Shannon Maclean dropped to the floor like a sack of flour, even if the sack was made of leather. Unable to scream, the wind knocked out of her, she hugged herself and rolled back and forth in agony, unable to move her legs, the bile flowing into her system. Cassie quickly stepped back, regaining her balance. Wow, she thought. The bag doesn’t react that way.
Brandon had managed to push himself to his feet, using the table, astonished at what he’d seen. Cassie hopped on the balls of her feet, her fists up, waiting for the Goth to recover.
The video screen came back to life. “Skip! Get out of there now!” Dayle screamed.
Brandon and Cassie stood back, allowing the woman to crawl into the hall, sobbing and cursing. They slammed the door behind her.
* * * * *
“They’re here,” Cassie’s mother announced, hearing the doorbell. Daisy barely beat Dr. Hixson to the entryway, her paws thumping on the floor.
“Hello, Gordon,” Burgess said, stepping across the threshold. “I think I broke every speed limit getting here. Hello, Daisy.” The dog pressed her nose against his thigh, her tail wagging.
Dr. Hixson looked down, astonished. “Daisy?” He looked up at Burgess. “Am I missing something?” Not wanting to add to his worries, his wife hadn’t told him of the agent’s most recent visit, or of Maclean’s.
“No, we’re good friends now,” the man replied, scratching the dog’s head. “Show me what you’ve gotten.”
They moved into the living room, where Mrs. Hixson sat on the couch, the laptop computer sitting on the coffee table. “Hello, Agent Burgess. Where’s Agent Maclean?”
Dr. Hixson and Burgess joined her on the couch. “Shannon won’t be joining us,” the agent replied. “Tell me about the message.”
“It arrived an hour ago,” Dr. Hixson replied. In their excitement, neither he nor his wife asked any more questions about Maclean. “We’ve kept the computer running 24/7, and finally heard the ‘beep’ when the message got here.”
“We thought we’d never hear from them,” Mrs. Hixson said.
Burgess managed to restrain his curiosity and leaned toward the computer screen, all business now, concentrating. Dr. Hixson joined him, reading the message for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Dr. Hixson: As you see from the attached photograph of Cassandra,
taken today, she remains in good health, and has sustained no
permanent injuries. Her life is now in your hands, and those
of the so-called authorities who are “helping” you. You are hereby
instructed to deposit, by wire transfer, the sum of five million dollars in the
account of Srta.Támora de Babilonia, at the Alanis Banc D’Andorra, Principat d’Andorra. The account number is 3244 4989 66 940331926. You will make this deposit, from your personal bank account, within seventy-two hours of your receipt of this message. Any interference with Srta. Babilonia’s account, or with anyone accessing that account, whether by the FBI, INTERPOL, the Policia d’Andorra, or any other agency, will result in Cassandra’s death. When the money is in our hands and our safety is assured, your daughter will be released uninjured at a safe location in Yorkville. In a few days, you will either have Cassandra happy at home, or her corpse will be discovered at a place of our choosing. Do not go to your grave knowing that that you are responsible for your daughter’s death. This will be our final communication. End of message.
Something nagged at Burgess about the final part of the message, some tiny alarm ringing deep in his subconscious. But he pushed it aside and scrutinized the attached image. There she was, apparently as healthy as ever, holding that day’s USA TODAY, the main headlines clear and legible: “BEST ACTRESS” FLEES REHAB CENTER . . . EX-PRESIDENTS HEAD PHILIPPINE RELIEF EFFORT . . . TEHRAN BIDS FOR SUMMER OLYMPICS. Both men examined Cassie’s picture with professional eyes.
“First things first,” Burgess began. “Let’s ignore the threats for now. We expected threats. Cassie still looks healthy. And that’s definitely this morning’s paper. I remember laughing at one of those headlines.”
