory of the Weaver vehicles?”
Porter nodded, referring to a scratch pad in one hand. “A teal-colored 1995 Subaru, and a blue 2001 Ford Expedition. Both of them registered under Mr. and Mrs. Dean Weaver.”
Albertwood glazed his macabre grin with a single stroke of his tongue. “I want both vehicles accounted for!”
“Newbury said it should be dark enough within the next half hour.”
“And I want confirmation that the girl’s in the house!”
Footsteps approached from the adjoining room. Carmichael leaned her head in. She raised a printout in her hand.
“Mr. Albertwood, a United Airlines flight from Niagara Falls International Airport to O’Hare International was just charged to Brooke Weaver’s MasterCard,” Carmichael said.
“What!”
“That’s…Buffalo to Chicago,” Porter said.
Carmichael added, “Flight leaves at”—she glanced at her watch—“actually…it leaves in less than thirty minutes.”
Albertwood pounded his gnarled fist into the armrest of his wheelchair. His sunken eyes glowered. “How did she…” His thought broke off, and he slammed his fist again. “Find Desmond!”
Porter was already dialing the cell phone.
“Chicago?” Albertwood was seething. It didn’t make sense to him. Her friends and family and her connections at NBC were in New York, all in New York. Was she going into hiding? Was that it? Or was this matter innocuous, was this trip to Chicago simply part of her holiday travel plans? His mind conjured the face of Brooke Weaver from the photo taken from her apartment. Why would she be going to Chicago?
Then it clicked.
She was going to Chicago to find Lyndon Peel’s son.
43
SOMEWHERE OFF IN THE BLACKNESS THERE WAS A METALLICclank, and then the shuddering sound of roller wheels as a door rose. Megan became aware of an idling motor just beyond the wall. Very soon she could smell the noxious engine fumes. When the door was fully raised, she heard the transmission engage, and the vehicle eased into the space where she was being held.
R’mel had raised the bay door. He watched the girl in the far corner. She was lying on her side, with her head raised from the elevated cement platform where they had her bound and gagged. The pickup with the camper shell backed slowly up the gentle incline of the cement ramp. When the front of the truck cleared the edge of the ramp, R’mel gave the heavy nylon rope a tug, and the door came shuddering down its roller wheels. The sound of the door slamming to a halt against the cement floor reverberated through the cold, empty space.
Exhaust pumped from the tailpipe until the engine was cut. The driver-side door opened and Desmond hurried out. He snapped his fingers at R’mel, motioning to the rear of the truck, and pitched a key to him.
R’mel nodded.
Megan reacted blindly to these intimidating sounds. She swung her legs around and sat up. Things were moving. Something was happening, and happening quickly. In the few seconds that the door was up, she’d felt an intruding chill from outside. Gooseflesh rippled down her bare arms.
Lewis had come out at the sound of the truck backing in. He was dressed in black fatigues and a heavy black turtleneck sweater, with a leather shoulder harness that carried a Colt .45 automatic. They hadn’t contacted him prior to their arrival. He stood in the doorway between the small, paneled office and the storage area, his thick hands on his hips.
“Well?” Lewis said, chomping a stick of Juicy Fruit.
“We’re moving the girl,” Desmond said, hurrying to the platform where Megan lay.
“Oh?”
“Get her things, throw them in the back of the truck.”
R’mel had the hinged door to the camper shell open and the tailgate down. He was leaning inside the back of the truck, the tailgate cutting into his thighs. He was shifting the cargo already in the bed of the truck.
Lewis ducked into the office and came out wearing his seaman’s coat, his arms filled with Megan’s coat and purse. He flipped the light switch and shut the office door behind him.
Heavy footsteps approached, then a hand caught Megan under one arm.
“On your feet,” Desmond said.
Megan probed nervously for the floor with the toe of her right shoe. The platform was elevated some twenty-four inches off the floor. She slid cautiously on her rump, an inch or so at a time, and her toe stabbed at the rock-hard surface. Sensing that it was okay, she made a little surging forward motion, and hopped to the floor, balancing shakily. Eamon Desmond pulled her coat over her shoulders and fastened several of the buttons in front.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s very cold in here.”
Desmond glanced at R’mel, who had the upper third of his body angled over the bed of the truck. “Bring the blanket,” Desmond ordered.
R’mel peeked his head out, nodded curtly, then ducked back inside. In a moment he pulled himself out, a rolled mover’s blanket under one arm, and a roll of duct tape in his other hand.
She almost missed the exit. The Subaru took a bite of gravel and weeds, swaying off onto the shoulder, the little front-wheel-drive churning hard to make the cut onto exit 49. Brooke took a deep breath, her heart pounding, her knuckles hard an
d white around the wheel. She’d almost missed the turn, then almost bit it on the recovery.If I keep this up, she mused,they won’t have to kill me.
The radials fought for purchase as she motored up to a stop sign. She signaled, giving glances in either direction. Then accelerating right onto RT-78 toward DEPEW/LOCKPORT before taking another right onto Aero Drive. The wind had picked up considerably, and what was falling was blowing horizontally passed her window. A mile or so ahead, she could see the lights of Niagara Falls International. The sight of it brought very little relief.
Snow flicked in her eyes when she forced open the door against the stout wind. The parking lot was half full. She locked the doors and wrapped her arms around her backpack like it might sprout munchkin legs and scurry away beneath the field of snow-shrouded automobiles. A jetliner screamed off the runway, appearing over the roofs of the terminal buildings, then disappearing amid the gloom. Brooke hurried inside.
She rushed to the United counter, breathless. She gave her name, and a gentleman behind the counter rattled his fingers on the computer keyboard. She felt like crying with relief. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, fighting back the tears. She had a long way to go still—it was too soon to waste energy celebrating or letting her guard down in any way, shape, or form.
The ticket agent handed back her ticket and a boarding pass. Brooke ran through the terminal, her backpack flailing at her side. Her hands were shaking, clamped around the boarding pass in a death grip. She found gate seventeen. An attendant stood at the entrance to the jetway. Brooke handed over the pass.
The Greater Good Page 25