Taken

by Chris Jordan

  Oddly enough, the idea of Tommy’s abduction being part of an organized activity is something of a relief. Maybe there are saner minds at work. People who understand there is nothing to be gained by killing my son.

  My eyes are still blurred with tears, but I can tell that he’s back in the chair. A wave of dread sweeps through me, as if soaking into my bones, producing a new flood of tears. I hate this, crying, hate how it makes me look weak. But I can’t stop it from happening. There are times for me when crying is as involuntary as breathing. Times when it is better not to fight it, just to get it over with, to get beyond the tears. As, eventually, I did when we lost Ted.

  Suddenly, something hits me in the face. Something soft and light. It falls to my lap. My hands find a little wad of thin cloth.

  A handkerchief.

  “Wipe your face. You have snot running down your lips.”

  I do as he says, thinking, what sort of man carries a hankie these days? And then it comes to me. A man who makes women cry. A man who has done this before, and is ready for every eventuality.

  “The method, Kate. The method is your friend. Let me explain how it works.”

  He’s interrupted by the chirping of a phone. Sudden and shrill, it sends a jet of cold blood through my heart. With the gun still aimed at my head, he reaches into one of his pockets and extracts a cell phone. Angrily snaps it open and checks the display.

  “I told you, never call this number!” he snarls into the phone. “Never, never, never! No, it’s not possible! Okay, okay. Stop crying and listen to me carefully. Are you listening? Good. I promise you, he’s alive. Your son is alive. That’s all you need to know at this time. And if you do exactly as I say, if you follow my instructions, you’ll see him soon. Very soon.”

  He snaps the cell phone closed, slips it into his pocket, and calmly stares at me with his dark, glittering eyes. As if daring me to say something.

  I remain silent. But I’ve discovered something important. Mine is not the only child who has been kidnapped.

  5

  what hinks thinks

  The white panel van is unmarked, but it will almost certainly be mistaken for a phone company van, or a vehicle dispatched by one of the many utility companies that service the area. Which is precisely why it was selected. A white panel van in a suburban neighborhood is as close to invisible as a solid object can get.

  Some minutes before Mrs. Katherine Bickford enters her home on Linden Terrace, the white van parks next to a street-surface utility access on Beech Terrace. Two men wearing generic work clothes and tool belts exit the van, place three incandescent orange cones near the manhole cover and return to the van.

  The white van is positioned in such a way as to afford it a clear view through the common, toward Linden Terrace and—no coincidence—the target home, a shingled Cape with a large garage. This common area, which abuts three cul-de-sac streets in the development, is known as “the green,” to local residents.

  A full two-acre swath, the green is a popular dog-walking area. No resident would think of walking a dog there without a pooper-scooper in hand. It’s that kind of neighborhood. By mutual agreement foliage is kept low, no more than twelve inches in height, so as not to provide cover for any nefarious activities that might arise. Drug dealing, teen drinking, whatever. Residents are in the habit of glancing toward the green whenever they exit their driveways, because children play on the green, kicking soccer balls, playing laser tag, or fluttering Frisbees. So far there’s never been a problem with strangers or suspected pedophiles, but by common consent all the residents keep an eye on the green, and are prepared to report anything unusual.

  The white van with the orange cones is not unusual and will therefore not be reported. Likely it will not even be noticed.

  Inside the van, two men, both approximately thirty years of age, drink from a silver thermos of coffee. Both men are trim and physically fit, and seem at ease with each other, as if they are well suited to working as a team. From the outside, a passerby might suppose the two men are listening to the radio as they pause for a coffee break—Rush Limbaugh, perhaps, or maybe G. Gordon Liddy—but in reality they’re monitoring an audio feed from the target home.

  “Fucking guy,” says Hinks in a tone of admiration.

  “You gotta hand it to Cutter,” says Wald. “He’s got a way with women.”

  “Fucks he do it?”

  “Language, Hinks. We’re working for the phone company here. They have standards.”

  “They can kiss my ass,” says Hinks, sassing him back.

