Authors: Linwood Barclay
If he had a chance—and he wasn’t sure that he would—Nathaniel would call these people and tell them he was quitting. Effective immediately. Yeah, they’d be upset. Some of them would start screaming at him over the phone. It was like your day care telling you they wouldn’t take your kid anymore, starting tomorrow. Work out some other arrangement.
Some of his clients, Nathaniel knew, would phone in sick until they found someone else to take their dogs out for a poop and a run through the day.
It wasn’t his problem.
Nathaniel had bigger problems.
He got behind the wheel of his car—God, how he loved this Caddy, the only reminder of his once successful life—and pointed it in the direction of home.
Which wasn’t going to be home for much longer.
Not only might that other guy from the van be looking for him, but there was Vince to worry about, too. The man who’d dragged him into all this. Braithwaite never wanted anything to do with that man again.
Nathaniel drove past his place slowly, looking for Vince’s truck, or the van that had been used to kidnap him. He didn’t see them out front of his place, but they wouldn’t be dumb enough to park there, would they? So he did a quick tour of the neighborhood. The street behind, the next one over. When he didn’t see any vehicles that set off alarms for him, he drove back.
Then thought,
Shit
.
If one of them drove by anytime soon, they’d see
his
car and know he was home. Being kidnapped once in a day was enough. So he parked the Caddy one street over and hoofed it back. As he was mounting the steps to the porch, he encountered Barney, who had turned a couple of the chairs into a sawhorse, across which he’d placed a lengthy piece of sculpted wood. The handrail from along the stairs. He had some tools scattered about and a cell phone rested on one of the chair arms, but instead of working, he was leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
Orland was sitting in a porch chair, staring vacantly at the street.
“Nathaniel,” Barney said.
“Hey,” the man replied, not even glancing at him as he reached for the door.
“You okay? What happened to your lip there?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you sure don’t look fine.”
“Mind your own goddamn business,” Braithwaite snapped.
Barney took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nose. “Okay, then.”
The sound of a car coming to a halt out front of the house prompted Braithwaite to spin around. He felt his heart in his
throat, but breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was the woman from across the hall. Cynthia Archer. And she had a teenage girl with her. Her daughter. He’d seen her here before.
But the last thing he wanted was to lose time chatting with them. He had much to do, and not much time to do it in.
He took the steps up to the second floor two at a time. He was unlocking his door when he heard Cynthia call up to him.
“Hey, Nate, hold up!”
He pretended not to hear, got the door open, entered his apartment, and closed the door behind him.
Pack
.
Under his bed he kept three empty suitcases and a fourth, smaller one that was already full. He hauled them all out, dropped the three empty ones on the bed, and placed the fourth in a chair. The others he unzipped, opened. Then he went to his four-drawer dresser, grabbed clothes, and threw them randomly into the cases.
Someone was knocking on the door.
He ignored it, went to his closet, ripped shirts off hangers, balling them up and tossing them into the suitcases.
“Nate!”
Cynthia’s voice coming through the door.
“I know you’re in there. I want to talk to you.”
He stopped, froze. If he didn’t make a sound, would she go away?
Another knock. “I’m not leaving till you open this door,” she said.
He dropped some shirts onto the bed, crossed through the living area to the door, and opened it. Cynthia stood there, daughter next to her.
“I’m kind of busy,” he said. “Come by later.”
Grace looked at his mangled lip. “Eww,” she said.
Her mother said, “I know what’s been going on.”
“Going on with what?”
“With you. And Vince Fleming. And today. His men—they grabbed you, right? They did that to you.”
That caught him by surprise. How the hell did she know that? “I told you, I’m busy. Leave me alone.”
Grace peered around him, got a view into the bedroom. “You taking a vacation?” she asked.
“What?”
“Look, Mom,” she said. “He’s packing.”
Cynthia forced her way into the apartment, headed straight for the bedroom. She stood at the door, took in the scene.
