“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find the family?”
“Not yet.” Tessa drew back her covers. Sophie climbed aboard.
“You checked the cold, dark places?”
“Some of them.”
“What about the mountains? Did you try all the cabins in the mountains?”
“Tomorrow…today, actually… I’m going to head north. We’ll check more.”
“Bring cookies.”
“Absolutely.”
Sophie tucking against her. “That girl needs you.”
Tessa, hesitating. Her daughter was identifying with the victim, and given how things might turn out… She should hedge her bets, better manage her daughter’s expectations. And yet, in a case like this, was such a thing even possible? She found herself saying: “Losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me, Sophie. Returning home, discovering that you weren’t there. It hurt. Like someone had punched me in the stomach.”
“I didn’t want to go. They made me.”
“Of course. I knew you never would have willingly left me. I hope you know, I never would’ve willingly let you go.”
“I knew, Mommy. Just like I knew you were coming. And I knew you’d make them pay.”
Tessa, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s bony shoulders. “We were lucky, Sophie. It sounds funny, but we got each other back. That makes us lucky.”
“And Mrs. Ennis.”
“And Mrs. Ennis.”
“And Gertrude.”
Sophie’s doll. With the eye they had carefully sewn back on. “I want this family to be lucky, too, Sophie. I’m going to try very hard to help them. There’s a whole bunch of detectives, in fact, who are working hard to help them. But sometimes, it also takes a bit of luck.”
“Cold, dark places.”
“Got it.”
“Bring cookies.”
“Yep.”
“Carry your gun.”
“Yes.”
“Then, please come home. I miss you, Mommy. I miss you.”
WYATT DIDN’T SLEEP. He worked his phone, clearing messages, catching up with the rest of his department. His deputies had some news: a break-in at a methadone clinic in Littleton, sometime Saturday night. Could be related to their case, or then again, maybe not. Gas station attendant had called in about filling up a white van on Saturday morning. Driven by two tough guys. Made him nervous, he said. Figured they were running drugs, given the plain white van, the dead man stares. They’d headed north on 93, all he could offer. One had three tears tattooed under his left eye. Definitely, the dude had served time.
Fish and Game had found another van parked off road by Crawford Notch. Older model, painted dark blue. Abandoned when they found it, the back littered with empty beer cans and smelling strongly of marijuana. Sounded like it belonged to some people up to no good, but probably not trained professionals up to no good.
And so it went. A string of a dozen or so possible sightings or maybe leads, if only they knew what they were sighting or leading.
At 2:00 A.M., Wyatt gave up on calls, stared at their map instead. He fell asleep with his head upon it, dreaming of Xs and Os and Ashlyn Denbe telling him to hurry up, there wasn’t much time left.
Six A.M., he was up, showered and back in yesterday’s uniform. He met Kevin downstairs, both of them checking out, grabbing coffee, then heading for the Denbes’ town house. They arrived thirty minutes early and were still the last ones to arrive.
Special Agent Hawkes already had the Denbe family cell phone. Nicole already had the picture.
Nothing new to report. Agents were still working the financials, while a pair of uniformed officers now sat outside Anita Bennett’s house. Feds were in place at the insurance company headquarters in Chicago. Cellular company still awaiting final go-ahead for the 3:00 P.M. EST call.
They knew what they knew. They had what they had. It was what it was.
They headed north, reaching the county sheriff’s department by 11:00 A.M. By noon, the Denbes’ picture was on the wall, and they’d run through half a dozen ransom scripts. Nicole would handle the call, with the rest of them providing backup.
Twelve thirty, they ordered lunch.
One o’clock, Wyatt finished debriefing local PDs as well as the state police. They’d set up a designated channel through dispatch, ready to broadcast information the second they had any.
He once again reviewed the map.
One thirty, two o’clock. Two fifteen. Two thirty.
What’d they miss, what’d they miss? Always something. You planned, you prepared and yet, in the end, it was always something.
Wyatt, back to staring at his map.
Two forty. Two forty-eight. Two fifty-two. Two fifty-five.
