Touch & Go

by Lisa Gardner

  “So”—he straightened, warming to the subject—“we should check out roads. The kidnappers would look for multiple byways. Otherwise, they risk driving directly past arriving officers. Their target hideout would include rural lodges, campsites that lie near multiple points of access… I need a map. And not one of your digital screens. But a real, impossible-to-fold-up paper map that we can mark up with highlighters and abuse with drippings from our lunch.”

  “Got it,” Nicole said, and headed for the rear of the mobile command center, where apparently even the FBI kept things as antiquated as real maps.

  While Nicole dug through a pile, Wyatt used the opportunity to ask, “Any luck interviewing Ashlyn Denbe’s friends?”

  Hawkes took the liberty of answering. “Yes and no. According to Ashlyn’s BFF, Lindsay Edmiston, Ashlyn didn’t have a boyfriend and wasn’t the type to sleep around. However…”

  Wyatt and Tessa eyed him expectantly.

  “Even Lindsay thought Ashlyn was keeping a secret. Friday night, when the parents were supposedly on their date night, Lindsay had invited Ashlyn over to her house, but Ashlyn had refused. According to Lindsay, that was unusual, Ashlyn not being the type who preferred staying home alone. Lindsay had begun to suspect there was a boy in the picture. In fact, Lindsay wondered if on Friday night when the parents were out, Ashlyn had really been all alone in her bedroom.”

  “She had the boyfriend over?” Tessa asked sharply.

  Hawkes glanced up at them. “Maybe. But Lindsay already swears not anyone from the local high school.”

  NICOLE AND HAWKES HAD MORE INTERVIEWS to conduct. They departed, leaving Tessa and Wyatt to work the map. Wyatt fixated on roads, towns and wilderness areas in northern New Hampshire. He couldn’t get Ashlyn Denbe out of his head. The way she’d perked up, looking briefly excited at the promise of her and her family’s safe return. Only for her face to freeze over again, as she and her mother continued to read down the script, getting to the part detailing what would happen if the kidnappers’ demands were not met. The killing of the first member of the Denbe family.

  Wyatt got on the phone with his deputy, Gina, who’d apparently been working with the cellular providers to block out sections of the mountains that lacked cell service. Then, he contacted Fish and Game, as well as the wildlife agency, updating their own tireless searches of dozens and dozens of campgrounds and trailheads with more Xs, more Os.

  In the end, he marked up the map with multiple games of tic-tac-toe, while identifying a mere quarter of a million more acres to search. Taking into consideration major thoroughfares, he homed in on his three “most likely” northern cities: Littleton, which had a major interstate, 93, running right through it, ready to bring the captors down to Boston or up into Vermont. Second choice, Colebrook, on the New Hampshire/Vermont border, with Route 3, as well as 26 and 145, all converging in one extremely isolated town. Finally, Berlin, on the eastern side of New Hampshire’s narrow tip, bisected by Route 16, but also very close to Route 2 into Maine. Bigger than the first two options, and a rougher town given the boarded-up mills, but then again, probably a comfortable enough place for hired muscle.

  Wyatt drew three big Os, based solely on assumptions and guesses and gut feel. A lot of maybes, given an entire family was on the line. Ashlyn. Libby. Justin Denbe.

  Wyatt set down his pen.

  He sighed heavily.

  Tessa, standing across from him, seconded the motion.

  “Tomorrow, three o’clock. It’s not going to happen,” she stated simply.

  “No,” he agreed. “Even if the insurance company pays… No good reason for a bunch of professionals to let that family walk away.”

  “We have to find them.”

  “Yep.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty-six hours and counting.”

  “I want to know the identity of Ashlyn’s mysterious boyfriend,” Tessa muttered. “Innocent bystander, or one more person with access to the security code for the house?”

  “Good point.”

  “Is it just me, or does every member of this family have a secret?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Find me a family that doesn’t.”

  “Good point.” But her tone said she wasn’t happy about it. For that matter, neither was he.

