"But you know who did kill her."
"Oh, I've known for some time now, and I think you'll be surprised. Assuming you make it that far."
"Why not just tell me?"
Gus chuckled. "I've never understood you young people and your inability to delay gratification. You've gotta earn it, son. Prove to me you deserve to know."
"And if I do get Langer," Hutch said, "what happens then? Where will you be?"
"On to the next adventure. You'll never see or hear from me again." The twinkle in the old guy's eyes had not disappeared, but now it took on a whole new meaning. "Good luck, Ethan. I mean that quite sincerely. And don't be too hard on yourself for getting it wrong. At least you got one thing right: you've been very entertaining."
He checked his watch and seemed to be counting off the seconds as he circled around toward the door. Then he said, "Aaaaaaaaand—Action!"
And the chair suddenly flew out from beneath Hutch, knocking him to the floor.
— 59 —
HUTCH CRASHED HARD, the impact jangling his brain.
Pain radiated through his skull as the apartment door slammed shut behind him. But he didn't waste time thinking about it. He immediately brought his wrists to his mouth and started biting at the gaffer's tape, trying to tear it free.
He glanced at the first monitor, at the shot of the lobby door. If Gus was true to his word, Hutch now had less than three minutes before that door flew open and Langer appeared.
He kept biting at the tape, but it wasn't coming loose. Gus had secured it good and tight and there were several layers to rip through. Hutch tore into it as if he were gnashing on a tough piece of meat, but the tape just wouldn't yield.
Glancing toward the monitors again, he saw Ronnie shaking on the bed, tears streaking down her face.
Her sobs were the only sound in the room.
Hold on, kiddo. Hold on.
He kept tearing at the gaffer's tape, but it was no use. The seconds were ticking by and he'd barely made an inch of progress.
He needed the knife.
Glancing at it atop the table, he rolled onto his side and pressed his hands against the floor, trying to push himself to his knees. But his brain jangled again, dizziness throwing him off balance, and the blow to the head seemed to have sapped him of strength. Try as he might, he couldn't push himself upright.
Fuck.
How much time had passed?
A minute?
More?
He dropped to his side, straightened out, then rolled, heading in the direction of the table. As he reached it, he tried again to get to his knees, but he still didn't have the strength and his body wouldn't cooperate.
Instead, he grabbed hold of one of the table legs and shook it, trying to knock the knife to the floor. He heard it rattle above him, but it didn't fall. He shook the leg again, harder this time, and it suddenly came lose in his hands and broke free, the world crashing down around him.
The table toppled sideways, barely missing him, but one of the monitors beaned him on the head. Pain exploded, radiating through his skull like an electric charge as the monitor tumbled to the floor and landed next to him. For a moment he thought he might pass out again, but he held fast, willing himself to stay conscious.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and looked at the monitor. It was the one showing the lobby door. He thought he saw a shadow onscreen, approaching beyond the frosted glass.
Langer about to enter the building.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Turning now, he frantically searched the floor, looking for the knife. But the only light in the room had come from the monitors, and the second one had either blown or landed face down. There were too many pockets of darkness around him, and the knife could be anywhere.
Remembering his cell phone, Hutch jammed his hands into his pants pocket, hoping to Christ Gus hadn't taken it. Then his fingers touched plastic. Relief washed through him as he worked the phone free, then touched a button on the side to activate it.
Shining the light from the screen toward the mess around him, he caught the glint of a blade and saw it poking out from beneath the edge of the overturned table.
He dove toward it, ignoring the protests of his aching skull. Scooping up the knife, he shoved the handle into his mouth and clamped his teeth against it, so that the blade pointed to one side. Then he rolled onto his back, turned his head to angle the blade toward the ceiling, and brought his wrists up to the sharp edge, positioning it between them.
Moving his hands back and forth, he frantically sawed through the gaffer's tape, straining to watch the monitor as he worked.
Onscreen, the lobby door was opening, the creep stepping inside.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Hutch moved his wrists faster, cutting through the thick layers of fibrous tape strand by strand, all the while pulling his wrists apart, trying break them free. The seconds were ticking by and this process seemed to be endless, taking forever. This goddamn tape had to be made of buffalo hide.
On the monitor, Langer was at the stairs now, his dead eyes looking straight into the camera as he mounted the steps. He had five flights to go and he wasn't wasting any time, and all Hutch could hear were Ronnie's terrified sobs.
Hutch watched the creep clear the first landing and disappear from view, and knew he was running out of time. There was no way he could beat the clock.
Then finally, thankfully, the tape came loose and his hands broke free.
Ripping the knife from his mouth, he grabbed the edge of the overturned table and pulled himself upright. The room spun around him. A new wave of nausea swept through him as he leaned forward, using both hands to saw at the bonds around his ankles.
Bile rose in his throat and for a moment he was sure he would puke, but he swallowed hard and forced it back as his hands kept working, kept sawing, kept hacking away, as he flexed his ankles, trying to pull them free.
Finally the tape came lose and he quickly unwound it and tossed it aside, then grabbed hold of the table edge again. Using it for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet. The room tilted sideways, and his knees buckled, threatening to send him sprawling.
