Chapter Thirty-Seven
As they passed through the ornamental iron gate on the east side of Boston Common, Miranda took in the surroundings.
Not many folks out here at this time of year, but there was some activity. The trees were bare and about an inch of snow blanketed what would be green lawns in a month or so. She was glad the walkways were clear, though.
Deciding to bypass the visitor center, she headed under a pair of elms whose entwined branched formed a kind of arch over the asphalt path.
She took out her phone and pulled up the same map Holloway had shown her. The maze of pathways offered too many choices.
She pressed the green Talk button on the walkie talkie app.
“Let’s stick together until we get closer,” she said quietly.
From about fifteen feet behind her, Holloway’s Texas accent crackled in her ear. “Copy that.”
Beside her, Parker nodded an acknowledgment.
“Yes, ma’am,” Wesson echoed alongside Holloway.
At least the communications were working.
She and Parker continued along the straight walkway. Along the curbs on either side were park benches, but most were empty. Overhead crows cawed in the bare branches making the chilly air feel colder.
They passed a lone woman in a brown coat, chewing on a hamburger while typing on her laptop. She looked overworked. A group of laughing teenagers meandered by and Miranda studied their faces. They were older. High school seniors, she’d guess. No dark-haired fifteen-year-old among them. They were probably cutting classes.
At the intersection of another pathway, Miranda stopped and took out her phone again. This would lead Holloway and Wesson around to the other side of the frog pond. They were still behind her, walking close together as if they were a couple, though she knew that was far from the case.
She caught Holloway’s eye and nodded in the direction she wanted them to go.
Without missing a beat the pair turned and strolled away like a championship dance team.
“We go this way,” she said softly to Parker, though he was already crossing the intersection.
Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she tried to steady her thoughts. Anxiety was getting the best of her. Were they going to find Mackenzie in the next few minutes?
Again, the thought of chewing her daughter out for putting them through so much agony came to her. But if Mackenzie had just escaped from a kidnapper, she wasn’t going to do that. And what if she was with her kidnapper?
She felt for her phone and pressed the Talk button without taking it out of her pocket. “Status, Becker?”
“The target still hasn’t moved.”
“Let us know if it does.”
“Roger that.”
“We’re nearing a concession stand,” Wesson said in her ear.
“We should be there shortly,” Parker answered.
Miranda was getting antsy about the stationary target. “Who goes and sits in a park for this long when it’s still winter?”
“The temperature is up to forty-four,” Parker said. “A heat wave from a local’s perspective.”
Maybe.
After a few more minutes, she spotted a playground up ahead on a low hill.
She nodded in the direction. “I think the frog pond is just beyond that rise.”
“I would concur.”
At the top of the hill they reached an iron gateway with lettering over the arch.
“Tadpole Playground,” Miranda read.
Cute. No kids there now.
They had to be near the pond. She peered through the bars and past the slide. “Where is it?”
“Turn around.”
She did, and there it was.
It wasn’t much to look at. A wide shallow pond with a low fence around it to form a rink. The ubiquitous green benches were placed evenly around the perimeter for spectator viewing. Along the street in the distance, a trolley car rolled by. On the north end of the pond, a young woman was letting her brown-and-white pit bull drink where the water was starting to melt. No frogs here today. In the distance, a few people scurried along the faraway paths, probably taking a short cut through the park to get back to their jobs after a late lunch.
On the other side of the pond, she could see Wesson and Holloway at the door of the closed concession stand, acting as if they wished they could get something to eat.
Miranda’s heart turned icier than the pond.
Not a soul here who even remotely resembled Mackenzie.
“Are you sure about that signal, Becker?” she said into her headset.
“Positive, Steele. It’s still there.”
“There’s no one at the pond. Somebody probably stuffed that prepaid phone in a trashcan around here.”
She felt sick of the thought of digging through garbage to find it.
Then she noticed Parker was staring across the half frozen water. On the other side, a large man sat on a bench eating popcorn from a bag and tossing kernels to the birds that swooped down from nearby trees to snatch up the morsels.
That familiar tingly feeling went up her spine.
Slipping her phone out of her pocket, she lifted it as if taking a picture of the landscape, and zoomed in on the guy.
He had on a dark gray down jacket and black jeans. His work boots were dark and thick-soled. They looked new. His head was covered with a black plaid trapper hat with ear flaps and a chin strap hanging to his broad chest. The turned-up bill was a contrast of pale fleece. Dark glasses hid most of his face, but she could see he had a short reddish beard.
Definitely not the man she’d seen on the movie lot in Los Angeles.
Lifting her finger, she snapped a photo of the guy.
After a moment, he finished his lunch, crumpled the bag in his large hands, and got to his feet. She could see he was tall and long-legged.
He turned and began to make his way along the edge of the pond toward the concession stand where Holloway and Wesson were.
Becker’s voice came to life in her ear. “I’ve got movement.”
“What?”
“The signal is moving. Heading toward the west side of the pond.”