“In her first picture, she was wearing her track suit,” Dr. Hixson added, “and the sweats in the second. Here she’s in gym shorts and shirt. So we know that she has a few changes of clothes, at least. The best thing is that I can see more of her body.” Cassie had been instructed to hold the newspaper in such a way that the abrasions on her wrists would be hidden. “Look, Barbara. Her arms and legs look as strong as ever, with good muscle tone. I doubt that she’s lost much weight.”
“She’s probably been exercising, somehow,” Mrs. Hixson commented. “God bless her. . . . I’d have just rolled up in a ball and cried the whole time.”
“I doubt that, Barbara,” Burgess replied. “You’re a strong woman. Okay, so the picture is all good news. Now for the message itself.”
“Well, by the grace of God and the generosity of the Justice Department” — Dr. Hixson nodded at Burgess — “the money is in my account. Somehow, I intend to repay every penny.”
“That won’t be necessary, Gordon, although it’s appreciated.” His mouth curled in a grim smile. “And you really can’t pay it back. The funds the Department uses in these cases are the proceeds of confiscated assets from criminals, and the fines they pay. We use the criminals’ money to deal with other criminals. Anyway, right now, we just need to get Cassie back.”
He concentrated for a moment. “Andorra, huh? That’s somewhat surprising. If they’re going the wire-transfer route, I’d have expected them to use a Caribbean bank. Anyway, the Alanis Banc is an entirely legitimate organization. There was a money laundering scandal in Andorra not long ago, but it was a different bank.”
“Does this mean that we’re dealing with an international group of people?” Mrs. Hixson asked. “I assumed they were just plain old American kidnappers. This really does sound like terrorists.”
“No, Barbara, not really. The Alanis Banc is just a retail bank, for private customers. Anyway, terrorists don’t use banks. They rarely ask for monetary ransoms at all.”
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Hixson interrupted. “Does this mean . . . I mean, is it possible that the kidnappers are in Andorra? And that Cassie’s there? You can buy a copy of USA TODAY anywhere.”
“No, Gordon,” Burgess explained. “I don’t know where they are, but if they can really return Cassie to you in a couple of days, after they think they’re safe, I’m guessing they’re somewhere in the Southeast, maybe even in Yorkville. But we haven’t been able to locate them. So, they’re not overseas, although INTERPOL already has Cassie’s information. Opening a private account in a place like Andorra, or anywhere offshore, can be complicated, or it can be very easy. I imagine these people probably just opened the account during a visit to Europe, or had an acquaintance do it.”
“But wait,” Mrs. Hixson said. “If they can afford to travel around Europe and who-knows-where, why do they need Gordon’s money in the first place?”
Burgess sighed. “There are at least two possible reasons. Some people are simply greedy. The more money they get, the more they want. A successful bank robber will always try to rob another bank. The other possibility is that they don’t need your money, and that this whole thing has some other motivation. I think that’s very far-fetched, because we know it’s not political. But why have they waited so long to make their demand? Maybe they didn’t have the account set up yet. Maybe they had technical problems. I doubt that they’re crazy, in the sense of being irrational. They’re too organized. They’ve taken care of Cassie for a long time. These are all things that the Bureau has to consider.”
“All right,” Dr. Hixson said. “Whatever their motive, we finally have their demands. Can you figure out anything from this account name, Agent Burgess? Are we dealing with a woman here?”
“You mean Señorita Babilonia? We could be. She could be one of the kidnappers, or a cross-dresser, or just some poor lady they hired to be their eyes and ears in Andorra. A bagman. A
bagwoman, I should say. Just someone paid to collect the money. But she’s probably not a man, because she’d need identification papers to open the account. Does that mean she’s one of the kidnappers? We don’t know . . . yet.”
“What about the name itself?” Dr. Hixson wondered.
“‘De Babilonia’ could be translated as ‘of Babylon,’” Burgess suggested. “I don’t know about Támora.”
