He e-mailed her a contract, which she promised to sign and express mail back to him, along with a check. He’d given her a PO box. He was expecting the package.
He was not expecting what was inside.
Not a signed contract and a check, but a gift. A book Ellen thought he’d enjoy.
A hardcover whose spine was about an inch and a half thick. A book that might raise eyebrows but not provoke suspicion.
Because glued into its spine, and therefore hidden, was a small round flat disc no bigger than a silver dollar. A battery-operated GPS tracking device. Whose movements Dorothy could follow on her iPad.
I’d considered staking out the post office instead, waiting for someone to unlock his PO box, and then follow him. Simpler, maybe. But these people were hyper-vigilant. Tailing people like this would be like putting a leash on a snake. It’s just going to slip you.
No, this way was more sophisticated. I figured that Vogel wouldn’t go to the post office himself. He’d send an underling. And the underling wouldn’t open the package. He’d bring it right to Vogel.
But then Vogel, expecting a signed contract and a check, would pull out the book. A gift from Ellen Wiley. He’d consider it strange: idiosyncratic, but not alarming.
And if my intelligence was right, Vogel didn’t keep a regular office. He lived in a compound. The express mail package would be brought right to his home. The tracker would tell us precisely where it was.
And then I was going to pay him a visit.
Dorothy called back about ten minutes later. “The package is leaving the town of Thurmont and heading to Gorham, the next town over.” I hadn’t even heard of these Maryland towns.
“Okay,” I said. “Merlin and I have to go make a pickup. Keep updating me.”
“On it.”
She called back a few minutes later, when Merlin and I were driving in the Chrysler. “It’s stopped moving.”
“Where?”
“I have the location on Google Earth. It’s pretty much what you expected — a large house surrounded by woods, fenced in.”
“How many buildings?”
“Two. One small one that looks like a garage. Then the main compound.”
“What about the entry?”
“As far as I can tell, just a gate.”
“No booth?”
“Nothing that elaborate.”
“Okay. Long driveway?”
“More than a driveway. A long road that winds through the woods and then broadens out to a clearing, where the house is.”
“You have the street address. Can you get any info on the house from the county, or the town? Maybe even blueprints?”
“Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”
Merlin drummed his fingers on the dashboard as I drove. He was wracked with nervous energy. I could tell he wanted another smoke.
I said to him, “You know where we’re going?”
“Yup. You got the cash, right?”
“Got it.”
“You have the address now?”
“We do.”
“So it worked, the tracker.”
“Apparently.”
“What if he discovers it?”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’ll see it’s a book, open it, see the inscription, probably be a little baffled and a little annoyed.”
“And suspicious?”
“Not likely.”
“If he does? If he rips open the binding and finds where you glued the tracker?”
I shrugged, said nothing.
“Then he’ll be waiting for you. For us.”
“Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.”
A long silence followed. Then my phone rang: Dorothy.
“No blueprints online with the city or the county,” she said. “But I found something interesting. A couple of building permits issued by the building inspector in Gorham. One was to build an outbuilding, a shed of some kind. The other was for the construction of a safe room.”
“In Vogel’s compound?”
“Right. On the ground floor. The walls are made of steel panels and ballistic-proof composite. It’s got its own generator.”
“Okay. Anything on the security system?”
“Nothing.”
“Can you send me a screenshot of the house?”
“Sure thing.”
I hung up. “All right,” I said to Merlin. “Change of plans.”
76
The UPS truck pulled into the private road and came to a stop at the gate.
It was a tall black wrought-iron gate, simple and spare, devoid of any scrollwork or curlicues. All along its top were sharp spear points.
The driver noticed the stone pillar on the left side of the gate, on which were mounted a camera and an intercom. He advanced his truck a few feet more, leaned out his window, and pressed a button.
After fifteen seconds or so, a voice came over the intercom: “Yes?”
“UPS. Package for Thomas, uh, Vogel. I need a signature.”
Another pause. Less than ten seconds this time. “All right.”
Slowly the gate slid to the right, and when it was fully open, the brown truck proceeded down the unpaved tree-lined road, which wound through the woods for quite a while. Finally the road opened up into a clearing, and there was a house, large and rambling, handsome, but not at all imposing.
It had a low-pitched roof, with generously overhanging eaves. Exposed, scalloped rafter tails. Dormers both gabled and hipped. The windows had single-paned bottom sashes with multi-paned top sashes.
The casing around the front door was wide, as was the casing around the windows, with their detailed mullion work. The house was built in the Craftsman style, and it was clearly done with great pride and attention to detail.
I was impressed. If Vogel had really built this house with his own hands, he did excellent work.
Merlin, who was driving, shut off the engine and handed me the electronic clipboard. While he went to the back of the truck to retrieve one of the duffel bags, I came around the hood to the front door. I rang the doorbell.
If Vogel came to the door, I was ready. But I didn’t expect him to, and he didn’t. Someone else opened the front door, a bulky guy with short black hair and a steroid-poisoned look. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and had overdeveloped pecs.
“Thomas Vogel?” I said through the screen door.
“I can sign,” the guy said. “Where’s the package?”
“It’s a big piece of exercise equipment. Before I take it down from the truck, can you eyeball it, make sure it looks right?”
The guy shrugged, looking a little uncertain, pushed open the screen door, and came out. I took a quick look at the small foyer inside, the living room next to it, and I froze the image in my mind.
I led the way to the back of the truck. There, I pulled open the roll-up door, and he saw the nearly empty cargo bay. All we had back there were the stingray and a pile of zip ties and one of the two duffel bags. Merlin had already placed the other duffel at the back of the house.
I saw Merlin approach but hang back, watching me.
The guy said, “What the hell—”
But my right arm was already swooping around his right shoulder and hooking his thick neck in the crook of my elbow. He flung his fists out and back at me, but it was useless. Grabbing my bicep with my left hand, I drew my shoulders back, and it tightened up like a scissor. I squeezed, compressing the carotid arteries on either side of his neck.
Within ten seconds, he slumped. He’d be unconscious for only a few seconds, really, but when he came to he’d be swimming out of a daze and sluggish. It took Merlin and me about a minute and a half to zip-tie his hands and legs, hog-tying him. I ripped off a length of duct tape and taped his mouth closed.