Catching his balance, he reached up with one hand, touched the back of his head and found something wet and oozing there, along with a knot about the size of a golf ball.
It was a wonder he could stand up at all.
But he didn't have time to be thinking about this. Listening to Ronnie's sobs rise from the speakers, he steadied his legs, turned, then launched himself toward the front door.
The room was still spinning but he didn't stop. He kept moving forward until he reached the knob, yanked the door open, then staggered out into the hallway.
Across the hall was the door marked STAIRS, and he realized that he was in the first apartment. The one he'd seen when he stepped out of the stairwell.
Turning, he barreled down the graffiti-scarred hallway toward the apartment at the far end, its door hanging open a crack. Langer was nowhere in sight and there were only two possibilities here—either he was already inside, or he hadn't yet made it to this floor.
Hutch much preferred option two.
Stumbling forward, he attacked the apartment door with his body weight, slamming it open, then held the knife in front of him as he barreled inside.
But something felt wrong the moment he passed the threshold.
Something was different.
There should light coming from the bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He should be able to hear Ronnie crying.
He spun around now, grabbing the wall to steady himself, and looked back toward the door he'd just come through.
Either this wasn't the right apartment or Ronnie had been moved.
And he doubted Ronnie had been moved.
As he stood there trying to get his bearings, a faint but familiar sound trickled down from overhead: muffled sobs, coming through the ceiling.
Oh shit oh shit oh s
hit.
He was on the wrong goddamn floor.
Gathering himself, he took a deep breath, tried to ignore the throbbing in his head, and went back out into the hallway.
And that was when Ronnie started to scream.
— 60 —
WHILE HUTCH WOULD be the first to admit that he was no Bob De Niro, there were times in his career that he had found himself in the zone.
The zone, as he defined it, was that moment when the cameras started rolling and the external world fell away around him. No distractions, no crew members, no hot lights strategically placed to make the visuals pop. He was so singularly focused that he began breathing the character's energy, getting lost in it.
And at that point, the choices made themselves.
When Hutch heard Ronnie scream, he immediately slipped into the zone. He flew across the hallway and ran up the stairs, no longer a victim to such trivialities as pain and fear and dizziness and nausea and a body that didn't want to cooperate. This wasn't a role he was playing, and the stakes here were much, much higher than the Nielsen numbers or a weekend's worth of box office bounty.
He took the stairs two at a time, bounding onto the fifth floor landing and into the hall, then made a straight line for the apartment door—the right apartment this time—Ronnie's terrified screams the fuel that drove him forward.
When he reached the room with the lights and the overhead camera, Frederick Langer was kneeling on the mattress, trying to smother Ronnie's cries as he raised the switchblade—about to plunge it into her naked, heaving chest.
Hutch shouted, "Langer!" then launched himself across the room.
Hutch tackled him, hard, driving him off the mattress, slamming him into the wall. One of the work lights toppled and began to stutter and spark as they bounced to the floor and rolled across the threadbare carpet.
For a moment they were a tangle of flailing limbs and desperate grunts, Hutch struggling to gain momentum. But he was still in that zone, still acutely focused, and he anticipated the creep's moves before Langer even made them. The switchblade arced toward his face, but Hutch deflected the blow with his forearm and brought his own knife down, burying it in Langer's left shoulder.
Langer howled and fell back, pain and rage in his black eyes. He dropped the switchblade and began to cry like a child, clawing at his shoulder, trying to get at the knife, which was still lodged there, as Hutch pulled himself free and staggered to his feet.
He looked at the man without pity and didn't hesitate. Swinging a foot back, he kicked Langer as hard as he could, square in the face. The glasses went flying and bones crunched as the creep's head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor and stopped moving.
Hutch didn't know if the guy was dead or alive and didn't give a damn.
Scooping up the switchblade, he scrambled back to Ronnie and began cutting away the tape that strapped her to the mattress. As he pulled her free, she lurched into his arms, sobbing, and he hugged her tight, smoothing her hair.
"It's okay," he said. "It's okay..."
She trembled uncontrollably. "Christopher... He took Christopher..."
"I know... I know."
"Gus said he wanted to help us get out of town. But then he drove me here and left me with that sick fuck and took Chris with him." The tears were still flowing. "Oh, my God, Hutch. Oh, my God."
"We'll find him," Hutch said, remembering Gus's promise, hoping that he was a man of his word. "Help me with this mattress."
"What do you mean? Why?"
He pulled her to her feet. "There's something underneath it. A gift from Gus."
She eyed him skeptically, but didn't protest. They grabbed hold of the mattress and flipped it up against the wall—
—and laying face down on the carpet was a rectangular piece of white paper or cardboard.
Hutch grabbed it and turned it over, expecting to find a note of some kind.
Instead he saw a familiar photograph: the shot of Ronnie kissing him in the back of Andy's Mustang. The same shot that had been sold to The Gab Bag by one of her neighbors.
Ronnie wiped at her eyes and stared. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"
Hutch was at a loss, thinking it had to be another of Gus's games.