“There’s the Whore of Babylon in Revelation,” Cassie’s father said, frowning. “That’s not a good image, and it might be intended to frighten us because we’re Christians. But I don’t recognize Támora, either.”
“I do,” Mrs. Hixson said. “Remember the way they used Shakespeare in the other message?”
“Yes,” Burgess said. “Is there a Támora in Shakespeare?”
“Uh-huh,” the woman nodded. “In his play Titus Andronicus, Tamora is the Queen of the Goths.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Strategy and Tactics
“Now we just have to make one more stop,” Olivia said, as Ethan navigated the car through the congested traffic of Elvis Presley Boulevard. “We’ve got plenty of time before we meet the others.”
“Cool,” Ethan replied, moving into the left turn lane. “But why don’t we stop and get something to eat first? I’m starving. Well, hungry, anyway. Aren’t you hungry? Let’s stop. It won’t take long.”
She gave him a mock-angry glance. “I shouldn’t let you eat at all, after that scene with my dad. I thought I’d have a heart attack when you said we were attacking the evildoers.”
Ethan laughed. “I just did it to freak you out. Anyway, I’m gonna get a hamburger, even if you don’t want one.” He pulled into the drive-in and killed the engine. “But you should want one. A hamburger, I mean. Or something. What do you want? Tell me.”
“Welcome to Ultraburger,” came the voice from the speaker. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll take your order.”
Olivia pushed her seat all the way back and wiggled out of her sandals. She put her bare feet on the dashboard and relaxed. “I’ll just have the Triple Yogurt Whip and an order of fried mushrooms,” she said. “And water.”
Ethan repeated her selection into the speaker and ordered a bacon deluxe tacoburger and water for himself. “Thank you, sir, we’ll be out in just a few minutes,” the speaker announced.
He adjusted his own seat and leaned back, relaxing, waiting for the girl on skates to arrive with their order. He glanced at Olivia, always enchanted by her appearance. Even in denim shorts and a plain blue tunic tank, she was so perfect. . . . His eyes traveled down her bare legs until he saw the leather anklet.
“Hey, I haven’t seen that before.” He reached out and touched it with one fingertip. “It’s really nice. It looks handmade. Is that silver thing a menorah, or whatever you call it?”
Uh-oh. I knew this was coming, she thought. Well, good. We need to talk. “You’re close. It’s a mezuzah. The menorah is the candlestick. I’m glad you like it.”
“D’oh, the candlestick, I knew that. Sorry,” he replied. “Anyway, is it handmade? That leather is twisted so fancy. . . . did it come from Israel?”
She began tugging one of her rings back and forth. “I don’t know exactly where it came from. It was a gift. Um, Ethan . . . can we talk about something? It may be really important.”
The girl in the ridiculous waitress outfit skated up to his window, interrupting them, smiling. “Hi, guys! Here’s your order.” She swung out the tray and carefully set down their selections. “That’ll be $13.38.”
Ethan paid the girl and received his change. She skated off, whistling. “Sure! We can talk about anything,” he replied, handing Olivia the yogurt and mushrooms as she sat up straight.
She started out slowly. “Ethan, do you remember telling me about that strange guy at the Pavilion, the one you saw talking to Cassie? The one we thought might be a bad guy?”
He nodded, biting into his tacoburger, then talking around it. “But I said I di’n’t think he was bad. ‘Scuse me. Talkin’ wif my mouf full, I mean. I really hungry.”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “Anyway, you described him as having dark hair, and not having shaved in a few days, and wearing white jeans and a blue shirt. Right?” She took a spoonful of the yogurt and savored it.
“Wow,” he said, having finally swallowed, “You have a really good memory. Yeah, that’s just what he looked like. Why do you ask?”
“Was it one of those blue chambray work shirts? Not just a t-shirt?”
“Um, I think so, yeah. It wasn’t a t-shirt.” He gave her a puzzled look.
