The Wonder Test

by Michelle Richmond

  The woman hits a button on her headset, and her angry persona instantly disappears. “Harris, you have company. Let’s pick it up tomorrow. Remember to watch your carbs.”

  As Harris turns around, the screen goes blank.

  “Lina! What are you—”

  “I let myself in.”

  Through a forced, nervous grin, “You want to talk about selling your house, I presume?”

  “Harris, where is my son?”

  Sweat pours down his face and darkens the armpits of his tracksuit. He shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

  I move toward him. “Where. Is. My. Son.”

  He backs away, his orange neon sneakers squeaking against the floor. “Lina, whatever you’re thinking, I assure you—”

  My right hand slides into my pocket, feeling for the foam handle of the tactical baton. “Where is my son, Harris?”

  “Please, Lina, you are mistaken.”

  I remove the baton from my pocket. With a single flick the carbon fiber expands, locking into place. Harris’s eyes go wide, fixated on the weapon.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Where is my son?” I repeat, inching closer to him, holding the baton aloft, ready to swing.

  “Why would I take your son?” he says frantically. “Your son is a superstar. He scored 1,927. No one in the state ever scored 1,927 before! Your son is a gift, a miraculous gift! He makes me money! He makes money for the whole group!”

  I step back, processing the information, lowering the baton to my side. “The group?”

  “Yes, the group.” His eyes go wide. “You didn’t think it was just me, did you?”

  “What group?”

  “There are overseas investors and, of course, a few helpful, involved local citizens.”

  “Investors in what, exactly?”

  “Lina, I run the one of the most successful residential real estate funds in the country.” He is unable to hide the pride in his voice. “I buy and sell houses, yes, but so much more than that. It’s simple math. The test results increase property values by unbelievable margins every year. Didn’t you ever wonder why our home prices perform better than anywhere else? Don’t you wonder why they go so high, so fast? Don’t you wonder why, when interests rise, tech companies fold, and the market hits a downturn, none of it affects this town? What we do isn’t only for the investors. Our work is a gift to the homeowners. Even you, Lina!”

  I stare at him in silence.

  “This year’s scores will increase property values by fifteen to twenty percent, easy. Affluent parents don’t just want to live in a neighborhood with good schools anymore, they want the best schools. The Wonder Test is the benchmark. We didn’t make the rules, we just seized the opportunity. Our town has 3,302 houses. The average house value is 4.9 million. Take fifteen percent, conservatively, multiply by 3,302 houses. Lina, you understand.”

  Harris seems giddy, frantic. “Intelligence is genetic,” he sputters. “I know you have no problem with math.”

  He’s talking about 1.78 billion dollars. I move closer, feeling the energy of the baton in my hand, lightweight but rock-solid.

  “Are you not understanding me? 1.78 billion dollars. Just this year. And that’s conservative. And it doesn’t even count our related rental project. The fund is flush, 7 billion dollars in equity, and our returns are impressive by any measure. Every year after the scores come in, we sell some of the houses we own and rent out others. We reinvest the profits and pay extraordinary dividends. We are not monsters. We are businesspeople. Billion, Lina, with a b.”

  “Businesspeople don’t kidnap children.”

  Harris is red, dripping sweat. “No, no, you must understand. We prepare every student as well as we can: the best tutors, the best software, even the best nutrition. And, for those who still cannot be relied upon to ace the test, we provide amazing opportunities: luxury vacations, private campus tours of Ivy League schools, all perfectly timed to miss a few days of school.”

  “What about the Lamey twins, Gray Stafford, Caroline?”

  “I can explain.” Harris’s voice cracks and he takes another step backward. “That was an anomaly. A mistake. Until the twins, it worked like magic. The Stafford boy, that came as a shock to me too. It wasn’t supposed to go that way. These were blips on the radar. Were they regrettable? Yes. Terrible? Yes. But they were isolated incidents. I thought we had ironed out the kinks. The Rekowskis enjoyed Dubai, the Kingsley boy was on the set of a Scorsese movie for a week. As hard as we tried, we could not find that French girl’s parents, and she refused to sit the test out. So stubborn. I feel awful about the whole thing.”

