The 3rd Victim

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘But you've gone too far, you –’

  ‘I've gone too far, Dick? I must say, I find your moralising amusing given you are the one with blood on your hands.’

  Davenport's heart sank. His eyes went to his free hand. It was clean and yet it was not. ‘You expect me to stand by and watch you eliminate your two remaining offspring?’

  ‘Oh come on, Dick, I am not that heartless,’ he said.

  Davenport froze, understanding what his friend was saying. And the next thought to rush through his brain would have been that now was the time to run – if the bullet had not beat him to it.

  4.11 pm

  Joe was the first to see him fall.

  He ran forward.

  He had met up with Arthur and Madonna, who, under Joe's instructions, had been shadowing Davenport and Sophia from a distance. He had positioned his men and told them to wait, to watch, to see if Davenport's accomplice Daniel Hunt – who was not at work or in his vast harbourside condominium – had arranged to meet them.

  Davenport and the girl were booked on an Air Canada flight to Ottawa under aliases and Joe knew that Hunt could well have arranged to fly with them. But the surveillance was not easy given the crowd on the terminal floor. In fact, after Davenport took the call on his cell, Joe lost sight of him twice as he stepped behind a column. Then he saw him fall.

  ‘All units, move in, move in,’ Joe barked into his radio. He was sure Davenport had been shot and he knew that Hunt was behind it. But Hunt had used a silencer, which meant the crowd's reaction was delayed, which also meant that Joe had a small window to get his men through the masses so that they could protect the girl.

  Joe's eyes scanned the space around him. He had his gun out at the ready. He could not see her, the girl named Sophia. There were too many people and they were starting to panic. They were jostling and pushing and running in all directions. The presence of the uniforms did not help things. The scenario reeked of a counter-terrorism manoeuvre. He knew Hunt was out there and was concerned that the girl was already being lined up in the crosshairs of his semi-automatic. He also feared that Hunt was dressed as a law enforcement officer, given he had somehow gotten through customs carrying a goddamned gun.

  ‘Go left,’ he yelled at Frank, who immediately changed direction. They were surrounding the café, their badges held high. They screamed at people to move. They elbowed and shoved and knocked over chairs and tables as they sprinted to the back of the café.

  And when they reached it, the table she had been sitting at, she was gone.

  4.15 pm

  ‘Davenport's dead,’ said Joe down David's cell phone.

  David and Sara were in Leo King's FBI-issue Crown Vic. David was in the passenger seat, Sara in the back with Lucas Cole. David held his hand over his left ear so as to block out King's shouting. He was barking orders into his radio – telling someone back at his field office to get onto traffic control and give them green lights all the way to Logan, ordering up agents left, right and centre, getting everyone on the road.

  Joe's words hit him like a train. David was running on adrenalin. His heart was pumping so hard that it felt like it was banging against his rib cage. ‘Jesus, Joe, he might be the only one who can give us a lead on the couple.’

  ‘What?’ yelled Sara from the back. She was shaking, hysterical. She threw herself forward in between the two front seats. She grabbed onto David's arm and pulled it, demanding to know what was going on.

  David put Joe on speaker, knowing there was no way he could protect her from the truth at this point. ‘Davenport's dead,’ said David.

  ‘Hunt shot him,’ finished Joe. ‘He took the girl, Sophia.’

  ‘What?’ she yelled again. ‘But he was the only one who knew them – besides Hunt,’ she spat his name. ‘What about the couple?’ said Sara. ‘Leo said their taxi went to the airport. You have to find them, Joe. They are there, somewhere, with Lauren. They could be getting on a plane as we speak,’ she screamed at the cell phone. She grabbed at Leo's arm. ‘You have to ground all flights, Leo. You have to keep them here.’

  King took a hard right onto Storrow Drive. ‘I'm trying, Sara,’ he said before, ‘Mannix, did you get a visual on Hunt?’

  ‘No. But …’

  ‘Just say it,’ screamed David, knowing Joe too well.

  ‘But we think he is dressed as law enforcement. We spoke to security. They said a US marshal by the name of Wilcox went through customs forty-five minutes ago. He didn't check any luggage but was carrying a small bag … containing a Glock 22.’