What if the suspects never called? What if this was how the case ended, not with a blaze of glory but in total radio silence? The family was already dead, an embezzler covering his or her tracks. There wouldn’t be any rescue. Just a sad, drawn-out search that would consume days, weeks, months, maybe even years.
Three P.M.
Three oh one.
Three oh two.
Justin Denbe’s phone rang to life.
Chapter 37
ZMATERIALIZED OUTSIDE OUR CELL DOOR. For the first time since this ordeal started, he appeared tense, and his wired alertness immediately put our own nerves on edge. He was bearing a black plastic garbage bag that turned out to be filled with our original clothing. Now he fed each item through the wrist slot in the door with terse orders for us to change.
Our first step back into the real world, I wondered, our Boston garb? But I already doubted it. Ashlyn and I had also been commanded to change for our segment of the ransom demands; not because Z had wanted us to look our best on video, but because he hadn’t wanted to give away any information on our whereabouts, such as prison jumpsuits. I had a feeling the same logic applied here.
If the ransom demand was met, the police would learn of our location soon enough. But it wasn’t Z’s style to give away any advantage before he had to.
Once we were changed, it was time to exit the cell.
“Denbe first.” A barking command.
Z indicated to the slot in the door. Justin presented his wrists, which were immediately bound with zip ties. I went next. Then Ashlyn. When we were all secured, Z made a motion with his hand, and with a buzzing snap, our steel door swung open.
Z kept his gaze on Justin, who walked out with his shoulders back and chin up, his bruised face clearly defiant.
Immediately the tension ratcheted up another notch.
Don’t do anything stupid, I found myself thinking. Please don’t do anything stupid.
Except I wasn’t sure what that was anymore. Here we were, once again bound and helpless. Stupid only applied if our captors really were going to let us go. They had other options, of course. For example, placing a bullet through each of our heads the second the ransom funds appeared in their account. Not like we could stop them. Not like the police were standing by to help us the moment the money was delivered.
One way or another, we were still on our own, and I could feel the tight restrictions of the plastic zip tie digging into my wrists.
Z took Justin by the elbow. He indicated for the ladies to walk first. Once Ashlyn and I ventured uncertainly forward into the shadowed dayroom, he and Justin fell in step behind us. Clearly, Z had pegged Justin as the primary threat, to be monitored at all times. I wish I could disagree, chortle gleefully to myself that if only he knew. Instead, I felt a rising sense of hysteria and had to suppress the ridiculous urge to tug on my freshly washed hair.
At the sally port, we had to pause. I wondered who was in the control room. Mick or Radar? Z gestured to the security camera and the first set of doors rolled open. We stepped inside. Another pause. The clang of steel slamming shut behind us, plunging us into a deep dark, broken up only by the dim glow of green emergency lights, illuminating faint puddles of floor. I could feel Ashlyn shudder beside me, and move closer.
Then, more slowly than I would’ve liked, the next set of heavy steel doors slowly opened. A broad hallway loomed before us. Also lit by emergency lights. We must’ve come this way before, but everything looked different without the bright wash of overhead lights.
The prison had taken on the spooky feel of a haunted house, and while I knew it was daylight outside, already I felt isolated, my shoulders hunching, my chin tucking down as if the ceiling were lower, the walls closing in.
“Walk,” Z ordered, and very tentatively, Ashlyn and I shuffled forward.
We followed the puddles of green glow to another set of doors. Turned out to be a second sally port. More clanging as steel doors slammed shut behind us. A sound that got under the skin. A sound I never wanted to hear again.
The closing doors once more plunged us into darkness. We waited, Ashlyn bouncing on her toes beside me, until the forward set of doors slowly rolled open. Was it just me, or had this set of doors taken much longer? Had to be Mick in the control room. Having a little fun at our expense.
I willed my face to be impassive. I would not give him the satisfaction of showing my fear.
Z urged us forward. We walked, losing our sense of direction in the shadowy green maze of prison corridors. Suddenly, the hallway lightened. We came to a stretch with large exterior windows awash with daylight. Then, across from that, an enclosed chamber lined with windows that had been heavily fortified with horizontal bars.
The control room. Had to be. I could see monitors and panels and all sorts of crazy computer equipment that meant nothing to me but probably everything to my husband.