  I’m trying to wrap my head around the scale of it. “The woman who talked to Caroline last Sunday, trying to persuade her not to take the test. You sent her. Who was she?”

  “An assistant. When someone refuses, we must make adjustments. The investors demand perfection. They demand higher and higher dividends. And it is my job to deliver. No children were supposed to get hurt, though. My instructions were clear.” He smiles, feigning sweetness. “And I hear the French girl is safe now, back with you. No harm, no foul.”

  “No harm?” I say, taking two steps forward.

  He backs up, sputtering, “It wasn’t ideal, but . . .”

  “Who are your investors?”

  “They are wealthy, well-connected men, primarily members of the Communist Party in China. In a volatile market, a nearly risk-free investment like this is priceless. And it provides a perfect way for these overseas investors to move money offshore.”

  I knew Harris was greedy, but the full extent of his greed is staggering. I inch closer. “Where is my son?”

  Harris is now standing with his back to the mirrored wall. “I do not know where your son is. I swear on my life.”

  With a single sweeping motion, I swing my arm, the baton whistling through the air, picking up speed. I barely feel any resistance when the tip of the baton catches Harris’s nose.

  I step back, surprised to see that he is still standing. For a second, I think I must’ve missed entirely, but then I notice that Harris’s nose is no longer properly aligned. It is bent grotesquely to the left. He stares at me in shock. The perfect symmetry of his face, tens of thousands of dollars and years of plastic surgery, is suddenly undone, his facial features wildly off-kilter. A flood of bright-red blood lets loose, pouring out onto his hands, down his tracksuit, and onto the wood flooring. It is only after he sees the red that he falls to the ground, whimpering.

  “Where is my son?”

  “I don’t know!” he cries. “You have to believe me!” He pulls his bloodstained hands away from his face and reaches out to me. “I’m just a businessman,” he whimpers.

  I flick the baton. The bone above his wrist breaks quickly and evenly, with little resistance. I look down and notice a wide diagonal stripe of blood across my white shirt. Harris rolls onto his side, cradling his broken wrist.

  He screams, a gurgling sound rising up from his throat. He holds his broken wrist high above his writhing body. “Okay, okay, okay,” he whimpers. “I hired one guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Kenny. He hired someone else, I never knew his identity, to take the twins and the Stafford boy, and Caroline too. But not your son, I swear, your son is gold.”

  My mind is racing. Harris is telling the truth. He would give up the information if he had it. He is a coward, hiding behind his cars and his mansions, crumpling at the slightest pressure. But if he doesn’t know where Rory is, who does?

  I hold the baton aloft again. “I want names.”

  Harris leans back in terror, his head hitting the mirrored wall. He catches a glimpse of his bloodied, misshapen face in the mirror. “What have you done, Lina? What have you done?”

  “Who. Is. In. The. Group. Who
can tell me where to find my son?”

  Harris wipes off his Rolex, squinting through blood and tears to see the time. “My video conference room is at the end of the hallway. The video chat was supposed to start three minutes ago. They’ll be wondering where I am. But they will not be able to help you. Go. See for yourself.”

  I take a jump rope from a peg on the wall and tie his arms behind his back as he whimpers. Using an exercise cord, I secure his ankles. I don’t want to waste my handcuffs on him; I might need them later. I back out of the room, keeping my eyes on Harris. He’s writhing on the floor, a pool of blood smeared across the hardwood.

  I hear voices. I move toward the sound, unholstering my gun. Behind me, I can still see Harris staring in the mirror at the ruined canvas of his face, sobbing.