Miranda stared at Parker. “That’s him?”
“Apparently so.”
Was that Mackenzie’s kidnapper? Or some guy her kidnapper had sold a used phone to? And where was Mackenzie?
“We see him, Steele,” Holloway said. “He’s just passing us.”
The man was rounding the pond and heading down a path leading away from it.
“Follow him. But keep up the pretense you’re a couple out for a stroll.”
“We know, Steele. We’re professionals.”
“Of course, you are. Just keep your heads. And don’t lose this guy. And above all—”
“We know. Don’t get made.”
They followed him down another straight path where the ground sloped away on either side.
His destination seemed to be a tall white granite monument on the hill ahead that stretched skyward.
As they neared, Miranda could see it was memorial to Civil War soldiers.
He paused a moment to study the statuary, and Parker directed Miranda to a bench. She sat down and spotted Holloway and Wesson near the steps of the monument pretending to take selfies. That braid and cap was a good idea, after all. Her red hair would have been way too eye-catching.
The man in the black plaid trapper hat tossed the popcorn bag into a waste receptacle and moved on.
Holloway and Wesson followed as closely as they dared, now taking the lead.
As casually as she could, Miranda rose and pursued their target with Parker at her side, a determined look on his handsome face.
The man made a turn, and suddenly he was taking them back to where they’d come into the park. But he passed the welcome center and headed straight down the path that ran along Tremont, heading for Park Street.
“Where’s he going?” Miranda hissed under her breath.
; And then she had her answer as the man ducked into the subway entrance.
“Follow him! We can’t let him get away.”
She and Parker trotted over to the entrance and reached it just after Holloway and Wesson did.
They scurried through the open doors and down the escalator.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“He’s in the subway,” Becker cried through Miranda’s ear bud.
“We know. Can you track him?”
“I think so. The signal’s still strong.”
“Keep an eye on him in case we lose him.”
“Will do, if I can.”
The escalator took them down into a large open area flooded with noise and lights and banners advertising beverages and local events. On one side, a swarm of pedestrians was pushing through gates on their way to the subway train.
Miranda’s heart pounded as she scanned the space. She didn’t see their guy anywhere. Where did he go?
Then Parker gestured to the opposite side if the area, and she spotted Holloway and Wesson at the ticket booth.
Wesson’s voice hummed in her ear. “He just went through the turnstile. We’re getting tickets.”
“Just get yours,” Miranda told her. “We’ll be right behind you.” She didn’t want them to have to wait for her and Parker to catch up.
“Roger.”
They hurried down the steps and through the crowd to the ticket booth. Parker handed the clerk several bills—the ticket turned out to be cheaper than the parking meter—and they raced across the floor to the turnstiles, swiped their tickets, and rushed onto the platform.
People were everywhere.
Under the harsh lights, the sound of a hundred pounding footsteps echoed off the walls, along with the general chatter and shouts of the travelers. The air was cold down here, and at the same time, heavy with the odor of cigarettes and damp coats and too many bodies pressed together. Near a row of red pillars, a busker frantically strummed a guitar, hoping for tips before the next train arrived and his audience disappeared.
Miranda scanned the crowd for the black plaid trapper hat with the fleece bill.
“Where is he?” she muttered to Parker.
He was searching just as hard.
Just then a red-and-white train came barreling down the tracks. It pulled to a halt, its screeching brakes echoing into the air and bouncing off the concrete walls, making Miranda’s teeth rattle.
The crowd moved toward the cars.
Miranda stood on tiptoe, desperately trying to spot their target.
The doors opened, and just as the first passengers started to board, over their heads, a patch of black plaid flashed.
“There,” Parker said before she could.
Holloway’s voice was in her ear. “He’s boarding the train.”
Next came Becker’s voice. “I’ve lost the signal, Steele. Can’t pick it up down there.”
“It’s okay. We’ve got eyes on him. Just stay put for now.”
Squinting hard, she spotted the top of Holloway’s head in the distance.
“See if you can get into the next car,” she told him. “Then you can flank him from the inside.”
“We can do that.”
“Don’t let him see you.”
Parker’s hand was against her back. “Let’s get aboard.”
“Right.” She hurried over to the door the man had entered, crossed the yellow line, and stepped into the subway car.
Ushered forward by the crowd, she hunted for a seat and found nothing. The doors closed and she grabbed a pole to hang onto as the train took off.
Parker stood next to her, his hand above hers on the bar, looking as calm and unrattled as if he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ.
Miranda eyed the passengers.
Most were on their phones. Some were reading, others looked bored and grumpy. Especially a gray haired woman in a red coat who looked like she could use a good night’s sleep. There was a sea of dark hoodies and parkas and hats of every sort, along with the scent of intermingled fragrances and bodies.
Finally, near the door they’d entered, she spotted the trapper hat.
“He’s over there,” she whispered to Parker.
“Near the exit,” he said without looking that way.