“Tell me this,” she continued. I can’t believe it. Okay, I can believe it. I want to believe it. “Did you notice if his complexion was kinda dark, not black, but maybe like somebody from the Middle East?”
He swallowed another bite of his tacoburger. “Well, you gotta remember, I mostly saw the back of Cassie’s head. But now that you mention it, I think you’re right. He didn’t look Hispanic. I woulda recognized that. Why are you so interested in this all of a sudden?”
She put her half-finished yogurt whip in the cup holder between them. “Ethan, you don’t think I’m crazy, do you? Or a drama queen, or anything like that?”
“Of course not,” he laughed. “You’re so sensible it scares me sometimes.”
Her hand found his knee. “Okay, then. But you’ve got to believe what I’m gonna tell you, please?”
He frowned. “I always believe you. You’re starting to scare me, Livvie. Please get to it.”
She took a deep breath. “Ethan . . . you’re the only person in the world I could possibly tell about this. Literally. The other night at Royal’s house, when I came out of the bathroom and started talking about Gideon and Joshua?”
“Uh-huh. I was really surprised, but it was great.” His hand covered hers on his knee. “What about it?”
“Ethan . . . I didn’t need to, um, use the bathroom. The toilet. I just felt a sort of pulling, or an urge, to go in there. All I did was wash my face. And when I looked up in the mirror, that same exact guy was standing behind me! The room was so small he could have brushed up against me. But he never touched me. I just watched him in the mirror, and we talked. But not with our voices. It was like telepathy. He said he was a ‘messenger.’ And he told me to remember Gideon and Joshua and their battles, and he gave me the anklet, so I’d know it wasn’t a hallucination or something. Then he disappeared. He didn’t walk out of the room. He just vanished. But the crazy thing was, it wasn’t scary or spooky. I felt all peaceful inside. I felt like he was a really good person.”
Ethan’s brow was furrowed, his mouth slightly open, but he didn’t speak. Then he squeezed her hand. “Just like he and Cassie vanished when I saw ‘em. And I had the same feeling that he was a good guy.” He was almost whispering.
“So you believe me?” her lip trembled.
“Uh-huh. Sure I do. It makes sense, in a weird way. I saw him at the Pavilion, and nobody else did. You saw him at Royal’s. I didn’t talk to him, but. . . . Did he say who he was?”
She was fighting hard not to cry from sheer relief. He didn’t have a message for Ethan, but he let Ethan see him. Ethan was probably the only person sensitive enough to see him.
“He said his name was ‘Gabriel Terrena.’ And he told me not to tell anyone about seeing him, except you. He mentioned you by name.”
As usual, Ethan’s rational processes kicked in at the most improbable times. He took a long gulp of water. “That makes sense, too. Look, Livvie. Whoever, whatever, this guy is . . . he wanted us to know he was real. He gave you the anklet. That was a sign. And he said you should tell me about it, so you’d know we’d both seen him. That was another sign.” They both had goosebumps.
“Who is he?” Olivia breathed.
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know. ‘Gabriel Terrena.’ I know that ‘terra’ means ‘earth.’ So could it mean ‘Gabriel on earth,’ or ‘Gabriel is on earth?’”
�
��No wait, I just remembered,” Olivia said. “I only studied Spanish for two years, but it just came to me. ‘Terrena’ means ‘earthly.’”
“Pretty much the same meaning. ‘Earthly Gabriel.’ And Gabriel was —” he paused, a shiver seizing him — “an angel in the New Testament. I remember that from the Christmas story. That’s just about all I remember from the Bible. He came to tell Mary about Jesus being born. He was . . . he was bringing her a message.”
“He’s in the Tanakh, too,” Olivia said. “The Old Testament. In one of the Prophets, I think.”
They sat in silence, Ethan’s tacoburger half-eaten, Olivia’s yogurt melting in its cup. Finally, she looked him in the eye, almost afraid to speak. “Ethan . . . do you believe in angels?”
THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA Page 26
