by Tom Barber
Once she’d killed the two men, she’d decided the time had come to risk returning to America, figuring enough years had passed for the FBI to have dropped her off their priority list and for them to have moved on to fresh targets. Vincent had also paid off a currently active FBI agent detailed at the Baltimore field office to ensure Stefani’s file stayed near the bottom of the metaphorical pile; her marriage to her dead husband was on official record, so there was nothing they could do about that, but she’d never been arrested or even brought in for questioning since she’d lived in New York. She was too cunning for that. She’d been forgotten about, and wanted to keep it that way.
She’d spent those last few months in Europe thinking about the strategy and business moves she intended to have her boys focus on once she got back to Baltimore, wanting a deeper push into the gambling and casino scene, but then she’d learned of the Lombardi clan’s death and the survival of the one remaining member. Carla’s daughter. She hadn’t forgotten that Vincent hadn’t told her about the assassinations; ever since that conversation, she’d had one of the boys keep an eye on him. That had proved to be wise.
‘I want that carny asshole on the phone the minute he lands,’ she told Marco, standing in front of her men who were waiting to receive orders. He’d filled Vincent’s shoes as her go-to capo, and unlike that rat, wasn’t someone she needed to worry would talk to the cops. ‘Even if he finds her, he doesn’t kill her. He’s had his chance and messed around enough on this. I wanna know where this kid ran to.’
‘We getting involved?’ the cugine Roberto asked.
‘You bet your ass. What I should have done from the beginning. You need something done right, handle it yourself.’
FORTY SEVEN
‘What does he look like?’ the BA check-in agent called Mary asked Fox and Porter, all of them still inside Terminal 5. Their objective had shifted from Isabel, to discovering if the tall man who was apparently trying to kill her had also left for the States through Heathrow, which they knew was more likely if he was on her trail. However, Gatwick and Stansted, the other major airports in London, were being checked too. In the meantime, Porter was still waiting for a call from Deakins with an update on what was happening at Chalky’s mother’s house.
‘Chalk’s description from his encounter with him in New York said McGuinness was unusually tall,’ Porter said, looking at the wanted man’s Kemah Boardwalk file photo, which the NYPD had sent over; he, Fox, Mary and Jason had all examined it to see who they were looking for. ‘Six foot seven, or eight. He may be using an alias, but not that it matters. With that height, we should be able to spot him pretty fast.’
‘I’m not seeing anyone matching that description going through on the New Orleans flight,’ Fox said, having already checked the manifest. He was now looking at CCTV footage from the gate with Mary’s colleague, Jason.
‘It’s a stretch he’d guess that’s exactly where she ran to,’ Porter said. ‘Not a lot of people know Arch is down there, right?’
Fox nodded. ‘True, but we needed to make sure he hadn’t been following Issy and made it onto that plane. He’d kill her in her seat.’
‘Let’s check New York flights now,’ Porter replied. ‘More obvious for him to think she went back there.’
‘How are you sure he was even here at the airport?’ Jason asked.
‘We’re not. But firstly, it’s logical he’d want to get out of the UK as fast as possible after what happened in Oxford. And second, he’ll still be after the girl. After what he’s done so far? He won’t just quit.’
‘He’d definitely want to get out ASAP,’ Fox added. ‘He killed a police officer and did his best to murder another. No reason for him to stick around, especially with the girl on the run.’
Porter nodded, looking as the first of many passengers from the New York flights that had left the airport today appeared on the screen in the stored manifest records; hundreds to check, having departed from several separate Terminals. ‘So where is he?’
*
‘This is jacked up, Gerry,’ the Kemah Boardwalk ride employee called Cynthia told McGuinness almost five years earlier, folding her arms. ‘What’s happening to these kids?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied quietly. ‘But somethin’ real wrong’s going on here.’
They were with a group of employees gathered outside the walk near the parking lot, all of them called out from their posts as the end of a working Sunday approached. More continued to join them as they watched Galveston police officers in the parking lot checking under cars, other badged officials talking to people who’d come down to the boardwalk for an afternoon in the sun.
‘What’s the deal?’ Gerry asked, as their manager joined them, the collar and armpits on his shirt damp from sweat.
‘State Police will be here in the morning. Local PD are handling it until then. We’re shut down until further notice.’
‘Anyone checking the water?’ a waitress from the Irish pub asked.
‘Coastguard are out there, but that shit’s so dirty, if the kids went under and got caught in a drift, they might never find them.’ Beyond him, they could see the PD sergeant with the missing Rafferty twins’ parents, the mother sitting on a chair. Her face was swollen from crying, her husband beside her, both of them looking shell-shocked.
‘Go home,’ the manager said. ‘But stay near your phones in case police want to call y’all in. And do what the officers tell you at the gate. They’re searching vehicles.’
The employees dispersed and started to drift away. Cynthia glanced at the mother again then looked away, uncomfortable to see such raw grief and despair.
‘Gimme a ride?’ she asked Gerry. He hesitated, then nodded.
‘Sure.’ She walked with him to his truck, climbed in and they drove to the gate, joining a queue to get out. PD were searching vehicles as they left, and Gerry pulled up when it was his turn.
