Chapter 21
Thad had a map of the New York metropolitan area in the glove compartment of his pickup truck, and I navigated as he drove east across Brooklyn and then Queens. A light drizzle was falling again, and Thad drove with determination but care on the slick highways, dodging both potholes, where he could, and early-Sunday-morning drunks.
Day and Kemmerer had offered, without enthusiasm, to ride along and help in any way they could, but that made no sense so they were off the hook. Two of the four of us would have had to ride in the bed of the pickup, either exposed to the weather or under a tarp with eggplant debris. Anyhow, what were they going to do when we arrived at Welch's house, the address of which was conveniently listed in the Nassau County phone book? Thad and I assured Day and Kemmerer that once we became convinced that Jay Plankton was in fact being held in Hempstead, we would notify the local police department before proceding.
The radio news reports offered no substantive late developments. The headlines were still the tongue arriving at the Post and the threat of additional gruesome bodily harm to Plankton. The reporter did add that following Sunday morning services at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Archbishop Egan was expected to make a personal appeal to the kidnappers for the J-Bird's release. Joining the cleric in his plea would be Babette Gallagher, a woman who described herself as Jay Plankton's "fiancee." Interviewed by WINS, Gallagher spoke with emotion but said in a controlled voice that her boyfriend "did not deserve to be mutilated." She added, "Jay is no saint, but who is?"
Just after 4:30, Thad and I pulled into a Dunkin' Donuts near the West Hempstead Long Island Rail Road station. I went in and asked for directions to Parsons Drive.
This produced an elaborate confab involving all of the shift personnel. The consensus was that Parsons Drive was just four blocks away. I bought two black coffees and a bag of crullers, and went back out to the truck.
"It's nearby. Go down that way three blocks, and turn right."
"Then what?" Thad said.
"I don't know."
"When should we call the police?"
I got out my cellphone, switched it on, and told Diefendorfer, "I don't know the answer to that, either. When the time comes, we'll recognize it, I think."
Thad drove out onto the highway. "This is kind of exciting," he said.
"Do you have goose bumps?"
"I think so. But I'm developing a lot of gas, too. I guess I'm not nineteen anymore."
We soon turned off the commercial street onto a leafy avenue of ample wood-frame and shingled single-family residences with small but tidy lawns and glistening, rain-drenched late-model sedans and SUVs in the driveways. Few lights were on in the houses, but the streetlights at the intersections cast enough illumination for us to read some of the house numbers, and we soon spotted Dave Welch's place.
"Go on by," I told Thad.
"Right. Let's think this through."
Welch's house was a two-story, brown-shingled place with a chalet-style A over the front door, a couple of big oaks on either side of the structure, and bushy shrubs under all the first-floor windows. A screened porch on the left side of the house was dark, as were the other first-floor rooms. Up above, though, dim lights were visible behind drawn curtains at two second-story windows. Three cars were parked out front: a gray Toyota Previa and a black VW Passat, one behind the other in the driveway, and a beige Ford sedan on the street. The Ford looked as though it could have been an NYPD unmarked car, maybe Lyle's.
"The Toyota could be the getaway car," I said. "After they grabbed Plankton, they put him in a stolen Lincoln Navigator and then they switched to what one witness thought was a light-colored van. The Previa could be mistaken for a van."
"It's funny that they wouldn't hide it," Thad said.
"It's a vague description that fits a lot of vehicles in the state of New York."
Thad cruised down the block, made a U in an intersection, then slowly backtracked.
"Let's park here," I said, and Thad pulled in front of a darkened house two doors up and across the street from Welch's. We had a clear view of the Welch house. The second-floor lights remained on, but no movement was detectable behind the curtains. Thad doused his headlights and cut the engine. No lights had been on in any of the other nearby houses, and none came on when we parked. If our activities aroused the interest of any neighborhood insomniacs, they were not letting us know it.
"Now what?" Thad said.
"I'm thinking this over."
Thad rolled his window down, and after a moment he said, "I don't hear anything."
"No."
"They'd probably have Plankton gagged. Don't you think?"
"Yes, although if they actually cut out his tongue, I guess he'd be limited in the sounds he could make. Anyway, he would be physically traumatized by that ordeal, and maybe not even conscious."
"That's awful. I sure hope they didn't do it."
The night air was warm, and the cab of Thad's truck smelled of him and of eggplant, both pleasing.
After a time, I said, "Thad, you don't happen to have a firearm with you, do you? In the glove compartment?"
"No, I don't own a gun."
"Mine is in Albany," I said. "I didn't anticipate a confrontation with violent people. At least, not without being in the company of the New York Police Department. By that I mean, being in the company of NYPD officers and with their being on my side in this thing."
"Of course, there's been some ambiguity about which side you're on," Thad said.
"Not really. Not when it comes to bodily harm. I'm against that, generally speaking."
"Oh, good."
"But self-defense might soon become an issue. I take it you have no problem with self-defense."
"I prefer to avoid situations where I might be called upon to employ, say, fisticuffs.
On the other hand, if someone is bent on causing me serious bodily injury, I suppose I could find it within my ethical means to eviscerate the poor soul."
"Great."
We sat some more, peering over at the Welch house.
"What I need to know," I said after a moment, "is who is in there, and are they armed? Being cops, chances arc they are."
"Right."
"I'm especially interested to know if Lylc is inside that house. And if so, what is his situation vis-a-vis the others inside?"
"Why don't you call him up and ask him?" Thad said. "You have his cellphone number. If he's in there, you don't have to tell him that you're sitting in a truck across the street."
"Hmm."
"Barner might not be willing to tell you where he is at all. Which would be a good indication that he's up to no good and is probably inside Welch's house. Actually, I could go over there and hide in the darkness, and I could listen for a phone to ring inside. It's so quiet around here that I'd probably hear it."
"I don't know," I said. "It's somewhat risky for you, Thad. Can you protect yourself if you have to?"
"I've got a tire iron under the seat. I can take that. But I won't get caught. All my old skulking skills will surely come back. I'll bet skulking is like swimming or riding a bicycle. Your body doesn't forget habitual sneaking around."
"Are you getting goose bumps again?"
"No, I think I'm too exhausted for goose bumps. I haven't been up this late since about 1980. Most farmers are just getting out of bed at this hour, not still up from the night before. But I've got enough adrenaline pumping now to do whatever it is we need to do. The caffeine should help, too," Thad said, and took a swig of his coffee.
"Okay, go ahead. When I've lost sight of you, I'll wait thirty seconds and then dial."
"Make it a minute," Thad said. "Let me get used to the sounds around the house."
"Okay. I'll dial sixty seconds after I've lost sight of you."
Thad reached under his seat, groped around, and soon came up with a tire iron. "Here goes," he said. He switched the cab's overhead light to the off position so the cab would not light up when he opened the door. He exited the truck quietly, then eased the door shut with a soft click.