  Sara let out another moan.

  ‘Sara,’ said David, turning to her then. ‘Listen to me. Hunt won't hurt Lauren. She's worth too much to him. Lauren is with the couple, not with Hunt.’

  ‘But what if the couple already paid Hunt? He knows that everything's gone wrong. He has nothing to lose, David. He killed Eliza to cover his tracks and now he's silenced Davenport. He's probably killing Sophia as we speak – and the couple, Lauren, they are just more evidence of his part in this.’

  The hammer that was David's heart wrenched up a notch. ‘Joe, we're almost there,’ he said. ‘I want Madonna with me. She is the only one who can ID the couple.’

  ‘This is not what you do, David. It's what I do and I am good at it. You and Sara need to stand down.’

  ‘No way in hell, Joe,’ said Sara as King swerved his sedan up toward the terminal.

  ‘You need to listen to Mannix,’ said King.

  ‘And you need to ground the goddamned flights, Leo,’ said Sara.

  ‘We're coming in, Joe, and we want Madonna with us now,’ repeated David. ‘I want that couple, and I want my daughter, and then … I want Hunt.’

  4.17 pm

  ‘David,’ said Arthur as David and Sara reached him. ‘Son, just tell me … what else do you need?’

  David was not sure how to answer. Nora was holding a now shuddering Sara, a red-cheeked Madonna standing by her side. Leo King had broken off to seek out his airport-based FBI unit. The whole damned place was in chaos, so they had to yell above the hubbub.

  ‘He needs to stand down,’ yelled Joe approaching them now. He was wearing a bullet-proof vest.

  David moved toward him. ‘I'm in this, Joe, whether you like it or not. So stop wasting time and tell me what you've got.’

  Joe shook his head, as a sweating Frank McKay moved up behind him. ‘Leo's grounded most of the international flights but I gotta be honest with you, David, some got away. We have a dilemma in that protocol says we should be evacuating the entire airport given shots have been fired. But if we evacuate, we let people out – do you see what I am saying?’

  David did. It meant the couple who had Lauren could get away.

  ‘So we lock people in,’ said David.

  Joe nodded. ‘Which causes us a whole new set of problems given this place is packed. Visibility is poor, passengers are pissed. And … if Hunt is dressed as a US marshal, he has the upper hand when it comes to gaining someone's trust. We have a lot of ground to cover here, David,’ he added.

  Too big, thought David again. This place is too big.

  ‘What areas are you prioritising?’ he asked, knowing Joe would have formulated an order of precedence.

  ‘Those associated with departures. Hunt, the Yorks, they were on the way out of Boston when this whole thing went down.’

  David nodded. ‘Do your people have a reliable description?’

  ‘We're keeping it fairly broad so as not to miss anything. They're searching for all families travelling as threesomes – specifically, those with a small child, most likely a boy.’

  ‘They are claiming Lauren's a boy?’ Sara asked.

  ‘We think so. Madonna said she was wrapped in blue. It's the smart thing to do.’

  David turned to Madonna. ‘Madonna,’ he said. ‘You know what this couple looks like. I need to you think, hard, remember every detail. You said they came to the surgery – once.’

  ‘Twice,’ she said. ‘
And the second time I could have sworn they gave their first names, but I have been racking my brain and I can't remember.’ Madonna's breath caught in her throat. ‘Arthur says it doesn't make any difference, that their names would have been false, but what if they used the same false names on their passports? I'm not sure, but it might help.’

  David knew she was right. He took both of her hands. ‘Madonna, I know we have asked so much of you, but this …’ his voice wavered. ‘This is …’

  ‘I know,’ she said. Her hair was a mess, falling in clumps around her shoulders. ‘I should have noticed it was Lauren earlier, but she was sleeping, and wrapped in blue, and we were too far away.’

  She was sleeping? Not his Lauren, and in that moment David knew that his daughter had been sedated.

  ‘For some reason I keep thinking of Texas,’ Madonna continued. ‘But they weren't Texan. No way. He was black, she was white. They were – you know, kind of posh, but not in a southern way, in a Hampton's way. So why the freak do I keep thinking of Texas?’