The officer checked the rear bed, then the back seats, then waved them through, already focusing on the next vehicle.
*
‘No sign of him,’ Mary said, as Fox rubbed his face wearily. They’d gone through all the New York and Newark, New Jersey flights, and had received no sightings from the other two major London airports either. Police everywhere from Oxford to Nottingham had his name and photo, but no-one had reported a sighting of the cop killer anywhere.
‘He could’ve flown out from Birmingham or Manchester,’ Porter said. ‘But I made some calls. No-one’s reported seeing him. How can a guy that tall just disappear?’
‘Maybe he took another airline,’ Mary suggested. ‘We’ve been focusing on British and American. They’re not the only handlers making the journey to the US, don’t forget.'
‘What’s Archer saying?’ Fox asked Porter.
‘Nothing,’ the ARU sergeant replied with frustration. ‘He’s gone quiet for some reason.’ The ARU sergeant never swore, but this situation was testing that resolve. ‘I can’t raise him. I called Shepherd who told me the last they heard, he was leaving some old amusement park in New Orleans. They can’t get a response out of him either.’
‘So what next?’ Fox asked.
As Porter turned to Mary, he heard a message ding on his phone. He took it out as he spoke to the airline employee. ‘Scratch checking just New York. Let’s go through all the US bound flights. And each airline this time.’
‘Any preference who we start with?’
Porter didn’t reply, looking at his phone. ‘Speak of the devil.’
‘Arch?’ Fox asked.
Porter nodded, turning the phone so Fox could see. ‘Group message with Shepherd in New York too.’
Let the girl through NOLA airport. Police must not stop her.
Will explain shortly.
*
‘I’m gonna go to the boardwalk tomorrow anyway,’ Gerry said, as they pulled up outside Cynthia’s home within the Greater Houston area, in Pasadena. ‘This investigation’s the most interesting thing that�
�s happened down here that I can remember.’
‘Interesting’s not the right word, man.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He put his hand on his chest. ‘Consider me guilty. Want me to pick ya’ll up anyway?’
‘Call me in the a.m. and we’ll see if they’ve opened it,’ she said, stepping out. ‘Shitty day, bro.’
‘Yeah.’
She closed her door, but then seemed to remember something and tapped on the window. He lowered it down. ‘What?’
‘Almost forgot. Happy birthday. Know it’s late but…’ She passed over a neatly wrapped box, which he took. ‘Open it,’ she said, after he paused.
He undid the paper with his nail, then revealed the gift.
‘Picked it up from a place near Kemah,’ she said, as he took out the knife, admiring the craftmanship. ‘Know you like them. Happy birthday, bro.’
‘Thanks.’ He tossed the gift onto the seat beside him, not catching the look of disappointment on her face. Or not caring.
‘See you tomorrow?’ she said, doing her best to hide her hurt.
‘Yeah.’ He pulled away and drove off.
Gerry lived forty minutes away in Almeda, the ride tonight taking an extra ten with heavier than usual traffic. He switched on the radio halfway through his journey and heard the disappearance of the two children come up on the news. When he got home, a basic two bedroom home in a neighborhood not renowned for petty crime but still a victim of it from time to time, he parked up out of sight around the back and stepped out. He walked up to his front door, but saw the lock was splintered.
The mask of placid indifference he’d perfected over the years was instantly replaced by something totally opposite; the knife Cynthia had given him was open and in his hand a few seconds later, as he eased the door open.
No-one was lying in wait, but his place had been ransacked. He panicked, wondering if it was the cops, but saw the few valuables he had were gone. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered, looking at the mess all around him but too bushed from the day to clean it up. He had no intention of calling the cops either. But feeling his anger rise, he drank half a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, then made himself dinner and watched a couple episodes of Seinfeld on his crappy old TV, which the thieves had done him the service of leaving after smashing part of the screen. However, it still worked.
Once he felt more rested, he rose to walk into his bathroom and retrieved a bottle from the cabinet behind the mirror. He also took a syringe, but then changed his mind and went back outside.
He checked around for anyone watching, then went to the rear of his truck, opened the gate to the rear bed and jerked up the tire well.
Being trapped inside a vehicle in 90+ degree heat for almost six hours had killed the boy. His sister however was still alive, and he saw her eyes slowly open and look at him, her hands bound, her mouth gagged.
He stood over her, tossing the knife Cynthia had given him up and down in the air, catching it with practiced ease each time.
He gave the same grin Chalky would see some years later in the Chelsea theater.
Happy birthday.
*
As he sat on the plane, McGuinness found himself thinking of those killings and of the other children he’d abducted from Kemah and murdered down in Texas, the thoughts keeping his mood buoyant and helping counter his building frustration over his failure so far to snare Isabel Vargas. No movie was showing on his screen, just the flight path tracker, showing he was almost over North America.
He’d flown out of Heathrow on the Dwindel passport, the same counterfeit document he’d been set up with from a contact in Slidell when he’d taken work at Six Flags all those years ago. The main reason Porter and Fox hadn’t been able to track him down was partly due to him taking a less popular airline but also because he’d found a way to disguise his height.