  He’s known Wald for nine years now, eight in the military when they held the same rank in a special ops unit commanded by Captain Cutter. This is their first foray into a civilian mission, and so far it has been interesting—and potentially much more lucrative than any of the boring jobs either man has been offered since being discharged. That the assignment is highly illegal, and laden with danger, makes it all the more appealing.

  Their banter is interrupted by the intercepted cell call to Cutter, currently inside the target home. Upon hearing the substance of the call, the two men exchange glances.

  “That woman is out of her ever-loving mind,” comments Hinks. “The lovely Lyla.”

  “Piece of ass,” agrees Wald, “but definitely missing a few crucial marbles.”

  “Violating protocol.”

  “Cell’s scrambled,” Wald points out. “No harm, no foul.”

  “Still. The woman is a loose cannon. What if she goes to the cops? Think they’d believe her?”

  “Cutter will handle her. Just like he’s handling this Bickford bitch.”

  Hinks pauses, listens to the feed. The boss dispenses with the cell call and is now laying it out for the Bickford bitch in no uncertain terms. Less than twenty minutes inside and she’s eating out of his hand. Eager to obey.

  Truly an amazing talent.

  Out in the field, the special ops rule of thumb was ten hours. That’s how long it would take, on average, to break a typical target. Scare the shit out of ’em, strip away the ego, leave ’em so empty they have no choice but to cooperate. Of course, this is a civilian situation, totally different, but even so, good old Captain Cutter is impressive. Has it down to a science. His so-called “method,” which the unit had used in numerous special ops situations. The idea, Cutter bores in on the target with that crazed-psycho routine of his, keeps it up until their eyes bug out with fear, then he backs off just before they start screaming. Hinks had witnessed Cutter pulling the same bullshit act in a bar in the Philippines. Mindfucking a couple of rowdy jarheads who, had they realized it, could have torn Cutter into small pieces. And yet he had prevailed by convincing the dumb-shit marines he was crazy enough to want to die and take them with him, just for laughs.

  The man was convincing. So convincing that now and then Hinks wondered if it really was an act, but thus far Cutter had always been able to snap back precisely when the situation required. The cap ever got to the point he couldn’t turn it off, they’d probably have to frag him. But that was theoretical—so theoretical he and Wald had never even discussed it—and for the time being Hinks was content with the situation. Working for Cutter was way better than sorting letters for the postal service or sitting on his butt as a security guard. There were risks to Cutter’s method, of course—very serious risks—but the rewards were commensurate with the risks. Cutter’s words. Cutter’s method. For right now, for today, Hinks was in with both feet.

  Wald, not exactly a deep thinker, tended to follow Hinks’s lead. It had been that way since basic, and so far Hinks hadn’t steered his bud wrong.

  “You think he’ll do her?” Wald wants to know. “Kind of hot, for a oldie.”

  “Oldie?” Hinks chuckled. “The Bickford bitch is thirty-four. That’s only a few years older than we are.”

  “Nineteen is my target age. I like ’em fresh. As you well know.”

  “Think of it this way. When you were a freshman she’d have been a senior.�
��

  “Yup. And I’d have waited a year until she was nineteen. That’s when they’re ripe.”

  Hinks shakes his head. “You’re a wack job, Wald.”

  “I just know what I want.”

  “Total wack job.” It was said with some affection. Wald’s wacky humor made him interesting.

  For instance, this time on a night patrol in Takrit, trying to sort out the Saddam sympathizers from the general malcontents, Hinks had seen Wald suddenly wheel around and shoot an unarmed camel jockey in the head. Guy had been standing there with his hands empty, glowering at the troops but not resisting while the unit conducted a search for concealed weapons. Without warning, Wald dropped the son of a bitch like a side of meat. After which he turned to the rest of the unit and said, “What can I say? I could read his mind. Fucker was thinking evil thoughts.”

