“I got ten bucks says the captain will have her licking his ice-cream cone by then.”
“You’re on.”
Safe bet. Hinks is convinced that Wald is projecting his own adolescent fantasies, what he’d do if he was the one inside the target home. Cutter is different. Cutter will remain in control not only of the target but of himself.
That’s what Hinks thinks. And so far he’s been right on the money.
6 method man
The idea that the man in the mask might want to rape me rattles inside my head, bouncing around like a malevolent pinball. Can’t quite grasp what I will do if he tries. Saving my son remains the primary concern. The only concern, really. My physical well-being doesn’t concern me at the moment. All that matters is getting Tommy back.
It’s like this: if cutting off my hands would make this man go away and return my son to my bleeding arms, I’d do it. No hesitation. That’s the kind of bargain I’m willing to make.
“So you’re a widow,” he’s saying, waving the gun at me like a wand. “Must have been tough.” He pauses, tilts his head. “You may respond.”
“It was tough,” I concede.
“But you bounced back,” he says, sounding weirdly, creepily cheerful. “Did very well for yourself, Kate.”
I remain in the chair, palms sweating, heart slamming. I can still feel the impression the barrel made on my forehead. Meanwhile, the man in the mask acts like it never happened, like we’re having a normal conversation. There he sits in my best leather chair, confident and pleased with himself, as if he’s an honored guest in my house. It makes me hate him. Makes me think that if I had the gun I’d use it, no hesitation. Which is something of a shock. Never having imagined I was capable of such a thing.
Oh, but I am. And yet I dare not make a move. The man in the mask is much stronger than I am, much quicker, and it’s clear he won’t hesitate to kill me if I give him reason to.
I’m sitting here in a cold sweat, thinking about nightmares. How vivid and real they can be. But nothing like this. Nothing like the dread that has settled into my bones. A dread that comes from the realization that there’s nothing random about what has happened. It has all been planned, down to the last detail. Consider: the man in the mask knew exactly where Tommy would be. My son was taken from a crowded parking lot without anyone witnessing the snatch, not even me. My home-security system was breached, no problem. And the cell-phone call that pissed him off seems to be connected to another kidnapping. Tommy has been drugged and taken away and I will eventually be allowed to speak to him over the phone, supposedly. All of which confirms that others must be involved. The man in the mask is part of a team. A team of professional kidnappers using proven terror tactics to enrich themselves.
That’s the real nightmare.
Despite all the mall stories about bogeymen, all the sad-looking kids on milk cartons, I’d always assumed real kidnappers were rare, opportunistic predators. Sick loners who stole children for their own twisted sexual purposes. The notion of teams of professional abductors, terrorizing families for money, that was supposed to be a third world phenomenon. Something that happened in Mexico or Colombia or the Philippines. Not here. Not in suburban Connecticut. Not in Fairfax.
But it is happening. Facts on the ground, as the shouting heads on TV like to say. Nothing I can do to change what has already occurred. My mind has been racing with what-ifs. What if we never went to the game? What if I never let Tommy out of my sight? What if I’d called 911 from the parking lot as soon as the first pang of worry quivered in my gut? What if? What if?
Too late, Kate. Deal with it. Find a way.
Part of me remains convinced the man in the mask intends to kill me no matter what I do, or how much money he gets out of me, that erasing the victims is all part of the plan. But I can’t allow myself to give up hope. Not as long as there’s a chance, however small. Imprinted in my brain is the promise he’s made, that he will put me in contact with my son. Presumably before I get him the money, however that is to be accomplished.
My bank, I know, is closed for the day. Five o’clock they shut the doors. And it’s now well after six. The thought of waiting until tomorrow makes me physically ill. I can’t stand it that long, can I? My heart will stop if I can’t speak to Tommy soon, assure myself he’s okay.
“I can see your mind racing, Kate,” says the man in the mask. “You’re wondering how we’re going to do this. How you get the money and exchange it for your son.”
I keep my mouth shut, knowing he’ll tell me.
“Very good,” he says, amused. “You’re learning not to respond without permission. We knew you were a smart lady, Kate. That’s why this is going to work, once you learn the method.”
A phone bleats, jolting me in the seat. My phone this time. He pauses, cocking his head. “Let it go,” he instructs. “Your voice mail will get it. Then we’ll see who it is.”
The phone rings six times and then goes silent.
“Two minutes,” he says, settling back in my chair. “Relax.”
I’m watching the digital clock on the VCR. Never thought a second could take so long to elapse, as if time itself has become molten. Tick, tick, tick—but of course there’s no actual sound. No comfort from an old-fashioned clock.
When a little more than two minutes has passed, the man in the mask stands up. He moves a few steps to his left, the gun pivoting as he moves, unerringly aimed at my heart. He retrieves the nearest phone and returns to my chair. Settling in, getting comfortable. Mocking me with a small, satisfied smile. With his left hand he thumbs a number.
“Surprised?” he asks. “I know your voice-mail code, Kate. I know everything.”
He pauses, listening to the prompts, thumbs a button on the receiver, listens some more.
“Somebody named Jake,” he says, disconnecting. “Wants to know if you located Tommy. Would Jake be the guy at the snack trailer by any chance?”
I wait.
“You may respond,” he says.
“Yes.”
He tosses the phone at me. It hits the middle of my chest, right between my breasts, and falls into my lap. “Pick it up,” he says. “Call him back. Tell him the kid was at home when you got here. All is well.”
I scroll to Jake’s number, am about to key it in.
“Wait,” says the man in the mask. “This is your first test, Kate. Convince him. Convince me. If you fail, if you try to get cute, end of story. You and your son are both dead. Got it?”
I nod.
“Proceed.”
The connection opens almost immediately. “Jake Gavner.”
The phone is so slippery with my own sweat that I have to grip it with all my might. “Jake? Um, this is Kate Bickford returning your call. Just wanted to let you know Tommy is fine. He was here when I got home, playing a video game.”
“Great. Give him my best.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Helluva a game he had.”
“Sure was. Helluva game.”
“Hey, put him on. I’ll tell him so myself. Maybe give him a rain check for that ice-cream sundae.”
For an awful moment my mind goes totally blank. I’m aware that the man in the mask is studying me with interest, as if curious to know whether I’ll pull this off. Whether I’ll live to make another phone call. The studied indifference is a pose—it has to be—but it says he doesn’t care one way or another. Live or die, my choice.
“Sorry, Jake. Sent him to the shower.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on the kid. Isn’t every day a boy gets a game-winning double.”