He’d hobbled up to the Finnair desk and told the check-in agent that he’d fallen getting off the Heathrow Express and wrenched his knee; as a consequence, he’d received special assistance, an airline rep providing a wheelchair and helping him through security. He’d requested a chair be waiting for him when he landed in Dallas too, the place he’d decided to fly to, having been the quickest flight out with the advantage of not having the eyeballs on it that New York JFK or Newark Liberty were likely to have. He’d been patted down and wanded by a security agent at Heathrow, but there’d been no issues. Being in the chair until he hobbled on board, bending to disguise his height, meant no-one had picked up on how tall he was.
His head freshly shaved, stubble growing on his chin and cheeks, and his green contact lenses meant he looked vastly different from any photograph the cops may have unearthed of him by now, and definitely different from the artist’s sketch he’d seen of himself on TV.
He was still a few hours from landing, but the thrill of the chase that this current kid was providing was a totally unique situation. It was both invigorating and troubling. He’d never had this difficulty closing out a job before; children didn’t elude him, they were easy prey, but somehow this girl was still alive.
A message from Baltimore accessed from the plane’s Wi-Fi told him they’d succeeded in picking up the sister of one of the kid’s mother’s colleague’s, the blond guy who’d been hugging Alice Vargas at Coney Island on July 4th when they’d tried to fake her death. They’d fooled everyone, him too at first, but not after he’d checked out the morgue.
When he’d landed and was out of the airport, McGuinness was gonna use that leverage to get the man to tell him exactly where the child was, and he was going to make that kid suffer like no other for the trouble she’d put him through.
The flight attendants were coming down the aisle with the food and drinks trolley, but he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and ignored them, that smile returning to his face as he remembered what he’d gone on to do to that Rafferty girl.
It was a Disney movie compared to what he had in store for Isabel Vargas.
FORTY EIGHT
The day rolled on. Planes landed in the US, staff at certain airports were instructed to keep a lookout for unusually tall men matching the description the NYPD and Fox and Porter had provided from witness statements. Oxfordshire police dealt with the death of an officer, as a feature on the gun battle from the Summertown street made it as the first headline on the BBC national news. But while searches at major airports in the UK continued for Gerald McGuinness, neither Archer or Vargas were answering any texts or calls, which was becoming a rising cause for concern back at the CT Bureau in New York.
At just after 7:30pm New Orleans time, past midnight for her UK time-adjusted body clock, a tired, emotionally-battered Isabel concentrated on keeping up a regular pace walking through the Arrivals Hall along with everyone else, not wanting to draw any attention to herself, the lowering sun through the exit doors bathing the space in a shade of gold.
She was managing well until she saw Archer standing slightly apart from the other people who were waiting for friends and family to arrive.
Intense relief flooded through her, and abandoning her effort to blend in, Issy sprinted forward, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor at Louis Armstrong International. Archer dropped down and she flung her arms around his neck, the red Liverpool FC cap she was wearing back-to-front knocked off.
‘You OK, kiddo?’ he asked quietly, as he hugged her back, and she nodded, clinging on tight and not letting go of him. ‘Did he follow you?’ Archer added, quickly scanning the crowd around them as he held onto her.
‘Haven’t seen him since I got off at Paddington after I left Oxford,’ she whispered.
‘He was there too?’
‘Yeah. But I didn’t see him at the airport or on the plane.’
‘No sign of him,’ Bellefonte confirmed, arriving beside Archer but not taking his eyes off the people coming through the exit doors into the hall. Archer rose, keeping his arm around Issy, and did a 360 as he checked around the Terminal for any sign of M
cGuinness. He was also keeping an eye on airport police; he knew his ex-colleagues in the ARU would probably have tracked Isabel’s departure from Heathrow by now, which was why he’d broken his self-imposed silence and sent the text to Porter and Shepherd, asking them to make sure the girl wasn’t held at immigration when she’d arrived. As expected, he’d received a barrage of texts and calls in return but had continued to ignore them all, his sister’s safety his priority. But the child had been let through. His colleagues had done what he’d requested.
He’d also felt just as relieved as Issy when he’d seen her walking through the exit doors, her hair now a dark brown instead the blonde she’d apparently left the Queens morgue with on the night of July 4th. Somehow, despite her age and the pressure she’d been under, she’d made it out here safely and didn’t seem to have been tailed. ‘Have you found out why he’s doing this?’ Isabel asked, looking up at Archer as he continued to scan everyone coming through into Arrivals.
‘Alice and the others are working on it,’ he said, picking up her cap and putting it back on her head. ‘We think it’s people from Baltimore. A woman who had a feud with your mother…your old mother.’
‘Carla?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s get you out of here. We’ve got a car out front.’
‘Why are you down here?’ she asked, walking with him and looking up at Bellefonte curiously. ‘Why aren’t you in New York?’
‘I’ll tell you in the vehicle. But this is Leo, from the police down here. He’d been helping me out.’
‘Hi. Can we get something to eat? I’m so hungry.’
‘Good to see that hasn’t changed,’ he told her with a smile. ‘We’ve got to stick around for a bit, kiddo. Vargas lands in forty minutes. We’ll get you something from inside the Terminal though.’