And then, for once, karma found me.
At Takela Drive, the light turned red and a FedEx truck pulled out moving right to left, directly into our path. The Subaru driver was too quick on the wheel and too heavy on the brakes. He spun — a 360-degree turn, up and over the curb, across the sidewalk and into a stand of juniper bushes, directly in front of the local California Department of Motor Vehicles office.
I slammed my gear shift into “park” at the curb and jumped out as he flung open his door. He was a big dude, around fifty, with a big, lumberjack-like beard in a big, shearling sheepskin coat.
“What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re—”
I was on him before he could finish his sentence, grabbing him by his coat, hauling him out, and shoving him face down in the snow in front of the DMV, my forearm around his throat, my knee in the small of his back.
“Move and I’ll snap your spine.”
I looked over at the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Her hair was dark red and shoulder length, like Savannah’s. Only this woman was about twenty years younger, considerably less attractive, with a long, drawn face. She was terrified of me.
“Please, sir, don’t hurt my father.”
I rolled him over. Under his coat was a cleric’s black shirt and white collar. A silver crucifix hung from a leather strand around his neck.
A clergyman.
Way to go, Logan.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s been said of me. I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were somebody else.”
I helped him to his feet, dusting the snow off of him. For someone who’d just been chased down and assaulted, he seemed surprisingly forgiving.
“We all make mistakes,” he said.
“Some of us more than others,” I said.
The minister volunteered that his daughter was recently diagnosed with cancer, and more recently divorced from a domestic abuser against whom she’d had to take out a restraining order. They were driving to San Francisco to meet with her oncologist when I showed up in their rearview mirror.
“Her ex-husband has a Yukon just like yours,” the minister said. “That’s why I didn’t pull over.”
I showed him Savannah’s picture and explained why I’d chased them. The minister commented on how pretty she was. He hadn’t seen her around and offered to pray for her safe return. I told him I could use all the help I could get.
The Subaru, from everything I could tell, appeared to have sustained no damage. The minister rocked it out of the snow and I helped push it back across the sidewalk, into the road.
“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” he said. “You seem like a good man.” He handed me his card. “You should think about coming to Sunday services. You’d be amazed, the miracles that can occur when you put your life in the Lord’s hands.”
“If you say so.”
We both knew my going to church would be a miracle in itself.
“I wish you His grace,” he said.
“Safe travels. Good luck at the doctor.”
The minister’s daughter tried to smile.
I watched them drive on, haunted by the expression on her face. I could tell she wasn’t long for the world. Call it a gift or a curse. Frequently, I can look at someone and know intuitively they’re going to die young. We were studying the Civil War in high school, rotogravure photos of young soldiers, when I first realized I had that skill. Those soldiers who’d been killed in battle all seemed to share the same look as they stared into the camera: a faint, almost imperceptible sadness in their eyes, as if they knew they wouldn’t make it to old age. I caught the same look in the eyes of otherwise happy classmates who would die prematurely while driving drunk or by some terrible disease. I saw it in the eyes of fellow pilots, killed in action, and in the eyes of go-to guys who served with me in Alpha, and who never made it home. Sometimes, when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I thought I saw the same look in my own eyes.
A chill came over me and my teeth chattered climbing back into the Yukon. Even with the heat on high, I shook uncontrollably. The weather had nothing to do with it.
Where are you, Savannah? Please be OK.
I studied her photo, her exquisite face. Whatever ominous portend I’d discerned in the eyes of those soldiers and friends whose lives were cut short, I couldn’t see in hers. I felt relief, if only for a moment. Then my phone rang. The incoming number registered to “Private Caller.”
“Logan.”
“I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you.” The voice on the other end was male, late thirties to early forties. He spoke with a decidedly Australian accent. “We’ve got your lady. Cooperate with us, mate, you’ll get her back. Choose not to, you’ll never see her alive again.”
NINE
I sucked in as much air as my lungs would accept and let it out slowly, dropping my heart rate, slowing my metabolism, and narrowing my focus, the way I’d been trained to shoot.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Right. Like I’m just gonna give you my name.”
“Doesn’t have to be your real name. Give me something. We can at least be civil.”
“All right,” he said. “You can call me Crocodile Dundee.”
“Crocodile Dundee it is. Now, if you would, please do me a favor and put her on the phone.”
“You’re not dictating terms here, mate. I am.”
“Put her on the phone or this conversation’s over.”
I was bluffing. The last thing I wanted him to do was hang up on him. But if I’d learned anything as an operator, it was that the minute you surrender authority to a killer or kidnapper early on in any negotiation is the minute you’ll always wish you could take back.
“Fine,” he said, “have it your way.”
A jumble of noise filled my ear — scratching sounds and agitated voices, muffled, like Dundee had put his hand over the phone. I heard him say, “Say hello.” Then I heard Savannah.
“Hello?” She sounded tentative and afraid, like she’d been crying.
“Don’t worry, baby. You’re gonna be fine. I promise you’ll be home before you can even—”
Dundee was back on the phone.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
My whole body shook with rage. I took another breath and let it out slowly.
“You harm so much as one hair on her head, and I swear, after I find you, and I will find you, you’ll beg for death before we’re finished.”
He laughed dismissively. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Mr. Logan. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
I could’ve told him the same thing, but I didn’t.
“What do you want?”
“You’ll be delivering a package for me,” Crocodile Dundee said. “By air. In your airplane.”
“What’s in the package?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Deliver it where?”
“We’ll get to that, mate. Right now, you only need to know three things: if you talk to the cops, your lady friend dies. If you tell anybody else about our little arrangement before it’s concluded, she dies. If you tamper in any way with the package to be delivered, she dies. Do we understand each other?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Affirmative.”
“Excellent. Now, here’s how it’ll go down: the package’ll be waiting for pickup at a predetermined location in the Lake Tahoe area. I will send you a text message with the location. Your phone can receive text messages, yes?”
“I assume so. I’ve never tried texting.”
“Then I’d suggest you practice beforehand. If you do not pick up the package within ten minutes of my text, or I smell a hint of bacon in the area, your lady friend dies. We clear?”