  The door to the conference room is open a crack. I glance in. A six-foot-wide screen is filled with squares. Each box shows a different room and phone number, people staring into webcams. They are all waiting for Ojai. They are mostly conference rooms, PRC country codes, Singapore too, Malaysia, but also a few local numbers. I see Chief Jepson. I see Dave Randall’s mother, the head of the school board. I see Laura Crowell. I search for Kobayashi’s face, but he isn’t here.

  On a desk in the middle of the room is a computer monitor with a webcam. I step into the room, hold up my phone, and take a photo of the wall of people. Then I approach the monitor, allow my hand to pass in front of the webcam, using the F keys to take a screenshot.

  “Harris, you’re late,” Laura Crowell says.

  I move toward the chair in front of the computer. The inset box on the monitor shows me what they can see: my shoulder, the corner of my white shirt, striped with blood, my chin.

  “That’s not Harris,” Jepson says. Instantly, his screen goes dark. And then another. I sit down in front of the monitor, showing my face. I see confusion in people’s eyes. I see fear.

  “Where is my son?”

  More squares go dark. Slowly at first, one at a time. As the participants realize what’s happening, the speed at which they disappear increases. Twenty boxes fill the monitor, then fifteen, then five. It happens in a matter of seconds.

  “Where is my son?” I shout as the screens go black.

  Finally, only one box remains. An empty chair. The background is familiar. I’m trying to place it, trying to remember, when I see the photograph hanging on the wall—a single swimmer slicing through an expanse of blue, snow in the background, the word “Helsinki” scrawled in red across the bottom of the photograph.

  I hear her voice. A familiar face appears. Her eyebrows go up, that universal microexpression of resignation. Brenda, who welcomed me into her home, whose son invited Rory over after school. Brenda, who pretended to be my friend.

  “Brenda, where is Rory?”

  “Lina, it wasn’t us. We didn’t take Rory. You have to believe me.” Then all is quiet. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. Her screen goes black.

  64

  El Niño or la Niña: too much or too little. Discuss the importance of perspective.

  The screen is black now, but the red record button is still blinking. I click Save Recording. Harris’s minitower server is connected to the desk by a dozen cables. I pivot and yank until the server comes free. I tuck the server under my arm and retrace my steps. Harris remains where I left him, bound and sobbing.

  Outside, the temperature has dropped, the eucalyptus bending and creaking in the wind. I stumble up the driveway, head spinning. On the street, I see a familiar figure running toward me. Long legs, great stride. As he flies past, I can hear the Clash blasting from his headphones. He doesn’t seem to register me standing on the street in a bloodied shirt, gun in one hand, minitower in the other.

  He gets thirty yards up the street before he loops back around. When he reaches me, his eyes take in the entire scene. He reaches up and takes out his earbuds.

  “What the hell?”

  Only then do I realize I’m shaking. I think of the sticky note I found attached to my father’s desktop computer monitor. “For Wi-Fi or other issues, call Mr. Beach,” my father had written. “Good guy.” All those afternoons they spent together, watching VHS tapes of old track meets. Glen Park was friends with my father. I know I can trust him.

  He notices my hand, my shirt, covered with Harris’s blood. “Jesus, do you need help?”

  “They’ve taken Rory.” I still can’t believe the words as they come out of my mouth.

  “What? Who?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “This has to do with the other kids, doesn’t it, Stafford and the twins?”

  “Yes.” I hold out the server toward him. “Take this home with you. Hide it. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, I need you to take this to the FBI in San Francisco, Golden Gate Avenue. No GPD, you understand?”

  He nods. “No GPD.”

  “When you get through security at the Federal Building, they’re going to direct you to the duty agent. Give them my card.” I pull my creds out of my bag and pull my FBI business card out. “Tell them it’s evidence in a case.”

  He nods. “Federal Building, Golden Gate Avenue. Evidence.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise. Is there anything else I can do?”

  I point to the computer in his hands. “Guard it with your life. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Teachers, parents, school board. Nobody.”