  Black, white, older couple, Texas, something was starting to form in David's mind. Davenport, Hunt, their clients, the charade … and then it came to him.

  ‘George and Barbara,’ he said.

  Madonna's eyes lit up. ‘Yes. That's it. Like the Bushes. How did you know?’

  David turned to Sara. ‘That night, at the Four Seasons.’

  ‘The Yorks,’ she said, understanding immediately. ‘But they were so nice. Do you think …? How could they have sat across from us and …?’ She shivered.

  ‘Maybe they didn't know the child they were getting was ours. They were friends with Davenport. They trusted him.’ David looked at Joe who turned to Frank.

  ‘George and Barbara York,’ said Joe as Frank lifted his radio, already on it.

  ‘I think I can identify them, Joe,’ said David. ‘Now you have to keep me with you.’

  Joe looked at David before turning back to Frank and making a fist at his chest in a gesture which told Frank to organise a vest for David.

  ‘And I want Madonna to come with us. She has seen them twice, up close, in the light of day.’

  But Joe was already shaking his head.

  ‘No. I want to do it,’ said Madonna. She looked at Sara. ‘I want to do it,’ she repeated.

  Sara nodded before turning back to Joe. ‘Joe, please. David's right. We need all the help we can get.’

  Joe shook his head, knowing how he should be answering but hearing himself saying the opposite nevertheless. ‘Two vests,’ he yelled at Frank, after which Frank grabbed the two Kevlars from a uniform and handed them to David and Madonna.

  ‘I want a gun,’ continued David.

  ‘No gun,’ replied Joe.

  David went to argue but then decided to let it go for now, in the interest of expediency.

  ‘Stick tight to me,’ said Joe to Madonna.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Madonna before turning again to Sara. ‘We're going to find her,’ she said.

  But Sara had no time to answer as Joe grabbed Madonna's elbow and pulled her into the fray.

  4.41 pm

  The numbers. His head was throbbing with the numbers – four terminals, six runways, two and a half thousand acres, twelfth busiest airport, twenty-seven million passengers, sixteen thousand employees and seventy-five rest rooms or thereabouts. They were figures David had memorised for a manslaughter case he'd defended years ago. His client was an airport security officer by the name of Michael Burke. Burke had to search the whole freaking place for a man who'd been seen with a gun. Burke saw the man entering a rest room. He went inside. The man locked and loaded. Burke fired. The man went down, his weapon – a plastic water pistol painted just like a Smith and Wesson revolver – sliding straight across the cool tiled floor. David negotiated a plea based on Burke's impossible job of having to protect too many people over too much ground, but Burke was still in prison, reliving that moment in that rest room every single goddamned day.

  Too big. The place was too big. Admittedly the police had started to corral crowds into groups, but it still felt like there were people everywhere – angry, confused, and sometimes scared commuters who just wanted to get the hell out so that they could get where they were going.

  Joe removed the radio from his ear. ‘George and Barbara York and their daughter who they named Elizabeth are booked on a 4.40 pm flight to Chicago. But it's now quarter to, and while the three have checked in, they haven't boarded,’ he said to a now sweating David.

  It was good news and bad – they were here, but something had happened to them between checking in and boarding.

  ‘There's been no sightings of anyone in a US marshal's uniform, no pregnant hostage,’ continued Joe.

  David felt the heat building. ‘Hunt has Lauren,’ he said.

  ‘We don't know that, David.’

  ‘Then where the fuck are the Yorks?’

  Joe said nothing.

  David took a step toward him. ‘We're running out of options here, Joe. You and I both know the longer she is missing …’ He found it hard to finish.

  It was true. If that was the case, every second that ticked by reduced their chances of finding Lauren. The airport was in lockdown but Hunt was savvy and David knew if anyone could find a way out of here it was Daniel Hunt.

  They were back in the southern end of Terminal B. The place resembled a living, breathing organism with connections and walkways extending like arteries from each major terminal hub. The moving walkways not only connected the various terminals to one another, but also to parking garages and shuttle buses – all of which would have given the Yorks and Daniel Hunt an easy way out.