  Wyatt looked around. FBI’s command center had emptied out, everyone pursuing various leads, their own insider information. Dividing and conquering, the best way to cover the most investigative ground in the shortest amount of time. Frustrating, though, when others were covering the questions you wanted answered most.

  “FBI is covering Ashlyn,” he stated now, refocusing. “That puts us on Denbe Construction. You know, interviewing all the various liars on the management team.”

  Tessa brightened. “I wonder if Ruth Chan’s plane has landed.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  They left the mobile command unit, and went to find the CFO instead.

  Chapter 32

  MICK ESCORTED US TO DINNER. The moment he appeared at the cell door, Justin was tense. By unspoken agreement, Justin took up position on one side of Ashlyn, while I stood on the other.

  In contrast, Mick seemed relaxed, positively grinning as he gestured for all three of us to exit the cell, no hand restraints, no person-by-person procession. Like Z, he took the lead, allowing the three of us to walk unhindered behind him. He kept his right hand lightly caressing the Taser holstered at his waist. Otherwise, Mick strolled along as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  The promise of nine million dollars making him giddy? Or simply the joy of the final countdown? In twenty-four hours or less, this would all be over. We’d be gone, one way or another. Picked up by the police, or…killed by our captors? Maybe Mick wasn’t as excited about the possible payout as he was the opportunity to finally exact his revenge. I couldn’t picture Radar shooting us down in cold blood. But Mick, he would do it with gusto.

  While Z would keep it quiet and quick. Nothing personal. All business.

  I missed Radar. For one thing, my nausea was returning, not to mention a general sense of gloom and doom. Withdrawal symptoms, creeping up on me as insidiously as any black-clad commando. I needed a pill. Wanted a pill?

  My beautiful orange prescription bottle. Two, three, four hydrocodone tablets. That lovely feeling of melting. The world slipping sideways, till no hard edges existed anymore. Don’t worry. Don’t overthink. Just go with the flow.

  Fuck the methadone. I wanted real drugs.

  We arrived at the commercial-grade kitchen. Mick spread his arm expansively.

  “Liked the cinnamon buns,” he said. “Now go work some magic.”

  I walked through the refrigeration unit and dry storage, trying to muster some enthusiasm, but mostly thinking I’d like to poison the whole lot of them. Undercooked hamburger? Improperly handled chicken? People got sick off meals all the time. Surely I could think of something.

  Of course, we ate the same food. Meaning what would I gain in the end? Six people down with a GI bug? If our captors were incapacitated at all, most likely they’d leave us in our cell to rot. Maybe even postpone the ransom exchange. Earn us another night in this hellhole while they recovered.

  No. No food poisoning. Comfort food. An iron-rich, carbo-loading, strength-building meal to fortify my own family, so that tomorrow, come game time, we’d be as ready as we could be.

  I wanted hamburger, but couldn’t find it in the refrigerator. Funny, because I could’ve sworn I’d seen some this morning, when I’d grabbed the bacon for breakfast. Of course, they must’ve fed themselves lunch. Maybe they grilled up burgers?

  I settled for cans of stew meat from the dry storage, then returned for a block of cheese, only to discover it was also gone. Sliced up to toss on their burgers?

  My head ached. The stark overhead lights, bouncing off all the stainless steel, hurt my eyes. But I forced myself to contemplate both the walk-in pantry and the massive refrigeration unit. Both were definitely sparser. In fact, if I c
onjured up that very first meal of pasta and sauce, what I’d inventoried then versus now… Z and his team were either eating up a storm or…cleaning out.

  Our captors were covering their tracks. Preparing for the end.

  “Hello?” Mick called out, voice already threatening. I forced myself to return to work.

  I set up Ashlyn with two cans of spinach. She promptly wrinkled her nose. I added canned corn, a jar of onions and canned carrots.

  Mick gazed at me doubtfully. “That ain’t cinnamon rolls.”

  “Quiche?” I asked him.

  “Gesundheit,” he said.

  “Shepherd’s pie it is.”