  “Got it.”

  I look around nervously. No cars pass. The houses on the street are silent. No one has seen us together. “Thank you.”

  He gives me a little salute and takes off up the street, the server clutched tightly to his chest, red hair whipping crazily in the wind.

  As I’m getting into my car, my cell phone rings, and for a moment my heart lifts with hope. But no, it’s not Rory. It’s George.

  “I got your message. You okay?”

  “No. It’s bad. Really bad.” My voice breaks. “Rory is missing.”

  “Listen, I ran checks, made a dozen phone calls. Where are you?”

  I give him Harris’s address and tell him about the wall of screens, the faces. “George, it’s bigger than we thought. The police chief is involved, like we suspected, but others from the school board, realtors, major investors in the PRC. They swear they didn’t take Rory.”

  I turn the key in the ignition.

  “I ran Rusty’s selectors,” George says. “He was on the Peninsula this morning. At nine twenty-five, he ghosted.”

  I feel all of the air sucked out of me. “Where are you?”

  “Still at Dulles, but I’m taking the next flight back.”

  I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I deal with Rusty when I had the chance? We could have ended it there, on the compound.

  Another call comes in—the school secretary. That frisson of hope, again. “Is Rory there?” I blurt.

  “I was wrong about Rory skipping class. He is absent, but Ms. Bellina saw him leaving campus at nine fifteen with his father.”

  “What?”

  No. No.

  The hope vanishes.

  “We don’t have his father on record, so we’ll need to correct the paperwork, but that’s not really why I’m calling. I just learned that when his father escorted him off campus, Rory swiped another student’s mobile from the phone table.”

  “His father is dead.”

  “What? The teacher said he identified himself as Rory’s father.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see him.” Worry edges into her voice. “But Ms. Bellina said he was big, a flashy dresser.”

  Oh, Rory. How many times did I tell him over the years, if anything happens, always stay where the people are? Never let someone isolate you. It’s always better to run or fight than to find yourself alone with a predator. But Rory had a reaso
n. Rusty must have had a gun. Rory must have known he was willing to use it.

  My mind races. “Whose phone did Rory take?”

  “Michael Panico.”

  Michael Panico? The name doesn’t ring a bell.

  “If it wasn’t his father—” she says. And then, “Oh, God, is Rory in trouble?”

  I try to piece it together. As I pull away from the curb, I realize I don’t even know where to go. The compound? I think of the stables, the kennel, the dungeon. I shudder. But no, Rusty wouldn’t go there. It’s too risky, too easy for me to call in SWAT. He wouldn’t do that.

  The air feels different, charged. Clouds are gathering, a spring storm moving in.

  Focus. I need to focus.

  I replay our conversation in my head. On the compound that day, in the hot tub, Rusty promised me a third act. But that’s not all. “I think we’ll need new scenery,” he said at the end. “Change up the set a bit.”

  A new set. Definitely not the compound. But where?

  Think, I tell myself. Think. Then it hits me.

  “What kind of phone?” I ask.

  “What? Why?”

  “What kind of phone does Michael Panico have?”

  “Samsung Galaxy. Orange Giants case.”

  “What’s his phone number?”

  “I can’t—”

  “I’m an agent with the FBI. It’s in Rory’s file, under parent occupation. I need the number. Now.”

  I hear the click of her computer keyboard. She reads the number to me.

  I hang up and call Nicole. She picks up on the first ring.

  “I need you to trace a number. It’s an emergency.”

  I imagine Rory passing by the phone table where students are required to leave their devices during morning assembly. I told Rory about the triangulation, about Nicole’s Android trick, about how long it takes to follow the proper channels and get a court order to trace a phone. Rory has an iPhone. If he had the presence of mind to swipe a phone, he would have swiped an Android. That’s why he took a Samsung. He would have known that if he could keep the phone hidden, it would lead me right to him.