“This has nothing to do with you,” Nathaniel said, sliding past Cynthia and flipping the lids of the suitcases closed. Now Grace was crowding into the room, too, standing by the chair where the fourth suitcase rested.
“It’s got everything to do with us,” Cynthia said. “We’re all wrapped up in this together. You and me, we both got used, one way or another, by Vince. He used you to get into houses and hide drugs and money and other stuff there. And he used us by making our house one of his storage units.”
“I never would have met that man if it wasn’t for you,” he said. “When he found out what I did, he … he coerced me.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But what’s done is done. You made your choice to help him, and now you’re paying for it.”
“He’s not an easy person to say no to. Had my ex-wife’s boyfriend beat up. I felt if I said no, he’d find a way to tie me to that. I didn’t know what to do.”
He flipped the cases back open. He hadn’t wanted to pack in front of them, but he was wasting time. He opened another drawer. Socks, underwear. He grabbed everything and tossed it into a case.
“Where you going?” Grace asked. Her hand was resting on the handle of the fourth case.
“Away,” he said. “Those men nearly killed me. They were going to take out my teeth. God knows what they were going to do next.” He looked hopefully at Cynthia. “If I gave you some names, would you call some people, tell them they have to get someone else to walk their dogs?”
Cynthia said to Grace, “Who are the people who own the house you were in last night?”
“Cummings.”
Cynthia turned to Nathaniel. “You walk the Cummingses’ dog.”
“Not this week. They’re away.”
“But you know how to get in. You have a key, know the security code. Right?”
Rather than empty the bottom drawer, he turned his attention back to the closet, dropped to his knees, and grabbed shoes. “How the hell else am I going to take their dog out?”
“Was it you?” Grace asked.
“Was what me?” he said. He was on his feet now, dumping the shoes into his luggage. He zipped up another one of the bags.
“Was it you who was there last night?”
“Jesus, you sound like Vince’s flunkies. You going to start taking my teeth out?”
“Did you shoot Stuart?” Grace persisted. “Did you, you asshole?”
“This is crazy,” he said.
Grace glanced down at the case she’d been running her hand on without quite realizing it. “What’s in here?” she asked.
“Get your fucking hands off that!” he shouted. “I’m outta here.”
“What are you running from?” Cynthia asked.
“Seriously? Fucking nutjobs, that’s what.”
“Answer Grace’s question. What’s in that case?”
“Papers,” he said. “All the papers from my failed business. Legal shit. Documents. Patent stuff. Zip drives.”
“Open it.”
Nathaniel laughed. “You’re something else—you really are. No wonder your family needed a break from you.”
He knelt down again in front of the dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. As he grabbed a bulky sweater, there was a clunking sound. The sweater had been wrapped around something large and heavy.
“What the …?” Nathaniel said.
As Cynthia and Grace watched, he reached in and delicately lifted out a powder blue vase, nearly a foot high, the cover held in place with duct tape.
SHORTLY
after Reggie had saved Jane from Joseph, Wyatt made the call to Vince about the ransom delivery. Jane could barely hear him one floor above talking to Vince, but she heard enough to know that the handoff was supposed to be in half an hour. In a cemetery.
She wondered, would Wyatt go alone? If he wanted any kind of backup, he’d have to take Reggie with him. But then they’d be leaving her in the house by herself. Logan was with Joseph at the hospital, getting the perv’s nose fixed.
So if Reggie and Wyatt both went to pick up the ransom money, she was going to have the house all to herself.
Which was exactly how things turned out.
Reggie came back downstairs to visit her.
“We’re going to meet with your stepfather. In the meantime, we’re going to have to leave you here all by your lonesome. And even though we’ve got you tied up pretty good, you’re not tied
to
anything, and I’m going to have to do something about that. Don’t want you wandering around the house or trying to get outside while we’re gone, do we?”
At which point Jane felt more ropes being wrapped around her torso and ankles, securing her to the chair.