  Later it was determined that Wald’s victim had indeed been a former member of Saddam’s Baath party. Even if he hadn’t been carrying grenades at that particular moment, no doubt he really was directing evil thought waves at the American soldiers, just like Wald said.

  “So,” says Wald, “the question remains. Will Cutter do her? He gonna bone the bitch or what?”

  Hinks shrugs. “Doubtful. He never did much fooling around I ever saw, not even in Thailand. Also, it’s not part of the method.”

  “Fuck the method. If she’s in my range, bam.”

  “Not how the captain operates,” says Hinks.

  “So far.”

  Hinks checks his watch. “Twelve minutes, we have to move the vehicle.”

  “I got ten bucks says the captain will have her licking his ice-cream cone by then.”

  “You’re on.”

  Safe bet. Hinks is convinced that Wald is projecting his own adolescent fantasies, what he’d do if he was the one inside the target home. Cutter is different. Cutter will remain in control not only of the target but of himself.

  That’s what Hinks thinks. And so far he’s been right on the money.

  6

  method man

  The idea that the man in the mask might want to rape me rattles inside my head, bouncing around like a malevolent pinball. Can’t quite grasp what I will do if he tries. Saving my son remains the primary concern. The only concern, really. My physical well-being doesn’t concern me at the moment. All that matters is getting Tommy back.

  It’s like this: if cutting off my hands would make this man go away and return my son to my bleeding arms, I’d do it. No hesitation. That’s the kind of bargain I’m willing to make.

  “So you’re a widow,” he’s saying, waving the gun at me like a wand. “Must have been tough.” He pauses, tilts his head. “You may respond.”

  “It was tough,” I concede.

  “But you bounced back,” he says, sounding weirdly, creepily cheerful. “Did very well for yourself, Kate.”

  I remain in the chair, palms sweating, heart slamming. I can still feel the impression the barrel made on my forehead. Meanwhile, the man in the mask acts like it never happened, like we’re having a normal conversation. There he sits in my best leather chair, confident and pleased with himself, as if he’s an honored guest in my house. It makes me hate him. Makes me think that if I had the gun I’d use it, no hesitation. Which is something of a shock. Never having imagined I was capable of such a thing.

  Oh, but I am. And yet I dare not make a move. The man in the mask is much stronger than I am, much quicker, and it’s clear he won’t hesitate to kill me if I give him reason to.

  I’m sitting here in a cold sweat, thinking about nightmares. How vivid and real they can be. But nothing like this. Nothing like the dread that has settled into my bones. A dread that comes from the realization that there’s nothing random about what has happened. It has all been planned, down to the last detail. Consider: the man in the mask knew exactly where Tommy would be. My son was taken from a crowded parking lot without anyone witnessing the snatch, not even me. My home-security system was breached, no problem. And the cell-phone call that pissed him off seems to be connected to another kidnapping. Tommy has been drugged and taken away and I will eventually be allowed to speak to him over the phone, supposedly. All of which confirms that others must be involved. The man in the mask is part of a team. A team of professional kidnappers using proven terror tactics to enrich themselves.

  That’s the real nightmare.

  Despite all the mall stories about bogeymen, all the sad-looking kids on milk cartons, I’d always assumed real kidnappers were rare, opportunistic predators. Sick loners who stole children for their own twisted sexual purposes. The notion of teams of professional abductors, terrorizing families for money, that was supposed to be a third world phenomenon. Something that happened in Mexico or Colombia or the Philippines. Not here. Not in suburban Connecticut. Not in Fairfax.

  But it is happening. Facts on the ground, as the shouting heads on TV like to say. Nothing I can do to change what has already occurred. My mind has been racing with what-ifs. What if we never went to the game? What if I never let Tommy out of my sight? What if I’d called 911 from the parking lot as soon as the first pang of worry quivered in my gut? What if? What if?

  Too late, Kate. Deal with it. Find a way.

  Part of me remains convinced the man in the mask intends to kill me no matter what I do, or how much money he gets out of me, that erasing the victims is all part of the plan. But I can’t allow myself to give up hope. Not as long as there’s a chance, however small. Imprinted in my brain is the promise he’s made, that he will put me in contact with my son. Presumably before I get him the money, however that is to be accomplished.