  I put Justin in charge of making mashed potatoes from a box mix, while I dumped the stew meat into a skillet with olive oil and the drained pearl onions. It looked like dog food and smelled about as good. I reminded myself of the cold Hormel raviolis my mother and I used to eat from cans all those years ago. Of our elderly neighbor who did eat canned cat food because it was cheaper than tuna and she had to save as much money as she could in order to buy more vodka.

  After Ashlyn had drained the vegetables, I had her add them to the stew meat. In the pantry, I found garlic powder and Worcestershire sauce. I added both liberally, while Ashlyn and Mick continued to wrinkle their noses.

  Next I found a lasagna pan. Vegetables and stew meat on the bottom. Instant mashed potatoes, dotted with butter, spread on top. The pan went into the oven and I set about making rolls while Justin did the dishes and Ashlyn set the table.

  “Seriously?” Mick asked me.

  “Seriously what?”

  “That…food.”

  I shrugged. “Fresh hamburger and potatoes would be better, but you work with what you got.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Don’t eat it.”

  “Hey, I’ve lived on MREs. I can eat that slop.”

  “Then don’t complain.”

  “What is this, housewife warfare?”

  “Sure. Now, be nice, or next time, I’ll dust you.”

  Mick laughed. Which might have made me feel better, except his eyes were too bright and the laugh too long and in the end, Ashlyn moved closer to her father while I switched to the other side of the prep table to roll out the dough.

  Compared with the morning’s cinnamon roll fest, my makeshift shepherd’s pie was greeted with considerably less enthusiasm. But as Mick had said, soldiers were used to low standards.

  Mick filled half his plate with a look that said he’d eat it all just to spite me. Z inspected the layers with a scientist’s cool-eyed study, then shrugged and dug in. A plate was set aside for Radar, then my family had their turn. Justin took easily as much as Mick. Ashlyn sighed heavily and delicately scooped out just enough to feed a bird.

  “Spinach.” She shuddered.

  “Iron,” I corrected my daughter, who’d started her day with massive blood loss.

  “Spinach,” she insisted.

  I ignored her, tended to myself for a change. It really wasn’t too bad. Four hundred times our recommended daily allowance of sodium, not to mention the vegetables were mushy and tasteless, while the meat was stringy and gray, but other than that…

  I really could’ve used a pill. A glass of wine. Something.

  “You entertain much?” Z asked abruptly. He was staring at Justin. Z had taken seconds. Mick as well.

  “What?”

  “In that town house of yours. You own a business that depends on landing big contracts. Probably doesn’t hurt to have the right people over, wine and dine.”

  “On occasion,” Justin allowed. My husband was sitting tightly, his beaten face wary.

  “She cook?” Z stabbed a fork in my direction.

  “My wife is an excellent cook. You’ve had enough opportunities to evaluate that for yourself.”

  “What’s her favorite food?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s her favorite food? Bet she knows yours.” Z turned, stared at me.

  “Beef Wellington,” I provided quietly.

  Z turned back to Justin. “So?”

  My husband kept his gaze on Z. “Fresh oranges,” he said slowly. “We had them on our honeymoon. Picked them ourselves straight off the tree. You can’t get anything like that from the grocery store.”

  He was right. I had loved them then. Memories of a past life. The current taste of my pain.

  I found myself looking down at my plate, wishing both men would stop talking about me.

  “You plant an orange tree for her?” Z asked Justin.

  “In Boston?”

  “Build her a greenhouse. Or don’t you know how?”

  Justin’s jaw tightened. Clearly he was being baited, but even I didn’t know why.

  Z suddenly swung toward me. “Gonna leave him?”

  I glanced up. All eyes were on me, including Ashlyn’s.

  “When you return. Tomorrow night,” Z prodded. “Decision time.”

  I forced my chin up. “None of your business,” I said clearly.

  “Leopard never changes its spots.”

  “Don’t you have someone else to go kidnap?”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t warm. I swear the cobra tattoo was coiling and uncoiling restlessly around his head. “Don’t know. You’re going to be a tough family to top. Most people just cry a lot. You guys are much more…eventful.”

  He contemplated Ashlyn next: “Boyfriend, or are you just a slut?”

  She went with my approach. “None of your business.”

