“Good job.”
“10-4.”
Ceepak snaps off his radio.
“Let's go get Ashley.”
We're the first unit on the scene, of course.
The old train depot is really more like a covered platform with a small hut attached. On one side of the hut is the arched window where they used to sell tickets. On the other is the baggage room where they stored suitcases and packages.
It's not so dark any more. The fire from the hotel, about a half-mile farther north, is lighting up the sky pretty good.
“Careful,” Ceepak says as we walk across the weedy railroad bed. There's no rails, just the rotting, tarry ties and some compacted gravel.
As pissed-off as I am, I realize he's right. We need to be careful. There might be armed guards keeping watch over Ashley. Mendez's men could be inside with their own sniper weapon systems or shotguns or whatever you use to guard a kidnapped kid.
“Should we wait for backup?” I ask.
“I don't anticipate that will be necessary. But try to remain quiet.”
Ceepak tiptoes ahead and climbs up on an old rusty barrel so he can peek in a window to the baggage room. He sees something because he holds up his hand to tell me to stay still, not make a sound. He watches for a second, then slowly slips down and motions for me to follow.
We move around to the back of the depot. I see the door to the baggage room. There's a locker-room-size padlock through a hasp on the door.
“Ashley?” Ceepak calls out.
“Yes?” It's her voice. It's weak and trembling, but I recognize it.
“This is Officer John Ceepak. I am here with my partner Danny Boyle. The two of us are coming in, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We may have to kick down the door.”
“Hurry! Please! Before he comes back! Hurry!”
Ceepak walks to the door.
But he isn't hurrying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I think every vehicle in the county with any kind of flashing light bar on its roof is parked in a circle around the train depot.
Ashley is covered with a thick wool blanket and sitting in the back of an open ambulance while a doctor and nurse check her out. Her mom is with her on the little bed, hugging her. The kid was in pretty good shape when we kicked down the door and rescued her: She was sitting on an old steamer trunk with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles handcuffed together so she couldn't run. Fortunately, Squeegee didn't tie the knots too tight, so Ashley didn't have rope burn on her wrists. The handcuffs securing her legs were pretty loose, too. They didn't pinch into her ankles at all.
Ashley was, however, still wearing the skimpy outfit she'd been forced to put on for the Polaroid. It's why she's wrapped up in the blanket now.
The chief had some of the guys set up a perimeter so the reporters who raced up here behind all the police cars and fire trucks could be held at bay. The TV klieg lights are making it feel like high noon, even though it's closer to midnight.
I see Ceepak over near a black sedan, talking to Morgan. They're nodding at each other. I guess the FBI agent understands-sometimes you have to shoot a guy in order to stop him from molesting more kids.
The chief looks happier than I've ever seen him. Completely free of acid indigestion. He's bouncing around, shaking hands with everybody he bumps into. He struts over to the reporters and TV cameras to make a statement, looking like the football coach who just won the big game. Mayor Sinclair is beside him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief says, “I am pleased to report that, thanks to the diligent efforts of some very brave Sea Haven police officers and the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group, Ashley Hart is going home. She's safe. Unharmed. She's doing great.”
“Do you have the kidnapper?
“Did he shoot Ashley's father?”
“Did he confess? To the murder of Reginald Hart?”
The chief holds up his beefy right paw to calm the crowd.
“We do not have all the answers. Unfortunately, the kidnapper died in tonight's fire and explosion at the old Palace Hotel….”
“How'd the fire start?”
“We're not certain, but we suspect arson,” the chief says.
“Are the crimes related? The arson, the kidnapping, the murder?”
“I really can't speculate about that at this time….”
“Was it just a coincidence? That the kidnapper happened to be in the hotel when an arsonist burned it down?”
“As I said, I am not in a position to speculate on those matters at this time. An investigation is ongoing. The fire department is on the scene, working the hotel. State arson investigators are on their way as well. We hope to have more answers for you folks ASAP. But right now-well, I'm just damn glad we got Ashley! She's safe, folks! She's going home!”
“And,” the mayor steps up to the microphones, “tomorrow is Monday! A sunderful new week begins here in Sea Haven. We're thinking of throwing a big beach party to celebrate Ashley's homecoming! Free refreshments….”
The reporters ignore him.
“Chief? When can we see Ashley? Can we talk to her? How's her mother holding up?”
“Guys? Come on. Give the kid a break….”
“There she goes!”
One reporter points and all the cameras swing to see what he's pointing at.
Ashley, covered in the blanket, walks with her mother to their Mercedes sedan, surrounded by a crowd of state and local police. Looks like they'll be traveling home in their very own motorcade.
Ashley's in such good shape, I guess she doesn't need to go to the hospital.
She just needs to go home.
I walk over to where somebody has set up a folding table with food and drinks.
Hey, what's a successful end to a manhunt without a few snacks and cold beverages?
Unfortunately, there's no beer in the Igloo cooler, just Pepsi. I looked.
“Boyle?”
It's the chief.
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work.”
“Thanks.”
“What's wrong, son?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You look like somebody just shot your dog.”
Nope. No dogs were harmed in this evening's activities. Just this one homeless guy. Jerry, a.k.a. Squeegee. A guy who gave his girlfriend his favorite shirt because she was cold.
“Listen, son-Ceepak did what he had to do. He did what needed to be done.”
“Do you know what he did, sir?”
“No. And I don't need to know any details. The end justifies whatever means he deemed necessary, understand?”
No. Not really.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“You want to be a cop, you have to come to peace with this sort of thing. The greater good, Boyle. The greater good.” He's actually wagging his finger at me. “The Greater Good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How's Ceepak holding up?”
“Okay, I guess. Considering.”
“Yeah,” the chief sucks in a chestful of night air. “Rough duty whenever you bring a man down. There will be an investigation. They'll want to ask you a bunch of questions. How did the fire get started? What happened to your suspect? Why didn't you apprehend him prior to the conflagration? That sort of thing. They might even recover the bullet … provided they find the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you can handle it, son?”
“I hope so.”
“You just need to give the right answers. It's actually pretty easy to do. Tell you what, when you're ready to go over your story, work up the details of what you remember, come see me, okay?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Great. I never had a Code or anything but, on the other hand, I've never intentionally lied about something this big before, either.
Now, it seems like lying is going to become part of my job.
I go looking for Ceepak.
Hey, I'm still on the company dime and it's my job to drive the guy home.
Tomorrow?
I'll probably start the sunny, funderful new week by quitting. Or at least asking for a new assignment. I've decided I don't want to be the hitman's chauffeur any longer. And I hope the department can whitewash their internal investigation without me, because if they ask me any questions, I will tell them no lies.