  Just then Leo King approached them. He was wearing his own Kevlar, his boyish face knotted with concern. He looked at David. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry.’

  The heat turned up a notch as Joe's radio began to buzz, and David felt his chest lurch – in hope, or perhaps in fear that he was about to hear the worse thing he would ever hear in his life.

  ‘Mannix,’ said Joe.

  Silence as Joe listened.

  ‘Where exactly?’

  David tried desperately to read his friend's face.

  Joe frowned.

  David's chest burned.

  ‘Okay,’ said Joe. ‘Hold them there, we're on our way.’

  Hold them, he'd said hold them – they must have found the Yorks – or maybe Hunt and Sophia, and …?

  ‘What?’ asked David.

  Joe was moving, Leo, David and Madonna now jogging to keep up.

  ‘Terminal B, north end, my guys found a couple holed up in a disabled toilet.’

  ‘The Yorks,’ said David.

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  The chest pain tingled. ‘Joe.’ David was close to running now, his neck craned to communicate with Joe. ‘Is Lauren with them?’

  A pause. ‘No.’

  David was finding it hard to breath.

  ‘The couple, they're unconscious,’ said Joe.

  One breath at a time. ‘Jesus, Joe. Hunt has her,’ he repeated.

  And this time Joe didn't argue. David knew he wanted to, but he didn't.

  They reached the rest room at the terminal's far northern corner. It was near the walkway, behind a set of escalators leading up to departures on the top floor.

  The paramedics were already there. They were trying to revive the couple. The tiles were grey. The blood was red. David rushed forward, pushing aside the paramedics to crouch over the pile that was George York. David lifted him up, and shook him – hard. David did not care if York knew about Lauren or not – right now he hated him just for being part of this nightmare, for ordering a fucking kid like it was a car or a computer or a set of personalised golf clubs.

  ‘Wake up,’ said David. ‘Wake the fuck up.’

  He shook York even harder. He banged his head into the floor. He screamed at him again. He wanted to know where his daughter was. He was crying. Hot. Wet with sweat. He could feel J
oe and Leo attempting to pull him off, but his strength was unquantifiable. York was limp, but then he wasn't. He tensed, his eyelids beginning to flutter. He yelled out in pain, so David pulled him up so that his face was inches from his.

  ‘Where is she?’ he yelled. ‘Where the hell is my daughter?’

  York coughed. ‘Oh, god, she was your daughter?’

  ‘Where is she?’ David repeated, his spit, his tears, his sweat flying off him as he screamed.

  George York began to cry. ‘I'm so sorry. We had no idea. He … he said the child was born by a surrogate, that the couple who wanted her originally had died … tragically …’ he spluttered. ‘But she fit our requests … and we didn't care that she was older because a newborn … my wife would have found it hard …’

  ‘You bought a fucking baby,’ said David.

  ‘Yes, but if we'd known … we'd never … Oh god, I'm so sorry … please don't hurt me … please …’

  But David was beyond caring.

  ‘Did he take her? Did Hunt take her?’

  ‘Who is Hunt?’

  Joe moved in then. He pulled York up higher. He held his hand at York's collar and twisted, hard.

  ‘Jesus, Mannix!’ said King.

  But Joe ignored him. ‘Frank?’ he said. Frank read his boss's mind, having the iPhone shot of Daniel Hunt at the ready. ‘Listen to me. You have two seconds to give me an honest answer or I swear I will leave you and the girl's father here alone in the cubicle for as long as it takes to get the information out of you. Is this the man who attacked you?’ Joe held up Frank's iPhone right in front of York's bloodshot eyes. ‘Is this the man who took the girl?’

  York spat again.

  ‘Focus, Mr York.’

  York focused. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That's him,’ he added. ‘But I don't know where he took her.’

  ‘Was he wearing a uniform?’

  York looked confused, his eyes rolling a little. ‘I don't know – I … he was quick, he hit us hard, from behind.’

  David moved in, pushing Joe's hand aside to lift York even higher.