38
Raymond Benjamin sat in the black Ford Escape and finished his third pack of the day. He rolled down the window and flicked the butt into the wind, where it landed among a pile of a dozen other butts that had come from the same vehicle.
Ray's heart had been racing for nearly twenty-four hours straight. Vince was dead. And though he had no love lost for the bumbling idiot, there was a huge difference between thinking someone a dolt and wishing them dead. He still couldn't figure out how Parker, the girl and the black guy with the gun had found the Reed family. It should have been quick, easy and relatively painless. At least for him and Vince. They'd both loaded their guns with dumdum rounds-hollow-point bullets. There were four targets: Robert Reed, Elaine Reed, Patrick Reed and the girl. Caroline Twomey. They didn't want to take any chances that one or more of them might have gotten away or fought back. He'd met Robert Reed before, and the man had some athletic genes.
The dumdum rounds were specially designed to expand upon impact, the bullets deforming when they entered the skin, causing a maximum of trauma. That way even if they didn't get off a kill shot, the wound would have been devastating enough to keep the target down. With four targets, you couldn't take chances.
Now Vince was dead. He'd worked with the man for going on seven years, and while Raymond never would have asked him to be on his team for Trivial Pursuit, he had developed an odd affection for him, like an owner with a three-legged dog.
When Parker began to investigate Petrovsky, Ray knew the plan had encountered serious problems. Reporters didn't just go away. If anything, resistance made them dig deeper. And especially after he looked into Parker, he realized that this guy would never quit, wouldn't back down, even when facing down the barrel of a gun. And to compound that, Bob and Elaine clearly left the house on
Huntley in an effort to disappear, or at least hide out until they could figure out how to untangle themselves from the mess. Raymond had never fully trusted Elaine Reed. It took too long. Too much effort. When they ran away in that tin can of a minivan, to Raymond that's when the answer became clear. It wasn't something Raymond wanted to do, but it was necessary.
He'd run it up the flagpole. Nothing happened without the say-so of his employer. And, like Ray, his employer wasn't thrilled with the option but realized there was no choice. The Reeds had to disappear, along with Caroline
Twomey.
As far as Ray knew, the Windstar was still in play. The
Reeds were hardly versed in espionage. Hell, he'd be surprised if Elaine even knew how to use e-mail. Soon he'd have the car's location, and if the Reeds were there he would correct everything that had gone wrong.
He raised the window and turned on the engine. He found a good jazz station with John Coltrane's quartet playing "Pursuance." He sat and listened to the entire song, felt the rhythm swim through his head. He reached into the glove compartment, closed his hand around the gun, and felt like everything would even out.
This time had been a mistake. It was unfortunate for
Caroline Twomey. The next time, though, they would make things right.
39
I left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a second hoping that her window might lower, her head drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull over and all sorts of romance would ensue. 'Course, that didn't happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned out of sight when it became green.
I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had begun anew. We'd found the Reeds once, and that was almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they, would be so lucky.
The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.
I got onto the subway, flipping through the Gazette to pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I'd probably slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the
Gazette was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the target market for our reporting skills.
I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me up immediately.
Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O'Donnell. And he looked no worse for wear.
Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked, half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself by Jack's desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like they'd survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked exactly like what you'd expect a seasoned reporter would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary smile spreading across his lips.
"Hey there, if it isn't the boy who saved an old man's life."
"Come on," I said, "stop it." I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.
"Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude.
I've been on this earth for a long time-maybe I've outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I've done-but if not for you there's a good chance I wouldn't be here right now. So thank you."
"You don't need to thank me, Jack," I said. "You'd have done the same for me."
"Saved your life?" he said. "An old bag of bones like me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the gesture, but you're the hero here."
"If you remember," I said, "you saved my life a few years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought I'd killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it doesn't suit you."
Jack smiled smugly. "Okay, I'll take it. But I promise, that's the last time you'll have to go picking me up off a floor. Unless I'm break-dancing, but then all bets are off.
Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you're in the middle of a pretty tense story. What's the deal?"
I recounted everything that had happened since I first interviewed Daniel Linwood. I told him about the discovery of Michelle Oliveira's disappearance, our attempt to follow Dmitri Petrovsky and the doctor's murder. About the Reeds and how I believed they'd kidnapped a girl named Caroline Twomey for reasons I still didn't know.
And about Raymond Benjamin, the career thug who was somehow mixed up in all this.
Jack sat there, resting his head on his hands, his eyes betraying a sense of worry. When I was finished he stayed seated for another moment, took a breath, closed his eyes, and said, "It's not supposed to be this difficult, Henry. You can't put your life in danger on every story."
"That's not fair, Jack. I didn't choose for this to happen.
I was assigned to the Linwood story, and then-"
"And then what? That should have been the end of it.
Your piece on the Linwood boy was terrific. Case closed.
So what happened?"
"Life happened," I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. "I can't speak for you, Jack, but I can't just let things go. As soon as I knew there was more to the
Linwood story, as soon as I realized there were people who didn't want me digging, it's like…it's like someone turned on a switch inside me. And I can't stop until I know everything."