They were going to do it. Exchange us for ransom. We would go home; they would get nine million dollars.
We would go home.
I stared at the now empty room, door open, our ticket to safety.
I took one more step, then from behind, Z grabbed my arm and drew me up short.
He said, “Not so fast.”
And I shuddered, feeling my heart stop in my chest.
“HERE’S THE DEAL,” Z continued shortly. “It’s two fifty-five P.M. I’m going to let you into the control room. I’m going to hand you a phone. I’m going to remove your wrist constraints.”
Z stopped looking at Ashlyn and me, staring at Justin instead. “At which point, you have the power to lock down this prison. You could even attempt to trap me inside. But you should know, Radar and Mick are already out. They’re armed with a full arsenal of weapons, which they are exceptionally well trained at using. I’m guessing that between them, they could pick off at least thirty-six to forty-eight first responders without even breaking into a sweat. I know you might not care about that”—his gaze went hard, his fanged cobra tattoo moving restlessly as he frowned—“but I’m counting on the ladies to be your conscience.” His gaze flickered to us. “Play it smart, everyone goes home safe and sound. Try something stupid and there’ll be a lot of funerals on Friday. Including your own. I’m not a man who forgives, Denbe. And I know where you live.”
Justin said nothing.
I stepped forward, inserting myself into the space between them. “Tell us what you want us to do.”
Z switched his attention to me. “The rest is easy. Call your husband’s cell phone using FaceTime. Wave to the nice FBI agent who plans on building her career around your safe return. Reiterate the wire transfer instructions. Radar is monitoring the account. The second we have confirmation the funds have been received, we’re gone. By three eleven, on the other hand, if no money has been received, we start with plan B.”
Z’s gaze back on Justin. “Want to know Radar’s real expertise? He’s a demolitions expert. Sure, your control room has ballistic-rated
glass. But trust me, Radar can take out an armored tank. Your reinforced fish tank, not a problem. Better hope the FBI has their act together. Better hope they’re also going for smart today, and not planning anything stupid.”
I hadn’t even thought of that, and now I felt my nervousness ramp up double-time. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. But we don’t control them, we have no way of knowing… What if they don’t wire the money? It’s not our fault!”
Z merely shrugged his massive shoulders as he dragged us toward the open control room. I wanted to dig in my heels. All of a sudden, this didn’t seem like such a great idea. I’d been worried about my husband’s rash actions. Now I had to worry about an entire law enforcement team as well?
“By three eleven, if we don’t have the money, you’ll get to hear a very large boom. You might want to duck for cover. You know, just to give yourselves a sporting chance.”
Then, we were in the control room and Z was wielding a knife. No time to panic. No time to scream.
Slash, slash, slash.
Our wrists were free.
A phone was shoved into Justin’s hands.
Then Z was gone, the heavy control room door booming shut in his wake.
We were alone, unshackled, and for the first time ever, in charge of our prison.
I stood stock-still, my first taste of quasi-freedom leaving me completely immobilized.
Not my husband.
“All right,” Justin declared briskly. “This is what we’re going to do.”
THE IPHONE CONTINUED TO CHIME. After a split second, Nicole kicked into gear. She waved a hand, indicating for everyone to take position.
Then she stood in front of the Denbes’ family-room painting, now hanging in a sheriff’s office three hours north, and answered the phone, activating FaceTime.
Hawkes had wired the phone to a larger TV screen so the rest of them could watch the show.
Justin Denbe’s face appeared, his swollen eye and misshapen nose a pulpy mess. But there was no mistaking the determination on his face.
“This is Justin Denbe. I’m here with my wife, Libby, and daughter, Ashlyn.” A quick sweep of the phone screen. Libby Denbe appeared briefly, seemingly frozen in place, nearly petrified with fear. Their fifteen-year-old daughter, Ashlyn, however, was literally bouncing up and down in agitation. “We are safe and secure. Please wire the money by three eleven, or they will blow us up.”
Hawkes made a rolling motion with his finger to drag out the call. Nicole tapped her foot once to indicate she got it.
“This is Nicole Adams, special agent, FBI. We are happy to be in contact with you, Justin, and to receive confirmation that you and your family are alive and well.”