‘Georges? My children?’ she asked. ‘Have they arrived yet? Will you let me see them if they’re here?’
‘They’re on their way,’ I said. ‘We’ll bring them in as soon as they arrive. I’d like to ask a few questions while everything is still fresh in your mind. I’m sorry about this. There may be other missing people, Mrs Meek. We think that there are.’
‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Let me try to help then. If I can, I will. Ask your questions.’
She was a brave woman and she told me about the kidnapping, including a description of the man and woman who had grabbed her. It fit the late Slava Vasilev and Zoya Petrov. Then Audrey Meek took me through the ritual of the days that she was held captive by the man who called himself the Art Director.
‘He said he liked to wait on me, that he enjoyed it immensely. It was as if he was used to being subservient. But I sensed he also wanted to be my friend. It was so terribly weird. He’d seen me on TV and read articles about Meek, my company. He said he admired my sense of style and the way I didn’t seem to have too many airs about myself. He made me have sex with him.’ Audrey Meek was holding herself together so well. Her strength amazed me, and I wondered if that was what her captor had admired.
‘Can I get you water? Anything?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I saw his face,’ she said. ‘I even tried to draw it for the police. I think it’s a good likeness. It’s him.’
This was getting stranger by the moment. Why would the Art Director let her see him, then release her? I’d never known anything like it, not in any other kidnapping case.
Audrey Meek sighed, and nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she continued.
‘He admitted that he was obsessive-compulsive. About cleanliness, art, style, about loving another human being. He confessed several times that he adored me. He was often derogatory about himself. Did I tell you about the house?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure what I said here – or to the officers who found me.’
‘You didn’t talk about the house yet,’ I said.
‘It was covered with some material, like a heavy-duty cellophane. It reminded me of event art. Like Christo. There were dozens of paintings inside. Very good ones. You ought to be able to find a house covered in cellophane.’
‘We’ll find it,’ I agreed. ‘We’re looking now.’
The door to the room where we were talking opened a crack. A trooper in a brimmed hat peeked in, then he opened the door wide and Audrey Meek’s husband, Georges, and her two children burst inside. It was such an unbelievably rare moment in abduction cases, especially one in which someone has been missing for nearly a week. The Meek children looked afraid at first. Their father gently urged them forward and unbelievable joy took over. Their faces were wreathed in smiles and tears, and there was an incredible group hug that seemed to last for ever.
‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!’ the smaller child shrieked and clung to her mother as if she’d never let go of her again.
My eyes filled, and then I went to the worktable. Audrey Meek had made two drawings. I looked at the face of the man who had held her captive for a week. He looked very ordinary, like anybody you’d meet on the street.
The Art Director.
Why did you let her go? I wondered.
Chapter Fifty-Two
We got another possible break around midnight. The police had information about a house covered with a plastic material in Ottsville, Pennsylvania. Ottsville was about sixty-five miles away, and we drove there in several cars in the middle of the night. It was tough duty at the end of a long day, but nobody was complaining too much.
Ottsville was about seven miles from Erwinna, Pennsylvania, where a covered bridge crossed the Delaware River to New Jersey. Unfortunately, the ride from the bridge was on narrow, winding roads and took over twenty minutes.
When we arrived, the scene reminded me of my past life in D.C. – officers used to wait for me there too. Three sedans and a couple of black vans were parked along the heavily wooded country road around a bend from a dirt lane that led to the house. Ned Mahoney and I met up with the local sheriff, Eddie Lyle.
‘Lights are all out in the house,’ Mahoney sniffed as we approached what was actually a renovated log cabin. The only access to the secluded property was the dirt road. His HRT teams were waiting on his command to ‘go’.
‘It’s nearly two,’ I said. ‘He might be waiting on us, though. I think there’s something desperate about this guy.’
‘Why’s that?’ Mahoney wanted to know. ‘I need to hear.’
‘He let her go. She saw his face, and the house, the car too. He must have known we’d find him here.’
‘My people know what they’re doing,’ the sheriff interrupted, and sounded offended that he was being ignored. I didn’t much care what he thought – I had seen a local, inexperienced rookie cop blown away in Virginia one time. ‘I know what I’m doing too,’ the sheriff added.
I stopped talking to Mahoney and stared at Lyle. ‘Hold it right there. We don’t know what’s waiting for us inside the house, but we do know this – he knew we’d find this place and come for him. Now you tell your men to stand down. FBI HRT goes in first! You’re backup for us. Do you have a problem with that?’
The sheriff’s face reddened and he thrust out his chin. ‘I sure as hell do, but it doesn’t mean fuck-all, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter at all. So tell your men to stand down. You stand down too. I don’t care how good you think you are.’
I started walking forward again with Mahoney, who was grinning, and not trying to hide it. ‘You’re a hot ticket, man,’ he said. A couple of his snipers had been watching the cabin from less than fifty yards away. I could see that it had a gabled roof with a dormer on the loft level. Everything was dark inside.
‘This is HRT One. Anything going on in there, Kilvert?’ Mahoney spoke into his mike to one of the snipers.
‘Not that I can see, sir. What’s the take on the UNSUB?’
Mahoney looked at me.
My eyes moved slowly across the cabin, and the front and side yards. Everything looked neat, well-maintained, and seemed to be in good repair. Power lines led to the roof.
‘He wanted us to come here, Ned. That can’t be good.’
‘Booby trap?’ he asked. ‘That’s how we plan to proceed.’
I nodded. ‘That’s how I would go. If we’re wrong it’ll give the locals some yuks!’
‘Fuck the local yokels,’ said Mahoney.
‘I agree with that. Now that I’m not a local anymore.’
‘Hotel and Charlie teams, this is HRT One,’ Mahoney spoke into his mike. ‘This is control. On the ready. Five, four, three, two, one, go!’
Two HRT teams of seven rose up from ‘phase line yellow,’ which is the final position for cover and concealment. They passed ‘phase line green’ on the way to the house. After that there was no turning back.
HRT’s motto for this kind of action is ‘speed, surprise and violence of action’. They are very good at it, better than anything the Washington P.D. has to offer. Within a matter of seconds, the Hotel and Charlie teams were inside the cottage where Audrey Meek had been kept captive for over a week. Then Mahoney and I burst in through the back door and into the kitchen. I saw stove, refrigerator, cabinets, table.
No Art Director.
No resistance of any kind.
Not yet.
Mahoney and I moved ahead cautiously. The living-room area had a wood-burning stove, a striped, contemporary-style couch in beige and brown, several club chairs. A big chest covered by a dark green afghan. Everything was tasteful and organized.