But then it hit him.
One of Ronnie's neighbors.
One of Ronnie's neighbors had taken this shot.
Hutch knew what this meant. "Find your clothes," he said, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. "I'll try to get hold of Andy. We need a ride out of here."
"Hutch, what's going on? Where are we going?"
"To your neck of the woods," he told her. "Roscoe Village."
— 61 —
THERE WERE NO paparazzi or tabloid reporters camped out in front of the Baldacci home. No news vans parked at the curb. The buzzards had already picked at the carcass, and satisfied that Ronnie Baldacci wasn't coming home, they'd moved on to the Next Big Story.
For now, at least.
The neighborhood was remarkably quiet, asleep for the night, and as Andy steered his Mustang around the corner, Hutch wasn't surprised to see Gus's blue Volvo parked in the driveway of a two-story bungalow across the street and to the left. Judging by the angle of the photograph, this had to be where the photographer lived.
Ronnie shuddered when she saw the car.
"Oh my God," she said. "He's here. He's waiting for us."
"I don't think so." Hutch slipped an arm around her, remembering what Gus had told him. That he would be long gone, off on another adventure.
Assuming the old psycho had told him the truth, that is.
"He just wanted to make sure we found the right house," Hutch said. "I'm guessing it's a rental?"
Ronnie nodded. "It has been for years. There's been a half dozen different families living there. Do you think Christopher's in there?"
"I hope so, but let's not—"
Before Hutch could finish, and before Andy could even pull the Mustang to a complete stop, Ronnie broke away, threw her door open, and was out of the car.
"Christopher!" she shouted. "Chris!"
Then she tore across the lawn and Hutch followed, his head once again throbbing as he ran after her.
What if he was wrong?
What if Gus was inside?
As she was about to reach the front steps, Hutch caught up to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her, whispering urgently, "Wait. Wait!"
"I need to get in there," she said, trying to break free. "Christopher's in there. I know he is."
Hutch didn't doubt her instincts, but if the boy was in there, was he alive? If Gus had done something to him, if Gus had hurt him or worse, Hutch didn't want her seeing him like that.
He tried to catch his breath. "Just wait here. I'll check it out."
"You can't expect me to—"
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look at me, Ronnie. I'm serious. Let me go in first. If I find anything, I'll call you in."
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it and nodded. She was trembling again, almost uncontrollably. Now Andy was coming toward them, and Hutch gestured to him, sending him a message with his gaze.
Andy immediately moved to Ronnie, putting a comforting arm around her. "Easy now, everything'll be fine."
He and Hutch exchanged looks, then Hutch noticed a pile of gardening tools laying in a nearby patch of dirt. Moving to them, he found a rabbiting spade and hefted it, then returned to the steps, nodded to his friends, and started up them.
He checked the door, found it unlocked, turned the knob.
A moment later he was inside the house.
— 62 —
TWO THINGS HIT him as he stepped inside.
First was the faint smell of chemicals permeating the air, but it wasn't the mix of disinfectant and polish you might expect in a house like this. He stood in a nicely appointed living room that looked as if it had been furnished and decorated in the 1940's. But that smell was acrid, pungent, and all Hutch could think about we
re the many crime documentaries he'd seen on cable TV—and the murderers who used lye or acid to dispose of a body.
The second thing that hit him was the music coming from the back part of the house. Frantic, xylophone heavy—old-fashioned cartoon music—which Hutch hoped was a good sign.
Proof that Christopher had been here?
Proof that he was still here?
Or was he the reason for the chemical smell?
The music came from beyond a doorway to Hutch's left. Tightening his grip on the spade, he stepped into yet another hallway.
No graffiti in here, just a faded floral patterned wallpaper. He saw the flickering light of a television coming from another open doorway at the end of the hall, and headed toward it, his heartbeat kicking up as he got closer.
But as he stepped inside a small bedroom, relief washed over him. The television played in a corner, the antics of Tom and Jerry throwing light on a bed across the room. And on that bed was Christopher, his tiny chest rising and falling, rising and falling, fast asleep.
Hutch relaxed, knowing now—knowing for certain—that Gus had been true to his word. Tossing the spade onto a chair, he moved to the bed and hefted Christopher into his arms, calling out to Ronnie and Andy as he stepped back into the hallway.
A moment later, Ronnie came running, crying out in relief when she saw Christopher, then pulled him into her arms and hugged him tight.
The boy came awake, staring groggily at her. "Mommy?"
"It's okay, baby, everything's okay now."
"Grandpa Gus said you went away."
A chill swept through Hutch and by the look on Ronnie's face, he could see that she was feeling it, too. "I'm not going anywhere, hon. Not if I can help it."
But Hutch knew this wasn't over yet. Despite her words, Ronnie still faced the real possibility of going away for a long, long time. Unless, that is, Gus continued to live up to his promise and somehow told them who had killed Jenny.
The answer had to be in this house.
But where?
Andy was the one who answered the question. As he stepped into the hallway behind Ronnie, he sniffed and said, "Smells like we got an old-school camera buff living here. Somebody has a darkroom."
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