“Is he planning to make a quick break for it at the next stop?”
“That could very well be the case.”
Miranda’s stomach knotted at the thought. They couldn’t lose him. Where was he going? Would he lead them to Mackenzie?
She felt a little better when the interior doors at the far end of the car opened, and Wesson and Holloway stepped through. Also finding no seats, they grabbed onto a pole and glanced around. Soon they found the target standing near the door.
Wesson gave Miranda a slow nod.
She nodded back, then looked away. They had him.
Until the next stop.
She risked another glance at the guy. She couldn’t see much of him. He was holding onto a strap, but a large man in a parka stood beside him, hiding most of him from sight. The train took a curve, Trapper Hat stepped back to keep his balance, and glanced her way.
She turned her head and stared out the window as her own words came back to her. “Don’t get made.”
They were Parker’s words. One of the first lessons he’d taught her about being a good PI. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
After a couple of minutes, the train rose above ground. Over the intercom a voice with a thick Boston accent called out, “Charles MGH.”
Miranda didn’t know what that was, other than a stop, but she kept her eye on the man in the black plaid trapper hat as a crowd moved toward the exit.
The doors opened. A hoard of people moved through, blocking her view of him.
“Did he get off?” Miranda whispered to Parker. “Did we lose him?” Her heart racing, she peered out the window.
“He’s still here,” Wesson told her through her earpiece.
Exhaling in relief, Miranda glanced toward the back of the train and saw Trapper Hat hadn’t budged, except for stepping back to allow people to pass by.
After another pack of commuters climbed aboard, the train took off again.
“We’re heading northwest toward Harvard,” Parker told her quietly.
Harvard? This guy was no college professor. At least he didn’t look like one. But she supposed there were a lot of places in Cambridge where you could stash a fifteen-year-old girl. If that was where he was headed, he could lead them straight to Mackenzie.
Miranda had to fight the nerves gripping her as the train moved on.
Soon they were underground again.
“Kendall,” the voice on the intercom said after another few minutes.
Once more the train slowed. Once more passengers bunched together to exit. Once more a new passel climbed aboard.
This time she spotted the black plaid of the trapper hat at a lower position. Their target had taken a seat near the door. He had his head turned in her direction and was still wearing his sunglasses.
That seemed odd.
As the train took off again, she thought she saw him smile to himself.
Had he made them? Did he know he was being followed? What was he going to do about it? If he didn’t take them to Mackenzie, she’d confront him and make him tell them where he got that prepaid cell phone.
“Central,” the conductor sang out.
Miranda’s stomach pulled as the train came to another stop and the doors opened once more.
The herd of passengers crowded at the exit seemed to have doubled. Students in jeans and jackets, business people in topcoats and parkas, a family or two.
Her anxiety mounting, Miranda peered through them to the seat Trapper Hat had occupied a moment ago.
He wasn’t there.
She glanced back at Parker. His expression told her he’d lost him, too.
Another load of passengers began climbing aboard. This set was younger and rowdier. She stood on ti
ptoe trying to locate their man, but all she could see was a mass of coats and hats.
“Where did he go?” she hissed into her mouthpiece. “Holloway? Wesson?”
Jamming to the tune on his phone, a hefty young man in a leather jacket and ear buds pushed into her, shoving her against Parker. She felt Parker’s chest rumble.
“We need to go.”
She started to panic. “Holloway,” she said again.
“Trying to get there, Steele.”
“Excuse us, sir,” she heard Parker say to the man blocking them.
She twisted and maneuvered past the dude in time to view her colleague’s lanky frame struggling to get through the oncoming crowd on the other side of the train.
“Hold that door,” Holloway called out.
It was too late. The door slid shut with an unyielding whoosh.
Had they lost the target? No, they couldn’t have.
But as the car started to move and Miranda glared out the window, her answer appeared.
Black Trapper Hat stood on the platform staring straight at her, wearing that same smile.
He pulled off his sunglasses and hat as if tipping it to her.
Underneath was a head shaved bald with a large orange tattoo of a swirling Phoenix. A wing encircled one of his eyes, and the tail rippled around his cheek to his neck.
As the train clattered away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, holding it up so she could see it. Still grinning, he pulled out the battery and stuffed it back into his pocket.
Then he raised his middle finger.
Miranda sucked in her breath, feeling as if she might pass out. As if she had been plunged into some horrific other world. As if the walls of the train car were closing in on her, smothering her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see anymore. She couldn’t feel her heart beating.
Suddenly she heard Holloway’s voice behind her. “That sonofabitch.”
Above the noise of the train, Parker’s low cusses rang in her ears.
Then she felt Wesson squeeze her arm. “Did you see who that was, Steele? It was Gregor from Golden Dreams.”
“I know,” she whispered, barely able to get out the words.
Golden Dreams. The riverboat casino and prostitution ring in New Orleans they’d shut down last October. Gregor was one of their thugs who kept the girls in line.
Predator Page 15