  My bank, I know, is closed for the day. Five o’clock they shut the doors. And it’s now well after six. The thought of waiting until tomorrow makes me physically ill. I can’t stand it that long, can I? My heart will stop if I can’t speak to Tommy soon, assure myself he’s okay.

  “I can see your mind racing, Kate,” says the man in the mask. “You’re wondering how we’re going to do this. How you get the money and exchange it for your son.”

  I keep my mouth shut, knowing he’ll tell me.

  “Very good,” he says, amused. “You’re learning not to respond without permission. We knew you were a smart lady, Kate. That’s why this is going to work, once you learn the method.”

  A phone bleats, jolting me in the seat. My phone this time. He pauses, cocking his head. “Let it go,” he instructs. “Your voice mail will get it. Then we’ll see who it is.”

  The phone rings six times and then goes silent.

  “Two minutes,” he says, settling back in my chair. “Relax.”

  I’m watching the digital clock on the VCR. Never thought a second could take so long to elapse, as if time itself has become molten. Tick, tick, tick—but of course there’s no actual sound. No comfort from an old-fashioned clock.

  When a little more than two minutes has passed, the man in the mask stands up. He moves a few steps to his left, the gun pivoting as he moves, unerringly aimed at my heart. He retrieves the nearest phone and returns to my chair. Settling in, getting comfortable. Mocking me with a small, satisfied smile. With his left hand he thumbs a number.

  “Surprised?” he asks. “I know your voice-mail code, Kate. I know everything.”

  He pauses, listening to the prompts, thumbs a button on the receiver, listens some more.

  “Somebody named Jake,” he says, disconnecting. “Wants to know if you located Tommy. Would Jake be the guy at the snack trailer by any chance?”

  I wait.

  “You may respond,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He tosses the phone at me. It hits the middle of my chest, right between my breasts, and falls into my lap. “Pick it up,” he says. “Call him back. Tell him the kid was at home when you got here. All is well.”

  I scroll to Jake’s number, am about to key it in.

  “Wait,” says the man in the mask. “This is your first test, Kate. Convince h
im. Convince me. If you fail, if you try to get cute, end of story. You and your son are both dead. Got it?”

  I nod.

  “Proceed.”

  The connection opens almost immediately. “Jake Gavner.”

  The phone is so slippery with my own sweat that I have to grip it with all my might. “Jake? Um, this is Kate Bickford returning your call. Just wanted to let you know Tommy is fine. He was here when I got home, playing a video game.”

  “Great. Give him my best.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Helluva a game he had.”

  “Sure was. Helluva game.”

  “Hey, put him on. I’ll tell him so myself. Maybe give him a rain check for that ice-cream sundae.”

  For an awful moment my mind goes totally blank. I’m aware that the man in the mask is studying me with interest, as if curious to know whether I’ll pull this off. Whether I’ll live to make another phone call. The studied indifference is a pose—it has to be—but it says he doesn’t care one way or another. Live or die, my choice.

  “Sorry, Jake. Sent him to the shower.”

  “Well, don’t be too hard on the kid. Isn’t every day a boy gets a game-winning double.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him that. And thank you, Jake. I appreciate it.”

  “Next time the dog is on me. With extra kraut.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  A moment after disconnection the phone slips from my nerveless hands. With a deft move the man in the mask retrieves it, checks to make sure I’ve really disconnected.

  “I’m impressed,” he says. “You’re good. Even I believed you.”

  The flood of relief makes tears come, but I fight it. Determined never to weep again in the presence of this vile man. This monster in my house, sitting in my chair, holding my phone. Holding my son.

  “You should know that every call to this address is being monitored,” he says. “So if you tried something silly, I’d be informed. If, for instance, your friend Jake had said he’d like to drop by for a little post-game nooky with the widow Bickford, I’d know about it.”