  Which was a shame, because Justin and I had really wanted to know her answer. Probably, she had felt the same about us.

  “Pretty girl like you should have higher standards.”

  My daughter gave Z her best flat-eyed stare. “Really? What’s this, advice from a professional fuckup? I mean, first you kidnap us, now you’re a life coach?”

  Z smiled. If Mick’s laugh scared me, Z’s smile terrified me. He leaned back, placed his fork across his plate.

  “Family,” he said at last, “is a terrible thing to waste.”

  Then, he looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw it all. Resolution and regret.

  We were dead.

  Tomorrow, 3:00 P.M., they would receive the payoff, and then, they would kill us. Business. Plain and simple. Especially when dealing with a man with a fanged cobra tattooed around his head.

  No one spoke again.

  Z left. We cleaned up the kitchen. Radar arrived for his dinner, slipping two pills under his napkin, which I whisked away when bringing him fresh rolls. I returned the leftover shepherd’s pie to the walk-in fridge, dry swallowing the tablets the second I was out of sight and wishing bitterly they were hydrocodone instead.

  Finally, Mick escorted us back to our cells, still no hand restraints, still the illusion of freedom.

  Dead family walking.

  When the cell door finally clanked shut behind us, I turned to find him grinning broadly. He winked, waggled his tongue and mouthed, Soon.

  Last glance at the ever-present camera, then he disappeared.

  ASHLYN WAS ASLEEP inside a matter of minutes. She climbed up to the top bunk and collapsed. She needed the rest. Justin and I needed to talk.

  “They’re not going to let us go,” I said without preamble, perching restlessly on the lower bunk. “Tomorrow, three P.M., they’re going to take the money, then kill us.”

  “Nonsense.” Justin was lying on his back across from me, hands tucked behind his head, staring up. “They’re professionals. No way they’re going to mess up a chance at nine mil.”

  “None of this makes any sense. This huge sum of money is wired to their account, then they magically leave us alone? I mean, the second they have the money, what’s to stop them from harming us? We’re still in a prison. We’re still at their mercy.”

  “We’ll be in the control room, safe from them. That’s what I set up with Z: Tomorrow, come deadline, we’ll use Radar’s phone to call my cell. Some federal agent in Bo
ston will most likely answer. We’ll see him, he’ll see us. Visual confirmation. Then you, me and Ashlyn will move into the control room, locking it down and ensuring our own safety while the funds are being wired. The minute ransom has been received, Z and his team will exit stage right. While we await local law enforcement, who will return us to Boston and allow us to get on with our normal lives.”

  “What if the authorities won’t pay the ransom? There’s no way to renegotiate or confirm…”

  “Z’s terms. He wanted to keep things simple. And actually, I agreed. Better to make it all or none. Puts more pressure on the insurance company.”

  “But if the company won’t pay—”

  “The company will pay, Libby. They have to. We delivered the proof they requested, the policy is up to date and frankly, the feds will probably make them. It’s in everyone’s best interest for tomorrow to go as planned. Trust me, in another twenty-four hours, we’ll be able to put all of this behind us.”

  I studied my husband, still not convinced. My hands were shaking. I’d taken the methadone, which was supposed to reduce my withdrawal symptoms, but my sense of doom and gloom still wouldn’t go away.

  “We don’t even know why they kidnapped us,” I muttered next.

  “Does it matter?”

  “They beat you!”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “They terrorized Ashlyn.”

  “She’s a strong girl.”

  “How can you be so calm—”

  Justin sat up so abruptly, he nearly hit his head on the upper bunk as he swung around to glare at me. “Still don’t trust me, Libby?”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  “We’re going home. That’s what matters here. One way or another, tomorrow, three P.M., you and Ashlyn will be on your way to Boston. My family will be safe.”

  Then I got it, the source of my unease. There was a set to my husband’s shoulders I recognized. An edge to his voice. He’d made a decision, one that clearly put the safety of Ashlyn and me above his own.

  “You’re not going to do anything stupid,” I heard myself say. “We all need to go home, Justin. We’re a family.”