“There we go,” Reggie said. “You sit tight till we get back.”
Not long after that, she heard them leave the house.
It became very quiet.
She tested the bonds that held her to the chair, and they seemed to be doing the job, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to give it her best shot to get away.
It seemed like a no-brainer that she had to try. What were the odds, really, that once they had what they wanted, they’d let Vince and her live? If you crossed Vince and wanted to live another day, what choice would you have but to kill him?
So when Reggie and Wyatt and Joseph and Logan rendezvoused back here, they’d have to kill her.
Jane needed to get the hell out.
Now.
She twisted and turned, trying to build some slack, even the tiniest bit of play, into the ropes. If she could get just one hand free, the rest would be easy. As long as she got the job done in time.
She thought about Vince, how he’d handle something like this. He was no fool. Okay, sometimes. Like maybe this whole business model of hiding money in people’s houses hadn’t turned out to be the most brilliant plan ever.
But one thing Vince did know was how people like him thought, what they were capable of. So he’d know Reggie and Co. would try to kill him, and her, once they had what they wanted.
So he’d plan for that.
He’d have Gordie and Bert in position. Hiding in the bushes, or behind a tombstone. Eldon, she figured, would be out of the picture. He’d be mourning somewhere, grieving. But Vince wouldn’t go into a meet like this without having someone watching his back.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d pull something off.
Because he loves me
.
She had no doubt of that. Vince thought the world of her. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell her kidnappers to get stuffed. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he’d refuse to pay, even if he might not be able to give the kidnappers everything they wanted.
Jane began to cry.
Suck it up. Suck it up and get yourself out of here
.
She struggled for so long that she started losing track of time. But at one point, while she was stopping to catch her breath, it occurred to her that her hosts had been gone for quite some time.
Jane was pretty sure it had been well over an hour.
She figured, ten minutes for them to get to the cemetery, ten minutes tops for the handover of the ransom, another ten to get back. That was half an hour.
Build in another fifteen minutes for traffic. Even ten minutes for Vince to be late, which didn’t seem likely.
They should have been back by now. Reggie and Wyatt. Or Vince.
Somebody
.
But more than an hour—she was willing to bet it was getting closer to an hour and a half—and not a soul?
She wondered what to make of that. One way or another, someone should be coming back to this house.
To set her free, or to kill her.
They couldn’t just leave her here. If someone didn’t come eventually, and she couldn’t get herself free, well, how long could a person survive this way? A couple of days? Half a week, maybe?
What could have happened? She thought up a number of scenarios. Maybe they’d taken shots at each other. Wyatt—now there was a perfect name for a guy who’d start an Old West–style shoot-out—pulled his gun, and Vince pulled his, and everyone started firing, and everyone got hit.
It could have happened that way.
Or maybe—
What was that?
She went still, stopped breathing. Listened.
Upstairs, the sound of a door opening, and then closing. Someone was in the house.
Please be Vince
.
Please be Vince
.
Please be Vince
.
DETECTIVE
Rona Wedmore left Spock to work his magic, intending to go straight back to the station to follow up on other possible leads. She’d work the phones for a while. Talk to relatives, old coworkers, friends, of both Eli Goemann and Heywood Duggan. Anyone she could find. She’d check in with Joy, see what she’d learned.
But en route, Rona decided she needed a moment.
Alone.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Carvel on Bridgeport Avenue. Went inside and bought a chocolate milk shake. Wedmore could not remember the last time she’d treated herself to a milk shake.
Rather than drink it there, she drove back downtown, grabbed a parking spot on South Broad Street alongside the Milford Green, left the car, and found herself a park bench under the shade of a towering tree. She took a seat and sipped her milk shake.
What was it Heywood had said to her the night before? About his client?
Basically, he was trying to get back what you were to me. He was trying to get back the love of his life
.
The son of a bitch. Why’d he have to say something like that? And if he’d felt that way, why’d he have to be such a bastard?